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bunnylovesani · 5 months

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An Arrangement

Summary: You’re a princess taken from your home planet and forced to marry Darth Vader. Turns out life on the Death Star isn’t as bad as everyone makes out. Based on the prompt shared with @luminoustarlight !

Content warnings: p in v sex, degradation, sub dynamics, begging, some violence, slow burn smut

WC: 9.3k

You stare out the grand palatial window in the coronation room, passively observing the flames swallowing the city of your home planet Onderon. Unintelligible screams flood the background, soon mercilessly silenced by the thuds and cracks of brusquely operated laser guns.

So this is how you were to meet your end: powerless at the mercy of the imperial army. You’d been trained for such a scenario before and you always carried a vial of poison in the event of capture; you’d rather die than be made to serve the Empire’s twisted interests.

“Princess, you need to take cover, follow my men into the vault below!” Your faithful attendant, Silas called out in panic.

“No, Silas. I will not cower in the basement waiting for them to breach our walls. I will remain here and eagerly await them.”

“But Your Grace-!”

“Enough.” You bark back. “It’s over. You have been discharged from duty, run while you still can. Thank you for all your years of service, I pray that our paths might cross again in another life.” You turn from him, tears flowing down your stiffeningly cold cheeks.

“May the Maker keep and protect you, Princess. You are our only hope.” He replies solemnly, before fleeing through the stony back passage of the palace.

You chuckle mirthlessly at the futility of his words and reach into your bosom where the corset of your gown has a sewn-in compartment. You extract the compact glass ampule of viper venom, so toxic that one drop is enough to send you into an eternal sleep, and fiddle with the intricate bottle for a few moments. With a heavy sigh, you tuck it under your sleeve; you decided you wanted to gaze into the eyes of your captors before you bid farewell to life.

With a resounding crash, the barricaded gate before you falls and the imperial army- donning armour plastered in dust and foreign blood- swarm into the great hall of the palace. You force the knot in your throat down with a gulp and turn on your heel to face the brutes responsible for the massacre of your people.

“Ah Princess, excellent. We thought you’d be grovelling underground with your father but you’ve just made our job a whole lot easier.” A masked figure that you presume is the Commander of the battalion addresses you. “Grab her. But keep her alive, she’s got a special purpose to fulfil.”

Hearing the ominous plans they have in store for you, you rush to reach for the poison in your sleeve but are hindered by the stampede of soldiers hurtling at you, slapping the vial out of your hand and shattering it all over the nitid marble floor.

‘Ah, ah, ah. Don’t even think about it.” The unnaturally deep voice of the commander booms. “You’ve been specially requested at the behest of the Emperor.” Dread consumes you as you’re roughly cuffed and dragged out of the safety of your childhood home. The soldiers marching comes to a sudden halt and you’re made to turn around and stare at the palace, a deadly silence hanging in the air.

“Burn it.”

Triggered by the commander’s words, a roaring blaze fulminates, the building being crushed in an instant by the force of the explosion. All you can see is the reflection of smouldering flickers through the thick veil of tears filling your eyes.

The commander smugly trudges over to you, sharply inhaling. “Ah, there’s nothing better than the smell of a coward’s smouldering corpse.” He hisses, words dripping with venom. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Your heart burned at the injustice, at the innocent civilians decimated- but you couldn’t fool yourself into pretending that scorn extended to your dearly departed father.

Refusing to reply to his provocation with anything other than an expectorated glob of spit aimed at his helmet, he takes the barrel of his gun and pummels it with brute force against your temple. You’re instantly rendered unconscious and your limp body is packed into the nearest starfighter, chained up and ready to make the journey from Onderon to the Death Star.

The first thing you do as you’re rudely awoken is cradle your aching head- a wave of nausea overtaking you and the electric pain behind your eyes knocking the air out of your lungs.

“Rise ’n shine, Onderon whore.” One of the soldiers grabbing you by the elbow spat and you stumbled to your feet like a newborn foal. After being dragged through a fortified steel tunnel, you were harshly thrown to the floor in a cold control room before two cloaked men, one of whom wore black combat boots- no doubt robust and heavy enough to crack open a skull. The light in the battle station glowed painfully bright and you lifted your head as best you could to observe the squabbling figures through squinted eyes.

“Here she is, my young Lord. I think she’ll do nicely, yes?” The ominously raspy voice croaked and you knew at once it was none other than Emperor Sheev Palpatine.

“She’s shivering.” The monotonous voice of the other cloaked figure stated callously and only then did you notice how your body was trembling- whether it was from the cold or the fear, you weren’t sure.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to warm her up on your wedding night.” He cackles wickedly but is met with silence from the man opposite him. The last thing you remember before it all went black was the light reflecting off of the quiet man’s helmet, and wondering what might be lurking underneath.

“Tskk poor thing, look at this cut on your head.” You flutter your eyes open to see a woman in a billowed white cloak tutting and fussing over you. “Good morning, princess.”

“Who are you?” You scowl, trying to get up and immediately being knocked back down by the overwhelming pain.

“Whoa, easy now! Nice ’n slow.” The woman puts her arm around your waist and helps you to sit up. “I’m Sabe, a royal handmaiden. Your handmaiden, to be exact.”

“Where am I?” You croak, uncertain you wanted to know.

“You’re on the Death Star, ma’am.”

Bile rises in your throat at the realisation that none of it was a dream- your recollection of the last 24 hours starts flooding in and your chest seizes in panic. The fire, the cloaked men, the people in the vault.

“You’re all right, just breathe. No harm is going to come to you. He’s made sure of that.” Sabe spouts and your head snaps at her.

“He?”

“Oh yes, Lord Vader gave orders for your protection. Under penalty of death. If you ask me, he just needs a woman’s touch to soften him up and he’d finally succeed in shaking that leech of an emperor off. Suppose that’s where you come in!”

“Me?” You screech, wondering when you’d say something not in the form of a question.

“Oh, you poor thing, you don’t know…the Emperor is arranging a wedding between his young protegee and a princess from a seized planet. The princess being you, if that’s not clear.” She continued chattering incessantly.

“Yes, I got that.” You snap. “And when is this supposed union meant to be taking place?”

“Tonight.”

You choose to remain quiet, rather than parroting back her last word in the form of yet another question.

After your handmaiden assists in bathing and dressing you in clean robes, you still can’t seem to escape the dull throbbing of the headache that permeates every cell of your body, leaving you in persistent agony. You beg Sabe to find something to help, knowing that you yourself weren’t allowed to leave the confines of the east wing. Stepping out onto the enclosed observatory space by your chambers, you stare out into the stars surrounding the vessel. You wished you could break beyond the thick glass enclave and just glide away, joining the stars and freeing yourself from the pain.

“Who hurt you?” A raspy voice questions and you turn around to the sight of Lord Vader, enveloped in his armour and mask.

“Uh, whoever the commander of the battalion was.” You reply, startled.

“He will be dealt with. Now come here.” He reaches his gloved hand out, signalling for you to grab it. With a great deal of uncertainty, you approached him, timidly giving him your hand. He takes it into his palm and holds it firmly to his chest. As if some force had siphoned the contusions and swelling out of you, you felt your agony slowly subside- until there was nothing at all in its wake.

“H-how did you do that?” You took a step back from him, holding your fingers up to your temple in disbelief. You’d heard of force healing before but assumed it was either a myth or a nearly lost practice only wielded by the most masterly of Jedi.

“Go back to your chambers and rest. You have a long ordeal ahead of you.” He leaves your question unanswered and marches out of the observatory as quickly as he entered it.

You’re compelled to follow his commands so you retreat to your chambers, forcing yourself to drink the healing tea Sabe concocted after having decided it was easier than explaining the bizarre experience you’d had. That was the dark Sith Lord that struck terror into the hearts of everyone who faced him? Ruthless, soulless, devoid of all human compassion- and channelling force healing to ease your headache? You spent all afternoon writhing in confusion, all the way up until a neatly packaged box was left on the doorstep of your assigned room. Upon closer inspection, the box contained an intricate white lace dress, paired with a beaded, scallop hemmed headpiece. A wedding outfit.

Standing at the forefront of the cold metallic arena, you twiddled with the sleeves on your dress- the material itching terribly and making your skin crawl. In a way, you were glad to have something occupy your mind beyond the impending prospect of marrying a Sith brute. You wondered why he wore that clunky helmet- is he so hideously deformed he has to hide behind it lest people faint at the sight?

A frightened-looking man you can only assume is the officiator of this sham of a wedding is escorted through the heavily guarded gates and takes his place before you, not daring to make eye contact. Your body fills with dread at the familiar sound of heavy boots dragging along the steel plates of the floor. He doesn’t spare you a passing glance for even a moment, despite your stubborn resolution to face him for the entirety of the ceremony- you wanted to look deep into the supposedly merciless eyes of your new husband. There aren’t any vows, there’s no exchange of rings, no kiss to celebrate the union- just some legal jargon and a couple of witnesses. Although you can’t see him, you can feel Palpatine’s snake eyes burning into you, no doubt observing from another room to ensure his mysterious plan came to fruition.

“Follow me.” A stormtrooper orders you and begins to head back in the direction of your chambers. Confused, you allow him to escort you out of the hall as you see a cloaked figure approach Lord Vader out of the corner of your eye. You just about hear the Emperor’s gravelly voice hiss out the word “consummate” before the doors shut behind you and you’re carried away to the bedroom. For some reason, the thought of sex hadn’t crossed your mind- you assumed villains like him had interests that surpassed such blunt mortal affairs - but now standing in front of your 4-poster bed, waiting for the sound of his heavy footsteps again, reality sunk in. You swallowed the thick lump in your throat and lay on the bed, removing the first layer of your dress and remaining in a white negligee. “Just lie back and think of Onderon.” You thought.

Your whole body tensed as you observed him enter your joint chambers, completely walking past you and going to the connecting bathroom, door left ajar.

“I’m ready, Lord Vader.” You stiffly announce, hoping to get it over with as soon as possible.

Hearing your words, he peers out of the doorway and although you can’t see his face, his body language seems perplexed.

“What are you doing?” He remarks accusingly.

“I-I’m…waiting for you to consummate our marriage. Like Palpatine wishes.” He scoffs at your comment- laughs even- and goes back into the bathroom.

“I will do nothing of the sort.” You hear him say.

Sitting up on the bed and dragging the covers over your exposed body, you’re bewildered.

“Oh, c-can Sith Lords not…?” You stutter, searching for an explanation.

“I assure you I’m perfectly capable.” He snaps back. “I just have no desire for the task.”

Although relief floods your body, you feel slightly offended at the presumption that lovemaking with you should be a task.

Just then, you hear a steamy hissing sound, followed by a loud thud. The figure emerges, back facing you without his layers of armour- donning a simple black shirt and black trousers. He wanders over to the window at the far end of the room, staring out into space.

“I’m sorry about your father.” He grunts after a while and you finally hear his voice- free from robotic static, with no menacing growl - just him, and it sounds beautiful.

“Don’t be.” You say sincerely, fixated on the back of his head. You notice he has dark blonde curls, gathering in tufts at the nape of his neck. “Come on, turn around.” You think, bracing yourself for what you might find.

“Alright, if you insist.” He remarks and you scowl in confusion- you didn’t say that out loud, did you?

He pivots round to face you and you feel as though someone has knocked the air from your lungs: he glares at you with mesmerising cobalt-blue eyes, embellished by abundantly thick lashes and even thicker eyebrows sitting atop his handsomely chiselled face. His cheekbones stand at attention, enhanced by his sculpted jawline, which works in perfect harmony with the rest of his body- even his collarbones are perfect. He’s full of sprightly vigour, he’s young even. You are floored and contemplate how anyone could hide such a face away in that clunky helmet.

“Not what you were expecting, huh?” He speaks, sensing the utter shock his appearance has inflicted on you.

“You…you’re-” You stutter.

“Not hideously deformed?”

“-beautiful.”

He raises his bushy eyebrows disapprovingly and you scold yourself for being so forthright. He may be devilishly handsome, but that doesn’t mean you can swoon over him. He’s a monster, remember? Sure, he has the most seductive pair of lips you’d ever seen on a man - all plump and the perfect shade of pink- and sure, he’s sparked a desire within you that you don’t think you’d ever felt before but…where were you going with this?

“I’m going to sleep in the adjoining room, you can take my chambers.” You’re snapped out of your dreamy haze by his velvety voice as he begins to walk away.

“Wait! Y-you don’t have to, I’m sure the bed is uncomfortable over there.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine.” He continues marching away.

“Wait! The bed here is more than big enough for the both of us, we wouldn’t even touch.” You stumble over your words, melting under the scrutiny of his gaze.

“Do you want me to sleep with you, Princess?” His movement comes to a halt and you’re rendered speechless. “Because that really would be something. Captured and brutalised after all that you hold dear is set alight, forced to marry a servant of evil- and then you request his company in your bed? That would be deranged. You’re not deranged now, are you Princess?”

Your mouth goes dry at the snarky way in which he’s talking to you- you admit it sounds mad out loud but the situation is more complicated than he thinks.

“N-no.” You mutter, barely above a whisper.

“Good, I wouldn’t want to find out I’ve married damaged goods.” He remarks impertinently. “I’m retiring for the evening- and I am not to be disturbed.” With that, he slams the door between you shut and you slide down your headboard, consumed by embarrassment, shame, desire. His dastardly good looks have really thrown a spanner into the works.

You barely managed to get any sleep that night, much like every night the week following the wedding. Your dreams were plagued by visions- of your father, of your captors, of your husband. Before your seizure, you already knew your future would hold a forced marriage; although an even less desirable one. Your father had plans to marry you off to your cousin, a brainless specimen by the name of Fester who was too dim-witted to even realise he was being used as a pawn in the family’s bloodline feud.

Despite your many attempts to plead and beg your way out of this union, your father dismissed you entirely- even going so far as to sanction you to the confines of your stuffy quarters, striking you remorselessly when you defied his orders.

You’d spent a lifetime dreamily peering out of your windows, waiting to be liberated by a saviour that never came- at least not in the way you thought.

Lord Vader was never present, aside from a very brief juncture in the evenings, when he would pass through your chambers on the way to his bedroom. You tried to make conversation but he either stared at you with dead, unamused eyes or flat-out ignored you. Asking him what he did during his working hours was not one of the things you tried to speak about- much preferring to stay in ignorant bliss- and he was more than happy to not be at the receiving end of your questions for once.

Growing increasingly tired of questioning your purpose on this wretched behemoth of a ship, you took the liberty of posting yourself outside his bedroom that night, waiting to block his exit until he at least acknowledged your existence. You’re ashamed to admit that you selected your nightwear especially for him- tonight choosing to wear the thinnest of slip dresses in the pathetic hopes that he might be drawn in by your pert chest.

As is routine, you hear the doors to your chambers swing open and are greeted with the welcome sight of the young Lord, who strides over to you intimidatingly. Removing his helmet and towering before you, you gulp at not just the height difference- but the sheer broadness of his shoulders compared to your slender ones.

“Move.” He states, glaring at you unaffectedly.

“No. I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.” You stubbornly huff and you think you spot a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“You don’t give the orders around here, Princess.” He asserts as he lifts you up by the waist with ease and drops you out of his way like you were a meagre traffic obstruction. You’re filled with disbelief as he enters his room, shutting the door in your face. “At least he didn’t slam it tonight.” You ponder.

Slouching down the door defeatedly, you pout as you hear him undress, desperately in need of an explanation.

“Please.” You plead pitiably, not expecting him to hear you.

You almost fall to the floor as your backrest swings open, and you lift your head to see him, sighing above you.

“What is it?”

“I-I just wanna know some things.” You mutter, cradling your knees on the floor.

“Then talk.” He taps his foot impatiently.

“Well uh- for starters, why am I here?” You rise from the floor to face him. “Why did Palpatine want you to marry me?”

“He wants me to sire a son- to ensure his plans can be carried out should I be otherwise indisposed.” He looks away coldly.

“I don’t understa-“

“Palpatine will live into his 200s. I am only human. If I am killed, he wants another apprentice to bend to his will, one just as strong with the force.”

“So why haven’t you attempted to do any siring yet?” He looks at you with a look of intense shock, disgust even. Of all the things he’s said, you take issue with his lack of action in the bedroom.

“I refuse to participate in this charade. He’ll see that you’re barren after a while- and we’ll dispose of you accordingly.”

“But I’m not barren.” You interject, dismissing the latter part of his sentence.

“It would be in your best interests to pretend you are.” You’re beguiled by his smooth voice and find yourself yearning to hear it all night. “I’ve brought someone to keep you company, hopefully with them in attendance you’ll be less inclined to seek my attention.”

“Another handmaiden? Ah, spare me- the current one is more than irritating enough on her own.” You shudder at the thought of 2 Sabes, prattling in your ear all day.

“No, I’ve ordered for the capture of your former attendant. I believe you were quite fond of him- Silas, is it?”

Your heart seizes, he’s alive? More importantly, he’s being brought to you? You stare at the scowling face of your husband, who looks afraid you might try to do something overly affectionate.

“A purely self-indulgent measure. To prevent any future ambushes like the one tonight.” He backtracks, attempting to impose some distance but you disregard it entirely. “If that’s not enough to keep you occupied, you can also have access to my private library - Silas will be waiting for you there tomorrow.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” You whisper, throwing caution to the wind and wrapping your arms against his waist, face snugly pressed into his firm chest. You feel him tense up at the intrusion, but he relaxes ever so slightly with an exhale, hovering his arms above your own- careful not to let them touch lest he give you the impression he’s embracing you back.

“Call me Anakin.” He mumbles softly.

You wake up the next day, your chest feeling lighter than it has in years. Bounding out of bed, you instil deep confusion in Sabe, who enters your room with fresh clothes.

“Having a good morning?” She asks.

“I think actually, yes. Yes, I am.” You reply resolutely, allowing her to dress you without your usual complaints as she tightens your corset.

“Might this have anything to do with Lord Vader?” She raises an eyebrow, consumed with curiosity.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I see that my new life might not be so bad after all. I believe I have someone waiting for me, you’re dismissed for now, Sabe.” You waltz out of your chambers to the library that Anakin mentioned you were granted entrance to.

You enter the room and stare in wonder at the rows upon rows of polished shelves, furnished with all kinds of large, leather-bound books. Among the volumes of publications is a tall, spindly man- standing with his back turned.

“Silas!” You cry out and dart towards him, colliding against him in a tight embrace.

“Princess! Let me look at you, are you hurt?” He grabs your face, inspecting it for any cuts or bruises.

“No, no I’m perfectly fine!” You smile.

“How could you possibly be fine? I heard about the wedding- it’s a scandal, it’s a disgrace! The intergalactic senate will hear about this- I promise I will get you out!“

“Silas, it’s okay, I’m being treated well here.” Your reply sends him into a stunned silence.

“You’ve been married to a Sith Lord. A princess of the purest blood made to intermingle with the lap dog of the Emperor. I don’t even want to think about what you’ve been forced to do here to survive.” He shudders.

“I haven’t been made to do anything. And Anakin really isn’t that bad once you get to know him a little.”

“Anakin?” Silas almost breaks out in hives at what he’s hearing.

“Yeah, that’s his real name. And oh, Silas, he’s so handsome!” You clamber on, reading the titles off a nearby bookshelf and digging for something that might take your fancy.

“I don’t believe this. One week under captivity and you’ve been brainwashed already.” He takes his head into his hands.

“I haven’t been brainwashed.” You chuckle. “Anakin is the one who brought you here. Just for me. And he lets me have the nicest quarters on the ship- and I’m allowed private access to the whole library!” You gush.

“So he’s built you a very pleasant cage. Fantastic. Just because your prison has a nice interior doesn’t make it your home.”

“Well, it’s no less of a prison than Onderon was. At least in this one, my marriage isn’t incestuous.” Silas’s eyes widen beyond measure at the boldness of your statement and he takes a seat before he collapses.

“He used the force to heal me when I was in pain.”

“And what caused you to be hurt in the first place?” He snaps back accusingly.

“Silas, listen to me.” You kneel beside him, taking his hand into your own. “I’ve spent too many years worrying about the fate of my future, cursing the Maker for how little control I had over my own destiny. No more. I can only take life as it comes in small waves- I have relinquished control. This is my new home now.”

With a heavy sigh, Silas nods- looking away as if unable to process your revelation.

“Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You say, mischievous twinkle in your eye.

The remainder of the day is spent flicking through various books, amassing a pile of them in your bedroom so high that you could barely see Sabe’s head poking through when she entered.

“Um, m’lady? If you won’t be requiring anything else for the night, can I retire? Silas and I were thinking of wandering down to the observatory by my quarters…”

“Of course, Sabe, enjoy.” You chuckle as she meekly smiles and exits your room. You knew they’d hit it off, one perennial chatterbox with another. Flicking through the last page of the first edition volume of The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise, you hummed discontentedly. “What a terrible ending.” You thought as you inspected the piles on your floor for the second volume. You suspect you must’ve left it in the library when you were packing your books onto the trolley so you wrap a thin robe around yourself and march down the hall. You notice the lights already burning as you enter the library cautiously, peering your head through to see Anakin, sitting on an armchair and reading something out of a thick, metal-encased manual.

“What’s your book about?” You query as you approach him slowly.

“It’s a story about a very naughty princess who loves to go looking for trouble.” He sneers, lip curling up into the shadow of a smile.

“No, it’s not!” You titter as you pry over the bind, seeing various starfighter diagrams and mechanical cross-sections.

“What do you want now?” He shuts the book promptly.

“I just came to collect something I left behind.” You reply innocently.

“I trust you’re enjoying my collection, then.” He looks up at you for the first time and your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his dreamy eyes.

“Oh yes, it’s very impressive. I didn’t think Sith Lords read so much.”

“They don’t.” He gets up from his chair, sauntering over to a nearby shelf and picking out a specific book. “Try this, I think you’ll like it.” He throws the book in your direction and you catch it; observing the cover, you speculate it’s some kind of historical tale about a lost civilisation.

“Thank you, I’ll be sure to read it.” You tuck it under your arm. “Are you retiring for the night yet?”

“Yes, I’ll leave the library to you.” He gets up to leave but you stand in front of him.

“I was only here to get something, escort me back?” You ask and he looks you up and down before making a low grunting sound, something you can only assume is a sign of acceptance. He heads out the door and you follow, trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

“I never got to thank you.” You say as you enter your chambers, seizing the short moment you have to converse before he disappears into his bedroom.

“What could you possibly have to thank me for?” He rolls his eyes.

“For rescuing me.” You reach out to touch him by the arm but back down, courage failing you.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, really. My circumstances back home were…less than ideal.” You stare down at your feet.

“I admit I find it peculiar that you don’t seem to be in mourning.” He notes, more intrigue in his tone than you’re used to.

“Would you be in mourning over a man who oppressed and rebuked you at every turn?”

“I see. I suppose that explains your…unorthodox behaviour.” For the very first time, he takes a seat on the chaise lounge by your bed- does he actually want to have this conversation with you?

“I guess you could say that. After he locked me up in the palace and forced me to accept my cousin’s betrothal, I abandoned all hope for the future and resigned myself to perpetual misery. And then you came along.” He squints his eyes, looking almost frustrated with your positivity.

“Are you sure you understand the situation you’ve found yourself in? You’re aware you’ve been abducted- forced to spend every day locked up here, never to see your planet or familiars again? Forced to play wife to me?” He gawks incredulously.

“You’re not as bad as you make out.” You smile at him. “And you’re certainly very easy on the eyes.” You look for changes in his demeanour but it remains unaffected. “Would you have preferred it if I was terrified and unwilling to go near you?”

“Terrified? Of course not, the thought of it sickened me. Unwilling to go near me? I’m not sure I’d mind.” He states and you wonder if that was his way of making a joke. “I regret that you’ve been ensnared into this. I wish it could’ve been different.”

“I don’t.” You pluck up the courage to sit beside him, placing your hand on his leg. “I can see there’s goodness within you. It’s almost tangible in the way you treat me.”

“Clearly I’ve given you the wrong impression.” He mutters gruffly, visibly uncomfortable. “And you can stop wearing those little dresses around me. All you’re going to succeed in doing is get frostbite.” He pushes your hand off him.

“Do you find me that repulsive?” You question sharply, tired of being made to feel undesirable. “I’ve been told my looks rival that of some of the fairest Princesses in the galaxy. Is a man like yourself so completely cold to the affections of women?”

“I fail to see how that is relevant.” He dismisses.

“It’s relevant because I’m tired of my bed being cold. You chose to marry me, now act like a husband!”

“What choice? I had no choice!” He shouts back and your blood runs cold when he stands towering over you.

“That makes two of us. But I fail to see what good can come from sulking about it.” You lower your tone.

“You’re that desperate, huh?” He sneers condescendingly.

“So what if I am?” You throw caution to the wind, fully aware of the way you’re debasing yourself right now; after the breadcrumbs of affection he’d been giving you, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fine.” He says, making his way over to the bed, ripping off his shirt.

“W-what are you doing?” You murmur as he undresses and positions himself in the middle of your stately bed.

“I’m ready, Princess.” He mocks, parroting what you’d said to him on your wedding night. “You wanted to fuck me, right? Well here I am. At your royal disposal.”

“N-not like this.” You mutter, trying not to stare at his firm pecs or chiselled abdomen.

“What’s the matter? You’ve been prancing around in those little dresses all week, practically begging me to give you a scrap of my attention and now I’m in our marital bed, you’re too scared?”

“I’m not scared, I just don’t want to feel like I’m forcing myself on you.” You mutter quietly, drained of all confidence.

“You’re worried about all the wrong things. Palpatine told me to brutalise you to within an inch of your life, you know that? To take all my anger out on you and make you pay for the sins of your family. And you’re worried about whether you’re taking advantage of me. I fear I have been too soft. You seem to forget who you’re speaking to.”

“But you didn’t.” You sniffle.

“What?”

“But you didn’t do those things. You’re a good man, Anakin.” Your voice softens and you climb up the bed to join him, allowing your gaze to linger on the small line of blonde curling hair starting from his belly button, travelling down to what lay underneath his underwear.

“No. I haven’t quite lost all my humanity.” He breathes heavily, seemingly noticing your staring.

“Let me show you my appreciation.” You bit your lip and bravely met his intense gaze. He doesn’t respond, the only noticeable reaction being his eyes wandering down to your breasts, thin material doing little to conceal your pert nipples.

“Do you wish to see me?” You ask, fingers toying with the straps as he huffs slightly, acting as though this were beneath him- but still remaining silent. You shrug the material off, revealing your round, perky breasts to him. You think you can see something twitching in his boxers but you can’t be sure.

“Can I?” You ask, gesturing to sit on his lap but he remains speechless. “Please, my Lord, I need to hear you-“

“Yes.”

A grin spreads across your face as you mount him, completely bare. Putting your hands on his chest, you move your hips a little to feel him. Not that you were expecting any less for a man of his stature, but you felt yourself getting soaked at his formidable size; he was surely 8 inches, and just as satisfyingly thick. Your eyes fall to his pretty face and you’re overcome with the urge to kiss him all over. Reaching down to plant small kisses over his temple and cheeks, you feel him stiffen even more.

“What are you doing?” He grumbles.

“Shut up and kiss me.” You pant as you capture his lips in a soft kiss, brushing them against each other. You can feel him almost fighting the urge to hold you so you take the initiative and grab him by the jaw, kissing him deeply and passionately. You think you hear a moan slip out of his mouth but when you pull away, he’s still got the same cold expression on his beautiful face- brows slightly furrowed and lips pursed in disaffection.

“If you’re waiting for me to make a move, it’s not going to happen.” He sighs, looking fatigued. A quiet rage simmers within you. You’ve had suitors lining up at the palace gates since you were a teenager and now this glorified servant is behaving as though he is the prize. You craved the chance to teach him not to underestimate you, to make him see you were special. “On another occasion, perhaps.” You thought. Tonight, you just wanted to make him writhe beneath you.

“If you’re going to be making snarky comments all evening, I’m going to stuff my panties in your mouth to silence you.”

“What panties? You didn’t wear any.” He grins and your chest sets alight. However brief it was, it’s the first time you’ve seen a genuine smile. His teeth were pearly and straight, and his smile broad enough to reach across his whole face in a bright, radiant flash. You felt like your day had gotten better just by being witness to it.

“Why do you always do that?” He breaks your trance.

“Huh, do what?”

“Disassociate. You stare right through me when you do it.”

“M’sorry. I can’t help it.” You feel a fierce shyness overcome you.

“You find me that handsome?”

“Yes.” You whisper. You have no idea why you’re admitting to it.

“Is that why you don’t mind being married to me?” He continues and you’re confused by the volume of questions coming your way- it’s more than he’s talked to you all week.

“Partly.” He smirks a little at the ego boost and places his hands on the back of his neck, arm muscles flexing as they’re extended. You trail a line from the centre of his chest down to his abdomen with the tip of your index finger, stopping as you reach the band of his boxers. You look up at him and he raises an eyebrow at you, almost daring you to go further. Toying with the band for a little while, you steel yourself and pull them down in one prompt motion. You have to hold in a wince as you take it in- in all its thick, veiny glory. With a shuddery breath, you savour the view before you: his strong, toned arms trailed down to his athletic torso, v-line achingly defined and sloping down to his large, pink-tipped member. “Even his dick is pretty.” You mentally cursed. His smirking, confident simper never faltered, not feeling a fragment of insecurity for even a moment.

Knowing you weren’t going to get any warming up from him, you lifted your hips and angled yourself up, tip kissing your entrance. Maintaining eye contact, you slowly sunk down on him, lowering yourself gradually until your bare skin brushed against the curls around the base of his cock. He shuts his eyes for a moment and exhales lightly, pretty lips forming into a small o shape. You try to subdue the overwhelming feeling of being filled so deeply, not wanting to stroke his ego even more than you already have. You begin to move, riding him very slowly and focusing on his chest as it rises and falls, eyes watering at the sensation of being stretched out. Worrying that he’s going to question why you’re going so slow, you begin to speed up even though it aches.

“Slow down.” He speaks softly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“As if you care.” You huff.

“Don’t get on my bad side, Princess.” He shoots you a deadly glance and you slow back down, knowing better than to disobey him. It takes you a good while to accommodate to his size, oo’s and aa’s escaping your mouth every time you straighten up and sink down on his cock a little too deeply- but after the adjustment period, you start to ride him confidently. Your tits bounce with a hypnotising jiggle as you smack the flesh of your ass against his thighs, wetness drenching you both. Noticing how his arms lay by his side, you grab him by the wrist and lay them on your hips. He grips onto them slightly for a moment, but quickly releases and lets them fall back down to his sides. You whine a little, starved of affection. You were bouncing on his cock yet you still felt like you weren’t close.

“Please?” You moan.

“You wanted this, not me. I said I’m not participating, didn’t I?” His voice rings out, completely unaffected while you were a panting mess.

“Don’t pretend like you’re not- ah- enjoying it. F-feels good, doesn’t it?” You stutter, feeling his tip prodding that spongy spot within you that threatens to be your undoing.

“It’s fine.” He replies, still refusing to engage in any meaningful way.

“Oh come on, Anakin! Give me something.” You feel like you’re one snarky comment away from resorting to begging.

“I’ve given you my cock. What more do you want out of me?”

“I want you to talk to me, I want you to touch me. To be present!”

“And I want for my wife to not be such a whore.” Your mouth gapes open at his harsh words, but you continue bouncing, getting too close to stop now. “I mean seriously, you’re being held hostage and all you can think about is getting fucked? There’s nothing in that little brain of yours other than visions of me fucking you, is there? I’ve seen them.”

You moan at his degrading words- if you weren’t so cock drunk, you might be ashamed of the way you’re allowing him to speak to you.

“Oh my God, are you gonna cum from me talking down to you? Does me calling you a stupid whore get you off?” He rambles and you can’t stop yourself from turning into a whimpering mess, moans spilling out at every turn and unintelligible groans flooding the room as you bounce on his cock.

He reaches up towards you and you think he might be pulling you in for a kiss but instead, he hooks his fingers into the corners of your mouth, stretching it out. You babble out disjointed syllables, too overwhelmed to establish a rhythm that isn’t completely sloppy.

“The fuck are you even saying right now?” He laughs and oh god, there’s that smile again- if his cock wasn’t enough, now his grin is making your legs feel like jelly.

“What are these dumb little sounds you’re spluttering out? You sound like an idiot.” The lewd squelching noises increase in intensity as you fall apart on top of him in a sudden climax- pleasure hitting you like a truck and nearly knocking you out. You pant on top of him, trying to catch your breath with your head resting on his chest. He clears his throat after a minute and you shuffle off him, laying your head on the nearby pillow instead.

“Wow. That was…did you not cum?” It occurs to you that you’d just used him for your own pleasure.

“Of course not.” He gruffly responds, legs still spread and cock exposed, glistening with your arousal. “I have self control.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask and he turns to face you.

“You’re like a bitch in heat. It’s not very princess-like of you.”

“Well, I’m not a princess anymore. I’m a Sith Lord’s wife.” You counter.

“Wives don’t ride like that.” You know he didn’t mean it as a compliment but you chose to take it as one anyway.

“Aren’t you going to cover up?” You point at his exposed body while you clutch the crisp white sheets around yourself.

“Why should I?” He snaps back and you’re taken aback by his show of confidence. And you certainly weren’t complaining.

“Yeah, I bet you aren’t.”

“Okay, you’ve got to stop doing that! It’s unnatural.” You complain.

“I don’t ordinarily pay such close attention to these things but your mind is so dirty.”

“Oh yeah? What have I been thinking about in the last couple minutes then?”

“You’ve been wondering how I’m both a shower and a grower, how you’ve never been so wet before - oh, and how you want to fuck me again.” Your cheeks redden at his painfully accurate observations- and you feel his vulgarity plant a renewed desire within you.

“Really, you want another round? Fine. Hop on.” He sighs, tapping his thigh. You stare at him affectionately with a smile as if to say “really?” and you clamber over him again. You only have to press your dripping body against him once and he quickly hardens again, tip oozing with precum. You waste no time impaling yourself, pussy swallowing him greedily- slightly sore but still stretched out enough to take him with ease.

“Anakin, please.” You mumble, reaching for his hands- needing to feel them on your skin.

“What do you want?” He replies breathily.

“Please, touch me.” You slide up and down his shaft, body racked with delirious pleasure. “Pleasepleaseplease - please Anakin!” He scoffs smilingly at how you’ve been reduced to a needy mess before he’s even put an ounce of effort in. “Do you want me to beg? I’ll get on my knees and beg- please, touch me just a little, please Ani-“

“Alright, alright, enough!” He stops you and you wince at his harsh tone, wishing that just for once, he’d be gentle with you.

“I’m sorry, it’s okay. I’m right here.” He reaches out and wraps his hands around your dainty waist, right arm gradually trailing up your body. His knuckles brush against your cheek tenderly before he wraps his strong hand around your jaw and pulls you in for a kiss. You squeak in shock at the unexpected affection as your breasts press against his chest, one hand squishing your soft flesh and the other wrapped up in your hair.

“Mmm, Ani.” You hum, your deepest craving finally quelled.

“No one’s called me that in a really long time.” He mumbles into the kiss, sliding both hands down to your ass cheeks and gripping them firmly.

“Is this what you wanted?” He asks as he slides you on and off him, commanding your movements with his strong grasp.

“Oh God yes, fuck Ani- ah.” You gasped as he began lifting his hips and fucking his cock into you, fingernails digging into your hips. “‘m not gonna last much longer if you keep go -oh, just like th- aah.”

“You don’t need to.” He whines, finally allowing himself to utter his own sweet sounds.

“Nuh uh, I-I want you to cum with me.” You whimper in his ear as you wrap your arms around his neck. Cradling you, he wraps one arm around your back and rests his other hand on the back of your head while drilling you with such vigour you almost black out.

“Shh, baby, shh- ’s okay.” He moans and your walls flutter at the heavenly sound. Try as you may, you can’t stop the drool that streams out of your mouth, fucked so dumb that you’re losing control over your senses.

“You’re close, can feel you gripping me.” He sputters, barely audible over the sound of your squeals. “You want the whole ship to hear you, huh?”

“I want them all to know who I belong to.” You manage to get out clearly, trying to get a handle on your faculties. Rising up from being tucked into his neck, you start bouncing on him with the excitement of a little bunny, so desperate to bring him to his release. You look down at him, eyes screwed shut, gnawing on his bottom lip and you feel how furiously his eager cock throbs inside you.

“Want you to fill me up.” You warble, dropping your hands to lay on either side of his face, soft locks brushing against your wrists. “I wanna be yours.” You stare into his eyes, which have just fluttered open, eyebrows knitted close together.

“You’re already mine.” He whispers, grabbing you by the waist and turning you over in one swift motion, your back hitting the plumpness of the bed. Before you can take a breath, he slams into you again and your back arches from the overstimulation.

Hooking his arms around your thighs and pulling you deeper into him, he roughly pounds against you, cock gliding into your sensitive core. You try to focus yourself, gnawing on your lip and mentally repeating: “You can’t cum this quickly again.”

“Oh yes, you can.” He asserts mischievously, speeding up his sloppy strokes until your eyes roll to the back of your head. You grip the sheets around you, trying desperately to hold on for just a few seconds longer.

“Don’t you dare.” He growls, slapping against you roughly. Beads of sweat trickle down his defined pecs, down to the creamy mess where your bodies meet. With one final gloopy thrust, you scream out his name and collapse entirely, body convulsing with pleasure as he moans at the sight, burying his face into your thigh.

“Goddamn…” You hear him mutter as he continues using your body like a toy, dragging you onto him in a way that you don’t even notice in your cock drunk stupor. You hear a glorious groan escape his lips as he pulls out, painting your body with his creamy white cum.

“Why’d you pull out?” You whine, completely spent and feeling woefully empty now that your bodies weren’t connected anymore.

“You know why.” He exhales as his head hits the pillow beside you. “I refuse to let a child come into this.” You huff a little but feel too exhausted to argue.

Shuffling over, you test his boundaries by leaning your head against his shoulder. When he noticeably stiffens and backs away a little, you sit up hastily to face him.

“Really, Anakin? You’re still not comfortable around me?”

“I’m as comfortable as I need to be.” He murmurs and you let out a fussy whine.

“I’ve just given myself to you entirely and you can’t even hold me after? Please, Ani, you’re making me feel really-“

“Fine! If it’ll get you to be quiet.” He pulls you in swiftly, his strong arm wrapped around you protectively and you let out a satisfied hum while he shakes his head- no doubt wondering how he got stuck with such a petulant child.

The days that followed were full of you waltzing around the ship, lost in your daydreams. Anakin had been dispatched to a different system for a mission and much to your displeasure, wouldn’t return for several days yet; you never knew exactly how long his journeys would last, you only knew they were doubtlessly too long. You missed him dearly - and if the way he hugged you back before he left was any indication- you were growing on him too.

After enthusiastically getting through the book Anakin recommended, he told you that he’d left a stack out by his desk in the library- a personally hand-picked selection that he believed you’d enjoy. Your heart fluttered at the thought and you felt yourself keenly gliding over to it. You reminisced fondly about the way his soft hair felt when it brushed through your hands, how his dreamy eyes made you weak at the knees- how he had the prettiest cock you’d ever seen. You didn’t realise it was possible for someone to be so perfect- so what if he had an unsavoury pastime? It was a flaw you were willing to overlook if it meant you got to wake up next to that face.

Entering the library, you hum a chirpy song and float over to the desk where you find a neat pile of books in varying colours and sizes. Just as you were about to pick the first one out of the stack, Silas rushes in- scruffy and disorganised, looking over his shoulder.

“Princess! Princess, you must hurry. They’re here- they’re finally here.” He sputters, grabbing onto your wrist like a madman and leading you out.

“Slow down! What’s going on?” You question, wondering why you were running along with him.

“Oh but we must be quick, the stormtroopers can only be held off for so long! Sabe is leading the distraction-“

“What are you talking about?”

“Word finally reached them, they’re finally here!”

“Who? Who’s here?” You shout back, brain spinning in confusion.

“The Senate has sent an army - a rescue team for you!” Silas stares at you with crazed eyes, sweating with anxiety. “We can finally go home!”

“W-what?” You stutter, allowing him to lead you out to the docking bay where you can see a battleship undoubtedly belonging to the Galactic Republic- suspended midair awaiting boarding.

“Wait, wait, no.” You backtrack but the grip Silas has around your wrist is too strong to easily break from.

“You don’t mean to tell me you wish to stay here with that brute?” He glances back at you, face painted with disgust as he pushes on for the last few metres left until you reach the ship. “He doesn’t care about you.”

“That’s not true!” You shout, propellers buzzing over you with a furious intensity.

“Is that so? Then why isn’t he putting up a fight right now?” He gestures behind you and you turn around to where the observatory window is. There he is, standing behind the glass, looking at you calmly.

“Do you see? He doesn’t even care enough to stop you!” Silas digs his fingernails into your wrist as you reach the ship, doors unloading with a steamy hiss. “Get in!” He yells, pushing you forward with all his might.

He’s letting you go. He’s letting you leave.

“No!” You fight back, striking Silas across the face and sprinting out of his reach as soon as his grasp on you loosens.

“You idiot! Stay here and rot with those Sith devils!” He curses, clambering up the stairs and smacking the handle, signalling for them to shut. Tears course roughly down your face as you stand back and see the ship ascending before darting off into the distance in a beaming flash. Turning around, you run as fast as your feet will carry you, scrambling up to the observatory to the man you’d just abandoned life as you knew it for.

Throwing the doors open, you see him: mouth parted, eyebrows raised and a singular tear rolling down his cheekbone. You jump into his arms, colliding and entangling yourself with him.

“Why did you do that, huh?!” He grabs your face with both hands, kissing you desperately. “Why would you do something so stupid?” You break out into a sob as he mumbles against your lips. “I would’ve let you go, you could’ve left.”

“I know, that’s why I stayed.” You wrap your hands around his own, still in a firm grip around your face. “I love you, Ani.” You gaze up at him with such adoration he feels his cold heart bursting.

“I love you too.”

As soon as the words leave his beautiful lips, you leap to kiss them- trying desperately to memorise every detail and every sensation that belonged to this moment.

“I-I thought you would’ve surely left if you could.” He murmurs, struggling to break away from your lips. “Thought you were jus’ making the most out of a bad situation.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You say sincerely, hoping he could feel the love you have for him pouring out of you.

“I don’t believe my eyes.” A dreaded raspy voice resonates across the room. “The Princess has fallen in love with my apprentice. And he seems to love her back? Now this is just precious.” Anakin stands in front of you protectively, pushing you back.

“She will prove to be useful in the future.” The Emperor hisses, glaring at you with an empty hunger in his eyes. “Now that she has demonstrated her loyalty.”

“It’s the last show of loyalty you’ll ever see.” Anakin spits as he draws his lightsaber from the left belt hook on his robes and strikes Palpatine, beheading him in one swift motion before he can even register what’s struck him.

“He always taught me that even the most powerful of enemies can be defeated-“ He turns to face you, retracting his glowing lightsaber. “with the element of surprise.”

A twisted grin creeps up on your face as he swoops you up like a true bride- lifting you with a firm hold and carrying you out of the room while you wrap your arms around his neck, planting kisses all over.

“I think it’s high time me and my wife got some privacy, don’t you think?” He gestures at the incoming stormtroopers, who confusedly back away after spotting Palpatine’s decapitated body. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You giggle as he carries you to your chambers, throwing you onto the bed and peering out of the large doors one last time before shutting them with a loud clamber- ah, free from disturbance at last.

@erinkeifer @crazy4men @mortalheartache @arzua10

#hayden christensen #star wars fanfiction #darth vader #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker smut #anakin x reader #anakin fanfiction #anakin x you #star wars smut #sam monroe #life as a house #anakin x reader smut #anakin fluff #sw anakin #star wars anakin #darth vader smut

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ddarker-dreams · 6 months

Text

Golden Girl.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: The psychological damage inflicted from Gojo Satoru's presence, canon-typical violence, Gojo and Geto are both kinda questionable in their own ways. Word count: 16k.

-Index-

April 1st, 2005.

8:02 a.m.

You don’t get it.

This campus is huge. Unbelievably so. If someone said you’d waltzed into the Imperial Palace, you’d believe them, and not just because you’re gullible. Although, that’d certainly play a significant role.

Your suspicions strengthen after you walk over the third arched bridge. That’s an arched bridge too far. No school can have this many fancy-looking bridges, the schools back home are practically held together by chewed pieces of gum and scotch tape. Your jetlagged brain combs through the whirlwind you’ve endured in the past few hours. Did you give the wrong address to the taxi driver back at the airport?

He did look confused, but you hadn’t given it much thought then.

You go as still as a statue.

… What if this is the Imperial Palace? If that’s the case, you’re definitely trespassing, right?

How do you explain that to any guards that might happen by? You can envision the headlines now — Foreigner Extradited for Trespassing, Sentenced to Life, No Chance at Parole. All those hours you spent working on your student visa would be for nothing! And you’d be in prison, which is a bummer, because you’re not rich enough to weasel out of the criminal justice system.

You’ll have to join a prison gang, there’s no way around it. Would they let a fourteen-year-old in? In the event they don’t, you could always form one yourself. Leadership’s never been your thing, but it beats—

“Hey there,” a feminine voice calls out. “You lost?”

You whip your head around to the sound’s source. Instead of seeing an intimidating guard ready to haul you off, there’s a girl about your age. She has brunette hair styled in a bob, a beauty mark beneath her left eye, and an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips.

Unless the Emperor is issuing major budget cuts, this can’t be a guard.

You consider her uniform. The high collar, sheer tights, long sleeves, and brown shoes match yours, but the skirt’s different. Yours flares out and cuts off right above your knees. This minor discrepancy makes you wonder if you’re breaking the dress code on your first day. You push the concern aside for future you to deal with.

“That obvious, huh?” You laugh.

“Just a bit.”

She introduces herself as Ieiri Shoko, a first-year student like yourself. You respond in kind, offering up your own name and grade. It’s a relief to know you won’t be arrested or wandering this complex for an eternity. She walks by you and turns on her heel, tilting her head.

“Gonna come with?”

You nod and happily fall into step beside her. She doesn’t seem to be in a rush, not that you mind. It gives you time to admire the idyllic scenery around each turn. There are lush green forests, gardens, and more traditional buildings than you can count. The only detail you find odd is how empty the area is. Besides Ieiri, there isn’t a soul to be found.

“Ieiri-san, is today a holiday by any chance?”

“Just Shoko’s fine,” she says, feeling around her various pockets. “And I don’t think so. Why? Too quiet?”

“It’s almost like a ghost town.”

Shoko smiles. “Enjoy the quiet while you can.”

Well, that’s a bit ominous, but you’ve yet to meet anyone in the jujutsu world who is 100% normal. You think it might be an unspoken requirement at this point.

Shoko gives up on whatever she was searching for — a lighter, if you had to guess — and tucks the cigarette away. This reinforces your theory that those involved with jujutsu have one quirk at the bare minimum. By that logic, you must have some peculiar quirk of your own. Recalling your earlier Imperial Palace debacle, you realize it might be more than one…

“Oh, by the way. All our classes got canceled,” Shoko says.

You blink.

“On… the first day…?”

“Yeah. Something about a last-minute meeting,” she stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “I’m heading back to the dorms for a nap. I think yours is near mine, there are boxes with your name on them in the hallway.”

What a relief! There had been no word on the packages full of your personal belongings you shipped here ahead of time. The hellscape that is checked baggage had no bearing on you. Immensely pleased with this revelation, you set aside the urge to explore and accompany Shoko to where you’ll be living for the foreseeable future.

In keeping with the spirit of the rest of the school grounds, your room is spacious.

Shoko left you to your own devices. You can faintly discern her presence in the room beside yours, laying down as she said she would. You thought you’d want to do the same, but something about the crisp morning air sliced through your exhaustion. You’ll ride the high and crash later.

Adventure awaits — the exploration of the unknown, the sharpening of a faint, hazy image.

You’re back outside again. It’s amazing how, no matter where you are, you can feel the wind in your hair and the sun on your cheeks. This serves as a grounding reminder that you’re real. Reality and the ambiguous nature of jujutsu are often at odds with one other, fighting to occupy the same space. Each side spins a convincing speech about why you should give it credence while discounting the other.

Unlike a politician’s diatribe, there’s no changing the channel or turning down the volume. This invisible and perennial battle won’t ever gain total victory or retreat. There’s bound to be collateral, such is the nature of war. For some, it’s their life in a literal sense, for you, it’s sanity. Coherence. The incorrigible truth that two plus two equals four.

See, young kids aren’t given enough credit. They’re always watching, learning, and absorbing. They get the basic idea that two plus two equals four before they even know what numbers are. For instance, as a baby, you cry and writhe until your needs are met. There’s a framework. An adult in the vicinity plus wailing equals getting fed. Then later, it gets more complex. Not eating your vegetables plus getting mouthy equals timeout. So on and so forth.

You accrue this network of information that makes life navigable.

Then, while visiting some distant relative in the hospital, a massive hole gets blown into this previously steady network. Such was your experience.

Something strange sat atop the IV in the small, cramped hospital room. The adults exchanged well wishes for the man surrounded by beeping equipment and blinking screens. Everyone present focused on this man, except you. You observed this thing, about the size of a sparrow, that flitted to and fro. Whatever it was, it had too many eyes. Each rolled in a different direction, like a bowling ball that couldn’t stop spinning.

Eventually, a long yet thin appendage emerged from the unidentifiable creature. You stood petrified as it entered the man’s ear canal and sipped. The man groaned, beeps increased, and numbers flew high. It sipped harder. His screams grew louder. Everything got chaotic. People in white and blue entered the room. You heard words like ‘cardiac arrest’ and ‘defibrillation.’ Your parents dragged you away.

The creature continued to sip.

On the car ride home, you asked why no one stopped it. The creature plus its sipping equaled the man’s horrible pain. That’s what you figured, anyway. They asked for clarification. What creature? Where had it been? What did it look like? Since young kids are smarter than they’re given credit for, you recognized the tone that was directed toward you. Disbelief, but in a nice, adult way.

If you insisted on the creature’s existence, they grew worried. When you told your friends — who in turn, told their parents — their worry grew. If every drawing you scribbled tried to depict the creature’s likeness, their worry overflowed. You overheard words like ‘traumatic experience’ and ‘coping.’

So, you stopped mentioning it. This stopped the concerned murmurings you’d overhear. You tried really hard to believe what they said about nightmares and mean imaginary friends. This worked well enough until you noticed similar creatures everywhere. On the playground, bus, graveyards, and abandoned houses. They weren’t all the size of a sparrow either. Some were tiny enough to be mistaken for gnats. Others were huge and salivated large pools against the ground.

It was around this time that you developed a second shadow. A spinning golden ring that could fit in the palm of your hand followed you everywhere. No one else could see it, but unlike the creatures, this ring didn’t scare you. Just the opposite, in fact. You considered it a guardian angel.

If the gnats got too close, it’d slice through them.

When the huge, drooling ones reached out their mangled hand, it’d cut through their wrists.

Later on, you’d learn this ‘guardian angel’ was called a ‘cursed technique.’

Smiling, you descend a flight of stairs. From today onward, you’ll be surrounded by people who don’t discount the equation you spent your early years erasing. They’ll be around your age too! You already like Shoko, she’s pretty and has a calming presence. You wonder what the others in your class will be like. How many will there be? Twenty? Your social studies class topped out at thirty-four.

You hope you can befriend everyone.

The gears turning in your head grind to a halt upon noticing the view. Maybe it’s how the morning sun casts a soft glow upon the verdure, or maybe you’re just easily impressed. Whatever the case, the sight stokes awe inside you. Trees line both sides of the gravel path ahead, their canopies inclining as if leaning down to hear a whisper. Smudges of green streak through the air, accepting any destiny the wind bestows.

What an image, straight from the pages of a fairytale book!

You fish out your new phone, a hot pink Razr V3, recalling its camera feature. Even if the photograph isn’t award-winning, you want to preserve this moment.

You can’t explain it. This intuition isn’t rational, it doesn’t adhere to that ever so reliable two plus two. It transcends. The fall of a domino, a flap of a butterfly wing. Seemingly unrelated yet intimately interwoven by invisible lines.

Whether preordained or the consequence of chain reactions you’d have to trace since birth to understand, what happens next stains you its color. The soul grasps what logic dismisses. And right now, your soul says this moment in time and space should never be forgotten.

As for why, your soul suggests you uncover that for yourself.

Alas, you can’t actually stop time. Perception and reality don’t always agree. While it felt like everything came to a grinding halt, the wheels never stopped turning.

And so the powerful gust soaring from your right punches the air from your lungs.

Gritting your teeth, you dig your heels into the ground. The sheer force pushes you back some inches. Next comes a hail of debris. Chunks of soil, sediment, and splintered wood descend. Recognizing this threat, your mind yells at your body to move. Those earthly implements are soaring faster than a bullet. However, the baleful gale restricts precise movement. You’re nothing but a bag of flesh and viscera to the indifferent swell. It’ll send you tumbling the instant your feet lift off the ground.

Dodging isn’t an option.

Those rocks… your cursed technique could dice them up, but then you’d get pelted with shrapnel rather than stone.

Which is the better outcome? A body littered with numerous holes or a few craters?

Your arms fly up to protect your major organs. You’ll endure what you can.

Except, instead of enduring an onslaught, nothing happens. Nothing hurts, rips, or gets torn to shreds.

The wind hasn’t stopped, but it no longer touches you. You jump back, out of the line of impact. The debris parts like the Red Sea and grants you safe passage. From this vantage point, you’re a witness rather than an unwitting participant. The unrelenting force rages on. You gape at the path of destruction it’s left behind, indiscriminately swallowing trees, foliage, and the ground. It looks like a meteor surged in a straight line through the forest.

No matter what you’d chosen to do, if it weren’t for that abrupt opening, you would’ve died.

Heart thumping wildly, you snap your head toward the direction this miniature storm originated from. Was it a curse? If it is, then you’re hopelessly outclassed.

No, that doesn’t seem right, you think. You’re familiar with how it feels when a curse is nearby. Should it be close to your power level, it’s like getting splashed with frigid water. For curses above your abilities, that sensation gets amplified. It’s as if you’ve been plunged into the Arctic Ocean. Right now, you’re not experiencing either of those sensory nightmares.

A silhouette walks through the dusty haze that destructive force left behind.

“Whoops,” the person within says, “That was close.”

You run over, swatting the dust lingering in the air. Anyone close to that force could’ve gotten severely injured. Concern seeps into your being as the figure emerges.

“Are you okay?!”

The first thing you notice is a head of white hair. Next is this person’s height, you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. Eyes that were, for some reason, covered by circular sunglasses. There’s a sideways grin on his face, the absolute last expression you were expecting. From his uniform, you guess he’s a student like yourself. His most prominent feature isn’t anything visible. It’s the sheer aura he exudes, you’ve never experienced anything similar. There’s no hostility, but it’s intense.

You inhale shakily.

“Never better. You?”

He sounds chipper.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, giving yourself a once-over.

You pinch your eyebrows together while assessing your condition. The white-haired figure notices this and asks, “Ya sure? Nothing hit you, right?”

“That’s the weird thing, though,” you frown. “I should be covered in dust, but there’s not a single speck.”

His grin widens, like he’s in on some joke you aren’t. This plucks a cord of irritation within you. Narrowing your eyes, you take a step back. You focus on the cursed energy engulfing him, then compare it to residuals left behind by the force. The residuals in the path it carved out are too faint to properly discern. All you have implicating his involvement is a hunch.

You remember how the gust itself felt, though. The ferocity that had every nerve in your body ringing funeral bells.

Your eyes flit between the gaping maw and the sunglass-wearing stranger.

“Want a hint?” He asks. You don’t miss the teasing lilt in his voice.

“You caused that surge,” you deadpan.

“Close enough, I’ll give half credit. Next question! What stopped you from getting buried in layers of dust?”

You have no reason to play along, yet scampering off feels like you’d be conceding something. The competitive nature boiling in your blood refuses to admit defeat. Especially after he subjected you to that terror, without even apologizing! It’s the least he could do. What an inconsiderate jerk. You’ll knock him down from that high horse if it’s the last thing you do.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you consider the information you have to work with. Whatever he did had to involve his cursed technique. Did he apply a shield to you? It’s the most obvious answer, but that doesn’t explain everything. A shield would lessen the damage, not negate it entirely.

How did he pull that off…?

As you’re piecing this puzzle together, someone in the distance yells, “Satoru!” drawing out each syllable. The person before you winces but doesn’t lose his boyish smile. You sense another presence heading this way. After you turn around to face this new addition, two large hands settle on your shoulders from behind. You bristle and try shaking them off, but this weirdo doesn’t let go.

An older man with a severe expression stands atop the staircase. His uniform is pitch black, denoting a different status than a student, if you were to guess.

“One hour,” he huffs out, “One hour, I ask for you to sit still and behave. And what do I come back to? An entire tunnel running through the school grounds?”

“It was for good reason, sensei,” this ‘Satoru’ insists. He squeezes your shoulders. “[First] here mistook a bug for a curse and yelped, ‘Kya, there’s a curse!’ I, being the good samaritan I am, dispatched the threat with what I thought to be an appropriate amount of force at the time.”

You make a face. “Eh?”

“Huh?” Yaga must find this explanation as convincing as you do. His countenance filters through multiple emotions. Confusion, frustration, disbelief, and then, finally, exhaustion. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t come up with anything better than that?”

“I didn’t come up with anything! Tell him, [First]! Are you going to abandon your savior when he needs you most?”

Yaga turns his attention to you, pity evident in his eyes.

“Satoru did… sort of protect me from something… in a way?” You mumble.

Satoru’s fingers twitch when you speak his recently learned name.

Yaga sighs. “We’ll discuss this later, Satoru.”

And with that, the first teacher you’ve met walks away, shaking his head. His demeanor reminds you of a disappointed parent. Suddenly cognizant of the unwelcome contact on your body, you jerk your shoulders forward. This time, he releases you. You get the sense he could’ve easily held on if he wanted to.

“Man, you suck at lying,” Satoru whines.

“Me? What sort of cover story was that? If you ever become a defense attorney, your clients are screwed.”

He throws his arms behind his head and grins. “You gotta admit, the impression was solid.”

“That was the most egregious part!”

“I thought it was a nice touch.”

You roll your eyes. Before this back-and-forth drags on, there’s a specific detail that’s nagging at you.

“By the way, how do you know my name—”

“Suguru, how long are you gonna sit back and watch? Voyeurism is frowned upon, y’know,” he cuts you off mid-sentence.

Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets at his not-so-subtle implication. Thrown back into a weirded-out limbo, you start slinking off. Forget trying to understand how he knows your name despite never telling him. These are the types your parents warned you about, you need to flee! Hormonal high school boys should be sectioned off until they’re no longer threats to society. Nuclear warfare pales in comparison.

“She’ll never want to come near you again if you keep saying things like that.”

Another student calmly strides out from behind a nearby tree. You squint, ensuring this isn’t an illusion. How long has this guy been here? Why couldn’t you sense his presence? Especially when he’s been so close, just a few measly feet back. The black-haired addition gives you a closed-mouth smile. Similar to Satoru, he’s rather tall. You’ll need a neck massage from all this looking up.

“Geto Suguru. It’s nice to meet you,” Geto greets.

You introduce yourself as well.

“It’s your first day here, correct? How are you finding everything? Have any questions?”

“None that I can think of, but thank you! It’s been uneventful, up to a certain point.”

Satoru yawns obnoxiously loud, interrupting your exchange. “Look what you did, Suguru. She’s all prim and proper now. I might fall asleep.”

You shoot him a scathing look but bite your tongue.

“What? No need to hold back. Say whatever you want, I can take it,” he asserts, tilting his head enough for his sunglasses to slide down. Two pools of frosty blues bore through you. You freeze up at the sight. Snowy eyelashes, glittering, gemstone-like eyes, why would he ever hide them? You’ve never seen such a bewitching color.

He strikes like a serpent at the opening you’ve given him.

“All this staring’s gonna make me shy. You can take a picture, if you want. I don’t mind.”

Any spell you were under withers and dies.

“Actually, I was just thinking that you remind me of a celebrity,” you say.

Satoru preens, interpreting your words as a compliment. Before his ego inflates enough for him to float away, however, you give him a smug smile of your own.

“Ever heard of Sanrio’s Cinnamoroll? You two could be twins! It’s adorable.”

His shoulders droop and Suguru chuckles, the sound coming out muffled from behind his hand. You spin around, content, humming to yourself as you walk up the stairs. You block out whatever Satoru shouts in retaliation. His words go in one ear and out the other. Something tells you this is the best strategy for dealing with him.

So far, you’ve met three classmates, and that was enough to exhaust you thoroughly.

You wonder what everyone else is like.

Later that evening, Shoko explains it’s just you four in your class.

You finish chewing your takeout, swallow, and then reply, “Eh? Seriously? But this place is crazy big.”

“Not many folks can use jujutsu,” Shoko says. She picks a mushroom up with her chopsticks and places it in your container. “Four students is a high amount, all things considered.”

You plop the mushroom into your mouth. Savory flavors coat your tongue, warming your heart and your soul. Delicious food is the antidote to all woes. Presently, your biggest woe happens to have white hair, unfairly pretty eyes, and a knack for getting under your skin. Recalling your previous encounter makes you grimace.

“Hey, Shoko. Would I get in trouble for spraying Satoru with water?”

Instead of responding, she stares at you, blinking owlishly.

“What’s up?”

“Haven’t heard any student but Geto call Gojo by his first name,” she explains. “We’ve only been here a few days though, so who knows.”

You tilt your head. “Who is Gojo?”

“Satoru. Gojo Satoru’s his full name.”

“... Ah.”

You swipe a pillow from Shoko’s bed and slam it into your face.

“I’ve been calling him by his first name?!” You whisper yell, heat rushing to your cheeks.

That’s far too intimate. This is awful, a tragedy, the end of your life that had just begun!

Shoko rubs your back reassuringly as you process the harrowing information.

This has been the first proper school day.

Teachers have come and gone depending on the class. You and Geto have been taking notes, Shoko’s fallen asleep, and Gojo occasionally throws a wadded-up note at the three of you. Shoko’s collection piles up on her desk, Geto throws his away after reading them, and you chuck yours back at Gojo when the teacher isn’t looking.

He catches it with a grin each time, as if you’re playing a friendly game of baseball.

This guy really irks you.

When it’s time to eat lunch, he’s the first to get up.

“What does everyone want from the vending machine?” Gojo asks while clapping, earning your attention. “It’s on me.”

Suguru requests Coca-Cola and Shoko, newly awake, says Oi Ocha.

“I’m okay, but thank you,” is your response.

Gojo swaggers over and you immediately regret sounding so polite.

“First you don’t open my notes and now you won’t accept my generosity? Is this what it’s like to get bullied?”

“I think bullying is typically worse than that,” you respond. His deep frown, although likely an act, still tugs on your heartstrings. Empathy is truly a double-edged sword. “... Georgia canned coffee, please.”

Gojo points a finger at you. “Aha! I knew it! Something about you struck me as a caffeine addict.”

(You throw a pen at him, which he easily sidesteps).

“Does the resident sugar addict have any room to talk?” Geto hums.

“Plenty. When you eat sweets, it’s to enjoy the flavor. In other words, an experience! When you drink coffee, though, you’re only torturing yourself to keep your eyes open.”

“Some people like coffee’s flavor,” Shoko chimes in. She rests her chin on her fist. “You would if it was sickeningly sweet.”

You take in the sight of your classmates bickering. It stirs a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest, like walking outside on the first day of spring. Such a simple exchange instills a sense of normalcy, no matter how fleeting. Gojo’s larger-than-life personality, Geto’s sneaky ways of goading him on, and Shoko’s occasional wry comment; you sear it into your memory.

There’s no real weight to the jabs everyone flings around, it’s like water off a duck’s back.

“You’ll meet lots of interesting folks, I’m sure,” your jujutsu mentor, Ishimoto Akane, had told you. “Make the most of each day. Forgetting to live is the worst injustice you can commit toward yourself.”

Smiling, you retrieve your pen/ammunition, intent on hitting Gojo with it eventually.

Drizzle and heat olive oil in a pan. Add grape tomatoes, seasoning, and minced garlic. Stir occasionally until the grape tomatoes break down.

A mouthwatering scent fills the dormitory’s kitchen. The clock reads 10:04 p.m, indicating how late this dinner is. You keep an eye on your pan as different shades of red smear together, forming the basis for your sauce. Content to leave it unsupervised for a spell, you walk to the drawer silverware is kept in.

The plates are up in an overhead cupboard. You stand on your tiptoes, straining your arm to grab a plate that has no business being up so high.

“Need help?”

You could recognize that voice in your sleep. Or, to be more specific, your nightmares.

“I’ve got it,” you insist.

“Yes, obviously, my sincerest apologies,” Gojo's cadence shifts to a somber, apologetic tone. “Please proceed.”

You stretch your body to its limits, the muscles in your arm crying out for reprieve. Your fingertips brush over the plate’s outer rim. Mistaking this for victory, you pull it out at an awkward angle. The porcelain comes tumbling down to its imminent demise. Out of instinct, you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact.

In the moments that follow, you hear nothing shatter.

Confused, you reopen your eyes to see Gojo Satoru holding the still-intact plate.

You stare at him.

He stares at you (from behind his sunglasses, despite the sun not being out).

Remembering your manners, you say, “Thank you.”

Gojo hums. The low note injects dread throughout your system, as you can guess how the melody will continue. You reach for the troublesome plate. In accordance with your premonition, he takes sadistic glee in raising it high above your head. It stays up there as if it were a full moon.

You take a deep, deep breath.

“Gojo-san, can I have that back?”

“Say ‘Pretty please, Satoru,’ and I’ll think about it.”

“...”

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

“From this day forward, you cannot have any more of my cooking,” you announce as if you were a politician making a new law known.

In what’s an exceedingly rare occurrence, Gojo doesn’t have an immediate retort. You may be unable to see his eyes, but you can tell his expression fell at your proclamation by the muscles in his face.

“Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“Really really.”

Gojo silently hands over the plate with a bow.

“For you, madam.”

His melancholic act is so convincing and disproportionate to the situation that you can’t hold back your laughter. Gojo’s true strength is his ability to annoy and endear in the same breath. For this reason, your irritation toward his antics never lasts long. You’re sure he’s aware of this and uses it to his advantage. So long as it remains innocuous, you’ll play along.

“Start helping by chopping that basil and I’ll reconsider your verdict.”

Gojo gives a hearty salute.

“Yes ma’am!”

Geto plucks the manilla folder you’re holding and says your name. Perplexed, you glance at him.

“This isn’t worth rereading a fourth time,” he explains. “It won’t be anything near as dangerous as it’s been made out to be.”

He closes it and slides it across the table. You watch through heavy eyelids, blinking off sleep’s seductive whisper. The contents within — census data, maps, photographs — each piece of information refuses to absorb into your weary brain. You’re amazed you had the cogency to slap some proper loungewear on and stumble to the dormitory’s shared living space.

“S’gotta be somewhat important, though, if we got woken up at three in the morning over it.”

Geto laughs airily at that. “You’d be surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“He means that anything involving the Zenins gets a fast track to becoming everyone’s problem,” Gojo adds from the doorway.

You turn your head in the direction of his hoarse voice. He didn’t bother to fix his bedhead or put on anything half-decent. He’s wearing a gray v-neck and slacks, unlike Geto, who at least put on a pair of jeans. His trademark sunglasses sit ajar on his nose.

Despite yourself, your heart skips a beat. He’s kinda cute.

Gojo gives you a lazy wave and grin. “Wow, you’re actually awake. I thought we’d have to drag you out of bed.”

“In the spirit of maintaining harmony, I’m going to ignore that comment,” you grumble, getting up from the floor to sit on the couch. Gojo sits to your left, slouches into the armrest, and throws his legs on the table. What terrible posture. “Going back to what you said — who are the Zenins? Are they important or something?”

Gojo furrows his eyebrows.

Geto blinks.

You glance between the two of them, feeling increasingly out of the loop. “W-What?”

Gojo, being the fiend that he is, breaks out into unapologetic laughter. You gape at him, your cheeks going from cold to scorching. Geto shakes his head in disapproval over Gojo’s behavior. Still, a small smile works onto his face, further exacerbating your embarrassment. Gojo loudly poking fun at you is one thing, but you’re used to Geto having your back Or at least abstaining from either side.

Vexed, you shoot up, ready to storm off, but Gojo’s hand encircles your wrist.

“My bad, my bad,” he manages through the occasional chuckle. “Come back. We’ll explain it to you.”

You grumble beneath your breath yet ultimately acquiesce.

Gojo peers at you from above his sunglasses. “Ever heard of the Big Three Sorcerer Families?”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Would we be having this conversation if I had?”

“Man, that must be nice. I almost feel bad ruining your innocence like this,” Gojo sighs, ever the melodramatic performer. “Hm… let’s see… think of them as the lame, jujutsu versions of Zapdos, Articuno, and Moltres.”

Sitting patiently, you wait for him to elaborate.

He doesn’t.

“Geto-kun, care to translate?”

“With pleasure. So, since cursed techniques are inherited, families often want them passed on from one generation to the next. The Big Three come from bloodlines that hold some of the strongest techniques. As you can imagine, this has granted them lots of influence and power over the centuries. How they leverage these advantages, well…”

Geto trails off and clears his throat.

“—They use it to advance their own agendas and snuff out any meaningful change,” Gojo finishes for him.

You nod.

“Okay, I think I get it! So they’re like jujutsu lobbyists?”

Gojo bursts into another fit of laughter. “I like that! Yeah, let’s call them that. Most of those geezers aren’t even jujutsu sorcerers themselves. They just sit around in the dark and scheme. It’s pathetic.”

Gojo doesn’t care about mincing words. He’s the type to call it as he sees it, for better or for worse. Rarely do you sense such acrimony festering beneath the surface of his remarks. This matter is different. He’s smiling, but there’s a tense underpinning to how he sets his jaw.

“Wait, okay, so, there’s the Zenins, but… who are the other two?” You ask.

“The Kamo and Gojo families,” Geto answers.

Gojo, gojo… that name sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?

This reveal doesn’t knock the breath from your lungs. You’ve been able to guess for some time now that Gojo came from money. How much exactly, you weren’t sure, but his designer clothes raised your estimates high. Your rich kid radar is as accurate as ever.

You point an accusatory finger toward the white-haired male beside you. “We have a double agent in our midst, Geto-kun.”

“It would appear so. How should we proceed?”

You stride over to Geto’s side, creating the appropriate distance between you and the traitor.

“Imprisonment without trial,” you declare, much to Gojo’s chagrin. “Solitary confinement too. Cosplaying as the working class is a federal offense.”

“Hah? What sort of kangaroo court is this?” Gojo complains. He removes his legs from the table and sits properly, then crosses his arms over his chest. Continuing your charade, you pay him no mind. Instead, you stand on your tiptoes, cup your hands, and whisper into Geto’s ear:

“The convict is disparaging our blameless judicial system. Shall we add ten years of hard labor?”

A malevolent gleam passes over Geto’s eyes.

“Let’s make it twenty,” he whispers back. You nod. Great minds think alike.

You return your attention to the couch, intending to update Gojo’s sentence, only to find he isn’t there. Yours and Geto’s deliberation couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds! Where did your prisoner run off to? His presence vanished as well, leaving not a single trace. It should unnerve you how in control he is of every aspect of his being. Maybe it would’ve had you not known him personally.

Warm breath fans against your ear from behind. “I’m taking this corrupt official hostage.”

With that, your legs give out faster than your brain can register. Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as two arms lift you. The abruptness of it all has your limbs flailing for purchase and a squeak escaping your lips. Gojo takes care to ensure you don’t fall or harm yourself, but he doesn’t bother hiding his sadistic glee. You’re held bridal style against his firm chest.

Trying to wriggle loose is a meaningless endeavor. Accepting your fate, you go limp, but not without requesting assistance.

“Geto, are you really going to abandon me to the machinations of this criminal?”

Geto walks over, consideration etched into his countenance, stoking hope of rescue in your chest. He reaches for you. It’s almost imperceptible, but Gojo’s grip tightens ever so slightly. However, his hand doesn’t pry you from the jaws of the beast. He just pulls down your shirt, which has risen to reveal a sliver of your stomach.

Wow, what a gentleman.

“Did you ever consider that I might be a double agent?” Geto challenges, relishing in your visible frustration as much as Gojo. Such is the plight of those who wear their heart on their sleeve.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson alright,” you retort. The foreboding nature of your words isn’t lost on them. They await your next move, which you swiftly deliver. “Gojo-san, let me down. If you don’t, I will bite you.”

You can feel how he beams down at you. “Oh, I never would’ve guessed that’s what you’re into— ah, Suguru, a little help here…?”

Geto assesses the situation. After thinking it over, he helps steady you, then uses his newfound leverage to pull you free. He takes great care in putting you down, holding you steady until your feet are firmly on the floor. Your balance rushes to restore itself. In the meantime, Gojo clicks his tongue, processing the weight of Geto’s betrayal.

You give Geto a thumbs up. “Good work. No one ever sees a triple agent coming.”

“It was a split-second decision,” Gojo dismisses with a wave. His impassive expression morphs into a knowing smirk, like he just had a seismic revelation. “Ah, I get it.”

“You do?” Geto hums.

“He does?” You ask.

“Yes and yes. Suguru, you were holding out to see if she’d use her cursed technique, right?”

Geto doesn’t respond immediately, indicating Gojo’s theory holds some merit. Gojo stuffs his hands into his pockets and slinks back to the couch. His gait radiates smugness, although you can’t imagine why. Is that supposed to be a ‘gotcha!’ moment?

“I’ll admit, I am curious,” is what Geto settles on saying, his smile apologetic. Or it’s meant to come off as such.

“Why didn’t you say so sooner? It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.”

Geto and Gojo exchange looks.

“You should be careful who you go about revealing information like that to,” Gojo warns. You’re not used to hearing this serious timbre in his voice. “Some cards should remain close to your chest.”

Even if he’s being sincere, you can’t help but feel patronized. You’ll be the first to admit it — certain nuances of jujutsu society are lost on you. Akane wasn’t the type to care for such details. She said worrying about all that bureaucracy would age you prematurely. You half agree with her. Certainly, you shouldn’t let that influence you in the areas it matters most, like combat. However, while you’re in Japan, you’re under their regulations. It wouldn’t be wise to forget that.

You purse your lips. “Obviously, yeah. I’m not going to go blabbering it off everywhere. But, I mean, you two are my friends. This’ll be our first time on the field together. Knowing what cards you have to deal with seems useful to me.”

Gojo turns his head to the side and a few seconds pass.

“Friends, huh?” Geto finally murmurs, testing the word on his tongue. His next smile reaches his eyes. “Who would’ve thought a little sincerity is all it takes to get you flustered?”

Gojo snaps his head back at Geto’s taunt. “Sorry, what was that? Aren’t you the one who—”

You clap to redirect their attention.

“Hey, hey, cut it out already. We’re going to be together for the next few days, right? Let’s all get along.”

“You just care about going back to sleep,” Gojo accuses.

“Yes. Exactly. That is all I care about right now. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m headed to bed.”

You don’t wait for their response. As stealthily as you can, you sneak through the hallways, careful to avoid creaky floorboards. Upon returning to your room, you kick your house slippers off. The digital alarm clock on your nightstand says 3:53 p.m. Those two kept you up far later than necessary! If this assignment isn’t a big deal like Geto claims, you wish he would’ve said so sooner.

There’s always the option of sleeping during the car ride, but if there’s anything you know about Gojo, it’s that everything in his vicinity can be subjected to torment. You wouldn’t put it past him to draw on your face or blare the horn once you finally nod off.

Your head hits the pillow and you pray for rest to take you soon.

Meanwhile, back in the shared living space, Gojo stares at the spot you once occupied.

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“I think I get it now.”

“That so?” Gojo runs a hand through his hair. “As long as you don’t get it too much.”

Geto chuckles. After a pause, he muses, “Neither of us would be very good for her.”

“You gonna let someone else scoop her up?”

“Are you?”

“They can try,” Gojo smiles. There’s no kindness behind it.

Although this conversation could last well into the morning, in an unspoken understanding, they leave it at that.

“Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.”

Ink blots descend from above as if the sky were weeping. The viscous teardrops curve downward, creating a dome that swallows the surrounding area. Geto and Suguru have gone ahead, leaving you to carry out basic protocol. You jog to catch up with them. Geto slows down enough to make rejoining them easier, unlike Gojo, who carries on.

“So, this is the stomping grounds of the mean ol’ curse that sent Kenji Zenin packing?” Gojo hums.

“He sustained some serious injuries,” you remind him. Gojo just shrugs. “A fractured sternum and twelve broken ribs… that’s not exactly a walk in the park.”

“A Grade One sorcerer getting whooped that bad by a Grade Two curse? Probably deserved it.”

You sigh, recognizing that Gojo won’t empathize no matter what you say.

The three of you were driven from Tokyo Jujutsu High to Kaizu for this assignment. According to Geto, the information you received likely exaggerated the curse’s capabilities as a way for Kenji Zenin to save face. It looks better for him if the higher-ups deem the threat he faced severe enough to ship off two of the school’s most promising students to handle it. Regarding your inclusion, Gojo so kindly said,

“You’re like the little garnish on top of the entrée.”

You can’t find the energy to get upset if he’s right.

There’s no denying the immense gap in your abilities compared to theirs. You could feel it in the air the instant you met Gojo. For Geto, all it took was hearing a description of his cursed technique. The potential for storing and controlling curses at will is beyond your comprehension. There are so many applications, and so many advantages… you’re utterly outclassed.

Should this demotivate you? Perhaps. You’ll never be as strong as them, it’s delusional to think otherwise. An individual’s proficiency with jujutsu is almost determined at birth. That doesn’t mean it’s static, it just means you have to find ways to excel with what you’re given. Envy is a waste of time. You want to learn from them and hone your abilities. For this reason, you’ve avoided an inferiority complex.

What could be better than learning from the best?

The atmosphere inside the curtain is dingy. It’s like a dark filter glazed over your eyes, maiming any bright or vibrant colors.

Grass crunches beneath your feet despite summer’s abundant rainfall. Nature itself flees the scene, retreating into the woods surrounding this derelict nursery. The briefing you were given went over the business’ murky past. In the seventies, there was an unprecedented boom in births around this area. Working parents needed proper childcare until their children were old enough to attend school. What few facilities existed nearby found themselves overwhelmed. Then an older, childless couple, Mikami and Fujikawa Tetsuo, purchased a plot of land outside the town with their retirement money. They cited the picturesque scenery as their reason for choosing this location, believing that the unpolluted air would be good for the children.

The nursery was built and opened. For years, parents entrusted their little ones with the tight-knit staff headed by the Tetsuo’s. Nothing of note occurred until early in the eighties. On March 24th, 1982, a child was hospitalized after crying ceaselessly for three hours straight. The mother reported that when she picked her daughter up from the daycare, her daughter had been unusually distraught. She didn’t think much of it at first. Toddlers are known for being emotional. However, as time went by and her screams became hoarse, she felt something was terribly wrong. The little girl was given mild sedatives and IV fluids as her body began to suffer from dehydration.

The next day, all seventeen children at the daycare suffered the same mysterious ailment.

Each child underwent tests ranging from bloodwork to brain MRIs to determine what the inexplicable cause of this nightmare could be. Professionals in every area, ranging from renowned neurologists to child psychiatrists flew in from around the world. Naturally, an investigation was opened into the nursery and its owners. No formal charges were made against Mikami and Fujikawa, since no evidence of foul play could be found. Regardless, the community ostracized them and any employees present during the incident.

Tragically, none of the eighteen children recovered. From the instant their sedatives wore off until they were administered again, they’d screech, thrash, and display aggressive behavior toward nurses and family members alike. Parents were faced with the impossible decision of keeping their child ‘alive’ through life support, holding out for a cure that may never come, or granting them a peaceful yet permanent rest.

Only one family kept their child on life support. He remained in a vegetative state and died from complications related to an infection two months later. The seventeen other families, who had grown close through the harrowing ordeal, turned the machines keeping their little ones alive at the same time.

This report might be one of the worst things you’ve read.

Scanning the area, you note faint residuals of cursed energy throughout the decrepit playground. The swings, slide, and both sides of the seesaw contain trace amounts. Did curses form as a consequence of what happened here, or did a curse initiate the disaster? It may not matter now, but all those families never receiving proper closure makes your chest feel tight.

Painfully so.

Considering the officials never found physical evidence, you believe a curse was the cause. What were the victims supposed to do? What could they do? Non-sorcerers can’t perceive curses, much less defend themselves. They have to be chewed, swallowed, and digested.

You kneel at the playground’s edge, inspecting the planks of rotten and peeling wood. It must’ve been assembled by hand. Each piece was planned, cut, and dutifully laid down. All to hold the wood chips that’d protect the kids as they ran, laughed, and played. This place should’ve been a fond memory for them to recall throughout their life.

Instead, it’s the reason they’d never got to have one.

“The cursed energy is concentrated in the nursery room itself,” Gojo determines.

You follow his line of sight and squint. You could tell the building was submerged in cursed energy, but you couldn’t pinpoint an exact location.

“It’s moving in the same pattern, like a grid,” Geto says. Another observation you couldn’t make. “Starting in the top left corner, ending in the bottom right, then starting the process all over again.”

Standing up, you dust the dirt off your skirt. “Why would a curse do that?”

From a tactical standpoint, moving predictably is reckless. Any combatants could use the knowledge to their advantage. Curses have some degree of self-preservation, hence why they don’t waltz everywhere without a care in the world. They’re intelligent enough to avoid spots that sorcerers frequent. Fly heads are the lone exception, but that’s because they lack the intellect necessary to care for their survival.

A curse capable of inflicting such serious wounds on a Grade One sorcerer can’t be that weak.

Gojo exchanges glances with Geto, a semblance of understanding connecting them. You’ve witnessed this wordless exchange before. No matter how much they bicker over conflicting values or petty non-issues, they maintain the ability to synchronize their thoughts and actions.

“What is it?” You snap. As soon as the acrid words leave your mouth, you regret it, although they don’t react. Taking a deep breath, you try again. “Communication is important for these missions, guys. Keep me in the loop… please?”

Geto parts his lips, but Gojo cuts him off. “There are eighteen cribs inside. The curse is fixing the blankets in each one.”

You shiver.

“... Oh.”

“How do you want to go about this, Satoru?” Geto asks. “It can’t be as simple as walking in and exorcising it.”

“Why not? Its cursed energy is consistent with what you’d expect of a Second Grade. We both know this job’s smoke and mirrors, anyway. Let’s wrap it up already and head home.”

“Isn’t it strange the curse hasn’t been drawn out, despite a curtain being cast?” You point out.

For the first time since exiting the car, Gojo looks at you. You stare back at the two black circles that obscure his omnipotent eyes. Something’s been off ever since you embarked on this mission. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, as its location shifts elsewhere whenever you try. His words have had an edge to them when directed at you. You’re used to his lackluster manners, but this is different.

This cuts and it cuts deep.

Are you that incompetent to him…?

Gojo redirects his gaze toward the ramshackle building.

“I’m getting this over with,” he says. Simply, decisively. Leaving no room for argument.

Leaving no room for you.

Massive tendrils of cursed energy coil around him, flowing unimpeded like water through a rushing brook. You step back solely from reflex. Anticipation thrums through the air and ignites every nerve in your body. You’re left wide-eyed and breathless as it gathers and grows, its potency hundreds of times greater than anything you’ve been able to achieve. It feels as though minutes have dragged by, reacquainting you with the surreal sensation you underwent upon meeting Gojo Satoru that fateful day.

“Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.”

Up until this point in your life, you thought you knew destruction. What hubris, what naivety. Gunfire, grenades, tanks, bombs, missiles; they are nothing but ants before the looming skyscraper that is Gojo Satoru.

This is destruction in its raw, purest form.

This is what it means to be the strongest.

… Somehow, you feel lesser than that ant.

A speck of dust would be a more fitting description.

You expect total disintegration when you reopen your eyes. You aren’t disappointed.

Concrete, wood, glass, steel, plastic, stone, and fabric alike were eviscerated. The ground where the nursery once stood is gone. A bygone era wrought with tragedy. The force behind this apex of energy blasted the wood partition around the playground, leaving nothing but a shadow to signify it ever existed.

Gojo lowers his hand and turns away from the wreckage.

“Don’t you think you went a bit overboard, Satoru?” Geto’s tone reminds you of the many scoldings Yaga has given the white-haired menace.

“Just wanted to ensure the threat was dealt with, so Kenji can sleep through the night without wetting himself,” Gojo replies, smirking. “Alrighty then, who wants to sightsee—”

“Naptime… naptime…” A garbled voice intones from the aftermath of Gojo’s attack.

The deformed curse lifts itself like a marionette fastened to invisible strings. It’s tall, with an emaciated build and haggard skin. Long clumps of thick hair emerge from its scalp, greasy and matted. Each feeble step it takes is accompanied by a snapping sound, as if its joints are begging for collapse. The humanoid shape disturbs you most of all. Cracked lips, bloodied eye sockets, chunks of deathly pale skin sloughing off brittle bones; this curse looks more like a corpse than anything else.

Most damning, however, is the sheer power it’s radiating.

“Do… they… slumber…?” It croaks.

Suguru assumes an offensive position, but Gojo puts an arm out, stopping him.

“Something’s off,” Gojo warns. If you thought he sounded serious before, that doesn’t compare to his timbre now. “Don’t attack it.”

The curse’s legs give out. That doesn’t stop it from crawling on. Lanky fingers claw at the rubble, searching desperately.

Geto summons a handful of curses in its radius. He keeps them on standby while the three of you track every movement, every ebb and flow of cursed energy. The curse grabs and cradles the sediment in its crooked hands, then rocks the amalgamation as if it were a baby.

“Did you hit it?” You whisper, knowing fully well the question is pointless. You don’t care. You need any semblance of control possible when confronted with the terrifying unknown.

“I did. The impact inflicted zero damage,” Gojo removes his sunglasses and tucks them away.

“A special condition, then?” Geto proposes. “One that makes it impervious to all harm until…”

You hear a sniffle.

Then a whimper.

And a gurgle.

“Hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush—”

The curse repeats this mantra with increasing aggravation until its shrill voice is all you can hear. The cursed energy that enveloped it seconds prior flows out in multiple directions, like a heart pumping blood to the rest of the body. The energy is absorbed. Not a meager trace remains, every drop was sucked dry by multiple sources.

All is still.

All is silent.

A bloodcurdling wail reverberates throughout the curtain.

Eighteen appendages propel out of the curse in the middle, puncturing it from the inside out as if the limp mass was a cocoon.

There’s no need for deliberation.

The three of you scatter in different directions.

“Cursed Technique: Ophanim.”

Two glowing, golden rings the size of wheels manifest by your side. The outside surface is adorned with closed eyes, each arranged individually on top of the other rather than in pairs. The two rings work in tandem to slice through the appendage barreling toward you. You recall them to your side, running at a breakneck speed to avoid the five fleshy appendages still seeking your demise.

Gojo and Geto are in a similar predicament. Running, leaping, and dodging the seismic attacks that leave massive craters in its wake. A single hit from that would crush your body in an instant. Then there’s the disorienting wailing, originating from multiple locations throughout the curtain’s interior. You can’t pinpoint where the sounds are coming from.

Adrenaline pumps through your veins, oxygen rushes with each sharp inhale, and your muscles strain to keep up with the demands you make of them.

The sixth appendage, which your cursed technique cut through, lurches from above. Whole and better than ever. Unlike before, its momentum is lightning-fast. The change is so instantaneous that you have no time to respond accordingly. Death’s harbinger looms, engulfing your existence in its hungry shadow. Instead of slicing it off at the wrist, you propel your rings up, accelerating their spin at the cost of speed. Flesh and cartilage rips above you in the shape of a thin slit.

The appendage plummets down.

Through the ringing in your ears, you hear voices yelling out your name.

An unpleasant, viscous substance coats you from head to toe.

You grimace and wipe off what you can. Geto’s curses managed to cut the appendage off at the joint, preventing it from rising and trying to crush you again. Your rings barely managed to carve a hole big enough to span the width of your body. That doesn’t mean you’re safe just yet — the five remaining appendages that have you as their target are seconds away. Unlike the one you just faced, their speed is manageable.

The more damage inflicted, the faster they are after healing, you think. This must be why Gojo and Geto are dodging instead of going on the offense.

However, since you remained still to avoid getting crushed by what your rings hadn’t cut through, the other five appendages are inbound. They’ve fanned out, blocking any angle you’d use to dodge.

You dismiss your cursed technique.

What can be done here? This curse is easily a Grade One. The centermost part is invulnerable and the eighteen limbs growing off it speed up when damaged. Summoning more rings so you can escape this attack means the next will come swifter, building and building to unimaginable speeds. You know your limits. The second healed limb was a hair below the fastest you’ve ever run.

Gojo and Geto could handle the levels above that. Maybe there’s a limit to how many times the limbs can regenerate, reaching that could exorcise the curse. No curse is truly invincible, even if it seems like it in the moment. You must be the reason why they haven’t commenced a counterattack. They knew anything above a second regeneration would do you in.

Is that really the only way?

Something wet drips on your head.

You use what little time you have to glance up.

Suspended midair is a small outline, made visible by the viscera that spurted from your cursed technique’s earlier attack. Sluggishly, you blink, wiping the blood from your eyes to ensure you aren’t hallucinating. The outline’s edges wriggle and squirm. You realize that it’s doing so in time with the incessant wailing.

“What do you think you’re doing, spacing out in the middle of a fight?”

Gojo must’ve warped in front of you.

You recognize the hand motion he’s making, and cry out, “Don’t! That’ll only make it—”

“I know, I know,” Gojo launches a devastating blow that obliterates the five incoming appendages, reducing them to pitiful scraps. “I didn’t just run a marathon for you to give up and become a pancake.”

“I didn’t give up,” you snap back.

He glances over his shoulder and grins. “Good. Cause we need to hose you off as soon as possible.”

You let out a noise in between a laugh and a cry. How can he crack jokes under these dire circumstances?

“Gojo—”

“Ah ah ah,” The menace cuts you off, “Satoru. Call me anything else and I’m leaving you to handle this on your own.”

While speaking his untimely quips, he continuously forms and releases his Cursed Technique Lapse, Blue. This forces the broken appendages into a cycle of stitching themselves together only to get destroyed again. It stuns you, how he can casually hold a conversation while performing a technique that’d use all your cursed energy to execute once. Never mind countless times in rapid succession.

“Satoru,” you try again, to which he hums, “This… thing above me, do you think it’s…?”

“The weak spot for this Ju-On ripoff? Yeah. Just noticed that. Suguru’s curses are self-destructing near them, so their invisibility’s useless.”

The six appendages that tracked Satoru join the fray, granting Geto additional space to maneuver unhindered. Floating blobs covered in the innards of curses appear one by one like macabre lanterns in the night sky. You can’t stop yourself from admiring how effortless they make it look. It was all you could do to avoid the curses’ attacks, that required every ounce of your cognition. Meanwhile, they pieced together the curses’ gimmick and started countermeasures.

“Anything broken?” Satoru asks.

“Just a few sprains.”

“Great. Now, I’m about to ask for a lot, but it’s nothing I don’t think you can’t handle.”

You exhale shakily.

“There’s another application of your cursed technique, right?”

How does he know that?

You’ll worry about this oddity later.

“There is, but,” you stare down at your blood-soaked hands, “Why are you asking?”

Satoru takes a moment to consider his response. The gory splatters are reforming faster and faster, you’ve lost count of how many blasts he’s used to cut them down. It’s almost imperceptible, but you can tell he can’t keep this up forever. Each subsequent use of Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue requires more energy than the last. If he’s a sliver off in his calculations, then the appendages will heal instantaneously and skewer your body faster than death can claim you.

Geto leaps down from a hovering curse.

“There are seventeen sources, just like you said,” he huffs, wiping the perspiration trickling down his temple. “Each one is visible now.”

Seventeen sources?

“This eyesore’s a distraction. Those screaming curses — they’re the real target here,” Satoru says.

You consider the curse a few feet above your head. “So we should attack them, right?”

Geto shakes his head. “We tried that. They didn’t sustain any damage.”

“Seriously?”

“This is just a theory, but,” Satoru takes a deep breath, “Seventeen of the eighteen victims from this place had their life support pulled simultaneously, right?”

Huh. So he did read the briefing after all.

This conjecture prickles at your skin like tiny needles. The screaming, the small stature these curses have, every detail comes crashing down at once. Maggots writhing beneath your skin would be more pleasant.

It isn’t them, you tell yourself, because you have to. It’s an echo. The curse they left behind.

You steeple your fingers. Cursed energy thrums around and through you, reverberating in your bones, and crackling throughout your soul. Simultaneously. That’s the key here. These curses can pull off their various immunities by using conditions to their advantage.

The two warding off the original curses’ attacks before you are strong, yes, but this niche fits you well.

If you’re able to perform it properly, that is.

You accept every drop of cursed energy your body can handle. Once you’re filled to the brim, it’s expelled, rushing through the air like geysers.

“Cursed Technique: Null.”

Your ability is versatile if not simple.

You can call forth golden rings that perpetually spin clockwise. Their size, speed, and sharpness are determined by you. At this point in your training, you can maintain two of these rings without sacrificing speed or sharpness. Should you bring out any more, they will dull and slow down for each addition made. Two could slash through steel, four could cut the same slab halfway, six would make a sizable dent, eight would leave a scratch; so on and so forth.

There’s an additional application beyond this.

Cursed Technique: Null — the pinnacle of the innate ability you inherited, Ophanim.

The sorcerer creates three rings around any object or organism. One spins around the target horizontally. The other two slant left and right respectively, all spinning counterclockwise. The closed eyes adorning the ring’s outside fly open. Unblinking, hypervigilant. If what they’re enclosed around is significantly weaker than the sorcerer, it can halt the movements of whatever or whoever is within.

Your record is halting thirty mice for a total of two minutes and four seconds.

Afterward, you can either dispel the rings or pull them toward the epicenter. The rings then slash through the target like a fruit slicer.

You see the seventeen silhouettes emphasized with blood.

As you will it, three golden rings surround each one. The cursed energy swaddling them hisses and resists your designs. Their wailing crescendos, culminating at an ear-piercing pitch. The fussing stops abruptly as the eyes on each ring open wide. Seventeen different targets, fifty-one rings… it is draining cursed energy from you fast.

Four seconds. This is as long as you trust the halt to work.

That leaves the issue of cutting through them.

These aren’t the used soda cans you’ve practiced on. They are curses, Semi-Grade One if you were to guess. You’re a Grade Three sorcerer. The chasm here won’t be bridged by a miracle, you’ll have to risk catapulting across and plummeting to your demise. Satoru’s likely unaware of your technique’s specifics, as even you required trial and error to determine this much. You never found documentation on Ophanim. Every unraveled facet is owed to you.

These fifty-one rings are too dull. They won’t make so much as an indent.

What you need here is a binding vow. Your own strength isn’t enough. Risk, danger, and death breathing down your neck; these are the ingredients you require. There’s a chance it won’t work and you’re condemning yourself to an early grave. If you don’t try, though, you don’t know how long Satoru and Geto can keep those appendages down.

Time to leap across.

For every second I don’t exorcise these curses, ten of my bones will break, you think. Should I reach ten seconds, my heart will stop.

Cursed energy surges through you. It finds the prospect of your end tantalizing, but without providing itself, won’t have the opportunity to claim you.

One.

(The rings gain immeasurable speed).

Two.

(It hurts, but the curses will hurt too).

Three.

(Simultaneous incisions are made through seventeen curses).

The wailing stops.

…

So does your breathing.

August 15th, 2005. Grade One Curse ‘The Caretaker’ and Semi-Grade One Curses ‘Little Ones’ were exorcised at 9:34 p.m. in Kaizu.

Hospital rooms aren’t renowned for their interior design.

Flimsy pillows, scratchy gowns, thin blankets, bright yellow lights, ghostly white walls, it’s an affront to the eyes. You almost want to continue resting if that’s all you’ll get to look at. Considering how stiff your neck is and how your limbs feel heavier than a grand piano, you assume you’ve done enough sleeping.

You prop yourself up as much as you can. This slight shift makes your body complain, nice and loud.

Footsteps rush over to your bed. You hear your name spoken, intermixed with a relieved sigh.

“You don’t stay knocked down for long, do you?” Geto muses. His smile is gentle and his eyes crinkle in delight. “Welcome back. How do you feel?”

“Like I got run over by a train,” you rasp.

You’re in desperate need of some vocal warmups.

Geto grabs a water bottle from the windowsill and hands it over. While you gulp the heavenly elixir down, he continues speaking.

“You weren’t out for long — two days. Well, two and a half days. It’s noon now.”

You relax after hearing this. Geto knew how to assuage any worries you might have before you dared to voice them. Everyone has their own way of bringing kindness into the world, this happens to be his.

“Seriously? I was expecting you to say it’s the year 2010 or something. No flying cars yet?”

“None that I’ve seen,” Geto’s laugh sounds light and airy. “Shoko’s reversed cursed technique is truly a marvel. It accelerated your healing, but I imagine the pain will linger a while longer.”

You’ll have to cook Shoko one of her favorite dishes when you get back. You don’t want to think about how long it would’ve taken for you to heal naturally, much less if it’d heal right. Bones are finicky like that. You imagine yours weren’t happy at how you offered them up on a silver platter.

She spared your family so much pain. You’ll forever be indebted to her for that.

Glancing around, you notice three mismatched chairs surrounding your bed. Geto follows your line of sight.

“Shoko and I finally chased Satoru out about an hour ago. He’s lived in this room since you were admitted. Didn’t sleep a wink either,” Geto gives you an expression you can’t quite place. “Around the forty-two-hour mark, he started making strange suggestions.”

Heaviness seeps into the air, thick and palpable, like a noxious gas.

“What kind of suggestions?”

“Suggestions like killing the higher-ups, for starters.”

Your thudding heart leaps to your throat. “... Huh?”

“It’s not anything he hasn’t said in jest before. This time, however,” Geto fixates his attention on the intravenous line threaded into your arm. You can feel the weight of his stare. “He wasn’t joking.”

It feels like you’re in one of those dreams that mimics reality so well, the line separating the two becomes increasingly distorted. You entertain the theory briefly. A single sweep of the room dispels the illusion. The loose thread on Geto’s shoulder, the sounds of carts rolling down the long hospital corridors, the lemon-tinged scent from cleaning supplies; could a dream be this detailed?

You don’t think so.

Sensing your haziness, he clarifies, “I talked him out of it by speaking in your stead. I assumed you wouldn’t want that.”

“What… what do the higher-ups have to do with anything…?”

How do they factor into the two plus two equals four equation?

Geto pulls a chair over to your bedside, sits, and contemplates. Such a grave visage doesn’t belong on a fifteen-year-old’s face. It reminds you of a father preparing to explain why he and their mother are getting a divorce to their children.

He weighs his next words on a scale only he’s privy to.

“Satoru had a gut feeling that there was more to the Kaizu mission. He must not have wanted you to have that in the back of your mind out on the field, since all it takes is one mistake to—”

He cuts himself off. His complexion takes a pallid shade.

You give him a gentle smile. Geto is more considerate than you initially gave him credit for. Ignoring the dull ache, you lean forward, placing your hand over his.

“It’s okay. You can keep going.”

The tips of his ears turn red.

He blinks rapidly, clears his throat, and then soldiers on. “R-Right. Well, you saw how he acted. With his Six Eyes, he spotted the remains of another sorcerer when he looked at the nursery. The briefing conveniently omitted the fact that Kenji wasn’t alone. This confirmed Satoru’s suspicions. He wanted to wrap things up fast to get you out of there, but… that curse proved challenging.”

“I’m getting this over with.”

Ah. So that’s why he came off that way, you think. Still… couldn’t there have been a better way? Why is blocking people out his go-to?

“We believe the Zenins — those in Kenji’s immediate circle, to be specific — hoped that you’d be… killed, to emphasize how formidable the threat he faced was. Since this job was assigned through the school, some of the higher-ups must’ve known and granted their blessing.”

“... Oh.”

The room’s air conditioning whirrs to life, billowing the beige curtains draped over the closed window. Outside, a cicada crawls over the glass pane. It pauses to recite its buzzing melody. Since it’s summer, you can expect to see and hear these insects until autumn’s chill sweeps away the heat.

You hope Satoru witnessed a similarly trivial scene while sitting in this room.

It’s important to remember just because you feel stuck, the world won’t stop spinning onward.

“Would it be okay if I called you Suguru?”

He nods without hesitation.

“Suguru, earlier you said that you changed Satoru’s mind by voicing my perspective since I couldn’t,” you start, your cadence gentle. You handpick each word with great care. “Does this mean that, personally, you agreed with him?”

His countenance is like that of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. This look doesn’t overstay its welcome. Once he assesses you, from your open posture to your soft stare, he’s back to his usual self.

“Busted, huh? And here I thought you’d be too groggy to pick up on anything incriminating.”

“A corrupt official such as myself must remain vigilant,” you reply with a cheeky grin. Then, you reorient yourself to communicate what’s been gnawing at you properly. “There’s a lot I don’t know about these ‘higher-ups’ or ‘Zenins,’ that you keep referring to. What little I do know doesn’t paint them in a favorable light. For all I know, they could be irredeemable in every sense of the word. But…”

“... Even though this is a selfish wish, I’m making it anyway. Say they do have to go. That it’s 100% certain they’re just that bad. I don’t want you or Satoru to be the ones to carry it out. Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that? Doesn’t a part of yourself die with them?”

A lump grows in your throat. You force it down.

“So, thank you for stopping him and yourself. Sorcerers are meant to fight curses, right? Protect those who can’t protect themselves. That sort of stuff.”

Suguru squeezes your hand gently, as if you were made of porcelain.

It stops you from shattering.

After a few minutes, your erratic breathing settles. He whispers your name like he’s making a promise.

“You’re right,” he says, a newfound resolve built into the very fabric of those two words. “Protecting the weak is what matters most. Tossing everything into disarray would threaten that. It’s easier to fix what’s broken than to demolish and rebuild from scratch.”

… Is that what you meant?

Exhaustion clouds your senses. You must’ve burnt through your scarce reserves of energy. You can vaguely discern Suguru running the pad of his thumb over your hand, before detaching himself. He readjusts your pillow so it supports your head better. After murmuring your gratitude, you sink into sleep’s warm embrace.

Right as you’re traipsing the fine line between wakefulness and the unconscious, there’s a light sensation of something brushing your hair back.

This unknown doesn’t inspire fear or outrage.

Instead, it lulls you further into the recesses of peace.

You’re discharged from the hospital later that day.

An auxiliary manager from Tokyo Jujutsu High drives you back. You spend the car ride staring out the passenger side window, taking in the bustle of busy citizens and dazzling lights. It never fails to amaze you how people wordlessly maneuver around each other to maintain the flow of traffic. It’s a tempo that can’t be instructed, rather, one must adapt in real time without a conductor.

Can non-sorcerers truly be considered weak?

The description torments you as if it were a thorn in your side.

Your fingers drum over the dashboard.

What does it mean to be strong, anyway?

The next time you activate your cursed technique, you can summon and maintain four rings without sacrificing sharpness or speed.

For the past few days, you’ve been playing around with different formations. Four rings orbiting your body provide considerable defense from projectiles and close combat. Then, if you let two out, you gain the means to attack. Lastly, ditching defense to pour everything into offense is a viable option as well. Your biggest obstacle is how mentally taxing it is to track and manipulate four rings at once.

It requires great concentration. This isn’t an issue if you’re alone, but you doubt that curses will play nice and let you stand perfectly still.

You flip your My Melody notebook to the next page and scribble down,

Two rings uptime — twelve hours.Four rings uptime — one hour. Four rings uptime w/ distractions — ten minutes. Maximum distance — one hundred meters. Maximum rings at once — sixty. Uptime on maximum rings — five seconds.

Thinking back to The Caretaker, you twist your lips.

If you’d been sent on that mission by yourself, would this have been enough to win the fight? You’re alive because you were with Satoru and Suguru. There’s no denying the infallible truth. You can’t always rely on reports to accurately grade a curse. There’s also the chance once certain conditions are met, the curse can gain strength throughout the fight, and—

“Cute handwriting.”

“Eek!”

Hugging your notebook to your chest, you jump back, indignation rushing through you like molten magma. Who snuck up on you? How did they do it? You can ascertain the presence of others in your vicinity well. You know when Shoko’s sneaking out through her window at night, if Suguru’s about to enter the room, or when Utahime is seconds away from busting into the classroom to lecture Satoru about levitating her lunch onto the roof again.

Squinting, you assess the assailant. Pearly white hair, round sunglasses, a lean and towering figure…

“Satoru? You’re back?”

According to Shoko, Satoru was called to Kyoto for business relating to the Big Three not long after they returned from the hospital. It’d been two weeks since then. You’ve gotten so used to having him around, that his absence felt pronounced. Shoko mainly lamented that her ‘walking free meal ticket’ was gone whereas Utahime rejoiced. You’ve never seen your upperclassman so ecstatic.

Her hopes and dreams will be dashed come morning.

“Just got in, yeah. Why? Oh! I know! You must’ve missed me terribly. Here, here. It’s alright. C’mere and tell me all about it— oof!”

There is a barrier that separates Satoru from everyone and everything.

‘Infinity,’ he calls it. The ability to slow down encroaching mass to such a degree that it appears as if it stopped. He can keep it activated for long lengths of time. One day, he intends to reach a level where he’ll never have to turn it off. Anyone else who proposed a goal like that would either be conceited or delusional. The amount of cursed energy necessary to pull that off is immeasurable.

Satoru isn’t just anyone, though.

So when he sets an impossible goal, it enters the realm of feasibility.

His infinity is active once you leap toward him, lasting up until the very last millisecond. When you breach the threshold that denies access to anyone else, it recedes, rushing away to accommodate your presence. Infinity remains present, molding itself around your shape. The top of your head, the slope of your shoulders, down to your soles; for a fleeting moment in time, infinity chooses you over Satoru’s parameters.

Your cheek hits his chest. He has to steady you so you don’t go tumbling back. While he does this, you snake your arms around him, squeezing him tight. In doing so, yet another anomaly occurs.

You’ve rendered Gojo Satoru speechless.

When you pull back, you notice his sunglasses are crooked. You straighten them out for him and nod in approval. Smiling ear to ear, you chirp,

“Welcome home, Satoru!”

He scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically quiet.

“... Isn’t this a school, though?” He finally manages to get out.

“Pfft, I didn’t think you were the type to get hung up on details like that,” you laugh. “Home’s anywhere you want it to be. For me, that’s here.”

You gesture to the surrounding area. Tall trees sway per the wind’s wishes, their green leaves painted blue and silver by the night sky. The moon overhead serves as your silent witness. No matter where you are, it will find and pursue you to the ends of the earth. Crickets chirp, cicadas buzz, and frogs croak by ponds rippling with their young. The night air is damp, but the coolness granted by the sun’s absence makes it tolerable.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to make of you sometimes,” Satoru tries painting a veneer of nonchalance over his words, but you can see through the cracks. You’re getting better at doing that. “Suguru said you were as peppy as ever; I didn’t believe him. They checked for brain damage, right? How many fingers am I holding up?”

(He holds up two).

“Ten,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Funny girl.”

“I learned from the best.”

You both silently size one another up. Or, in Satoru’s case, down, because he’s freakishly tall. You’re the first to break the supposed standoff. Laughter rings through the air, just yours at first, but it’s soon joined by his. The two of you stand in the middle of a forest at midnight cackling like a bunch of witches before a sabbath.

You feel absurd and giddy in a way that only comes from being around Satoru.

Some point after the laughter dies off, you can feel Satoru’s eyes scanning over every dip and curve of your being.

After reaching some conclusion, his shoulders droop. The dopey grin on his face shifts into something more neutral, more reserved. His hands find their way into his pockets. He kicks a pebble into the woods, and you both listen to it tumbling downhill until the sound fades away. The thickets shift from wildlife’s constant antics, accommodating what little fauna lives inside Tengen’s barrier.

“I’m not going to take back what I said, because I meant it,” Satoru asserts. He doesn’t have to elaborate — you know what he’s referring to. “Had you… had that mission gone as they intended, I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

An owl hoots on a distant tree branch.

Chills nibble all over your skin like little bug bites. You hug yourself to stave the sensation off.

“Even if you knew that isn’t what I’d want?”

“Even then.”

“So, you’re admitting it’d be for your sake?”

“Most things are.”

“I don’t buy that,” you frown. “You’re kinder than you realize.”

His eyebrows pinch together and his rosy lips part. It takes him a moment to dislodge the words stuck in his throat.

“... Not many people would agree,” he smiles thinly.

“Fine, just me then, since that’s easier to prove,” you hold up a single finger and raise another for each subsequent point. “One, you always leave my favorite coffee cans where you know I’ll find them. Two, whenever we’re facing a curse, you step in front to guard me. Three, if I look all sad and homesick, you make stupid jokes to take my mind off things. And four, there’s what happened in Kaizu. You—”

“I told you to use a technique you weren’t ready for.”

You blink.

He tucks his sunglasses away, removing yet another barrier. His crystalline eyes shimmer beneath the moon’s glow.

“How much do you know about your mentor’s history?”

Ah, yes, your mentor — Ishimoto Akane.

She stands at 5’8, boasts piercing green eyes, short, tousled black hair, and a tattoo of a thorny rose that envelops her entire left arm. When it came to reading the room, no one could fail as spectacularly as her. She never minced words, found basic tasks boring, and doted over her iguana named Wormwood like he was the second coming of Christ. When she wasn’t pampering Wormwood, she could be found in her very disorganized garage, tinkering with cars or motorcycles. Her neighbors filed numerous sound complaints thanks to her speakers blasting disco at unholy hours. Somehow, she never got caught.

For lack of a better word, your jujutsu mentor is eccentric.

Most notably, she saved you and your parent’s lives from a curse when you were six. You’ve been joined by the hip ever since.

As for her history…

“Um, well, I know that she’s from Omachi. She moved out of Japan in her late teens because ‘jujutsu sorcerers are an absolute drag,’ or something like that.”

“That’s a start,” Gojo hums. “Let me fill in the blanks. The Ishimoto family goes back a ways. They might not be as influential as the Big Three, but their connections are nothing to scoff at. They’re like little leeches, sustaining themselves off others. Arranged marriages are their whole thing. Akane was set to marry some third son of a Zenin bigwig. She dipped on the day of the wedding.”

That sounds like your mentor alright.

“Personally, I find that hilarious. Her family and the Zenins aren’t of the same opinion. They essentially disowned her. Anyway! Fast forward a few years. Rumors spread that the infamous Akane is popping up in Tokyo every now and then, with some kid by her side. Ring any bells?”

You point to yourself and he nods.

She took you on training trips under the guise of an ‘exchange student program’ in the summer, which your parents considered to be an excellent opportunity. You felt bad for deceiving them, but explaining the whole ‘fighting invisible monster things with emotion magic’ would’ve made for a rough conversation.

“It wasn’t until a couple of months back that I ran into her. I came right out and asked what I’d been curious about — why did she come back? She just shrugged and said she was done being a teacher. That answer didn’t satisfy me. She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that. I’m far worse though,” he boasts, fully looking and sounding the part. “In return for picking up her tab at an izakaya, she fessed up the truth.”

He steeples his fingers together, pantomiming a hand motion you’re intimately familiar with.

“Cursed Technique: Null, the advanced application of Ophanim. Akane’s convinced an ability like that, at its full potential, would be crazy strong.”

She never said anything like that to me, you think.

You shake your head. This isn’t the most pressing matter now.

“Satoru, what are you getting at here?”

“That you shouldn’t think I’m kind. I wanted to judge your technique’s potential for myself, so I had you take on more than you could handle.”

“You wouldn’t have let me die, though.”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “And what a hero I am for that.”

You purse your lips. You’ve never seen Satoru be this hard on himself. His cadence is the same — lighthearted, easygoing — but there’s an underlying acrimony to it. His smile doesn’t reach his brilliant eyes. He comes across as a spirit mimicking another’s likeness. This should unnerve you, maybe it will upon further reflection.

Right now, however, you just want him to get across that you aren’t upset. What’s done is done.

“It’s—”

Satoru puts a hand up, stopping you prematurely. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t forgive me, not yet, anyway. You need to get better at looking out for yourself. You’re nice to a fault.”

You glare at him halfheartedly. “What’s so wrong with being nice?”

“Living in a world like this, where there are people like me.”

“A world full of Gojo Satoru’s… that is a terrifying thought,” you murmur. His lips twitch upward, but he catches himself. “Bleh, what is it with you people and rejecting basic human decency! Akane was the same way. I’m fed up with it!”

You storm toward him, your eyes narrow and jaw set tight.

“I’m going to be who I want to be and that’s that. Maybe I’m naïve—”

“—Oh, it isn’t a maybe, you definitely are—”

You hush him by placing your finger to his lips, much to his surprise, if his wide eyes are of any indication.

“—But you don’t get to tell me how to act or think or feel. That’s my business. I forgive you, alright? Now cut it out with the brooding. Let’s be real here. Doing that’s for you, not for me.”

There’s an intensity to his stare you’ve never experienced prior. It makes your head feel light and hazy. Remembering yourself, you pull your hand back, heat rushing to your face. You may have gotten carried away. He isn’t wrong about you exercising more vigilance, but something about him critiquing a core aspect of your identity stings. The description ‘oversensitive’ can join the same limbo your ‘nice to a fault’ and ‘naïve’ proclivities hang out in.

Finding your current predicament too overwhelming, you break eye contact.

“Alright, alright, I get it, quit scowling. Remind me never to piss you off again, it’s scary,” he sounds more like himself, much to your relief. “I thought of a happy medium, just for you.”

Satoru compromising? Did you die during that fight after all? You never thought you’d see the day. Shoko isn’t going to believe you.

“And that happy medium is…?”

His dumb grin makes a triumphant return. He knows he’s got your attention, no matter how cool you try to play it.

“Keep being your sweet little self. If anyone tries taking advantage of that quality, and I mean anyone, come tell Suguru or myself. We’ll take care of it.”

What is he, a member of the mob?!

Whatever, it’s a step in the right direction. You think. Maybe.

“I’m not a snitch,” you huff.

“Fine, I’ll use my own discretion then.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re gonna have to get used to it.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“Call it intuition,” he hums, smoothly sliding his sunglasses back into place. It makes you angry how cool he looks while doing so. “Or, better yet, love at first sight. Yeah. Let’s go with that, actually.”

Wait, what?

Your heart thunders against your ribcage and you gape at him like a fish.

“You…! Y-You can’t just say something like that!”

“But I did.”

“Ugh, I’ve had enough. I’m headed to bed. Go find somebody else to mess with.”

Satoru pauses, considering the words you’ve spoken without any real bite. Then he smiles. Not in the cocky, arrogant manner he’s infamous for either. The curvature is gentle. Almost sentimental. It takes you aback and makes you wonder if your eyes are malfunctioning.

“I can’t,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It has to be you.”

It has to be you, it has to be you, it has to be you…

These five damning words loop in your head like a mantra. Who gave him the right to sound so sincere?

“Sleep well. You get all grumpy if you don’t. Having one Utahime around is more than enough, I don’t need you getting on my case too.”

Satoru turns around, pulling one hand out from his pocket to wave halfheartedly. You observe his retreating figure before snapping out of your daze. He drops a cryptic line like that and dares to casually waltz away, whistling while he does so! The nerve! The audacity! The whistling is off-pitch too! Jujutsu Tech seriously needs to consider adding music theory to the curriculum.

You jog to catch up with him and his stupidly long legs.

“Hey, Satoru!” You call out.

He stops and looks at you from over his shoulder.

“If you’re gonna watch out for me, I plan to return the favor,” you say, your tone leaving no room to argue. “You hear me?”

He waits until he’s facing forward again to respond. For this reason, you can’t see his expression. All you can make out is the outline of him giving a thumbs up, the edges of his skin swathed in silvery moonlight.

“Mhm. Loud and clear.”

December 23rd, 2017.

8:02 p.m.

You assess the man in front of you.

Pearly white hair, bandages wrapped around his eyes, a lean and towering figure… it’s Satoru, alright. There’s no mistaking his remarkable cursed energy. You could sense it — sense him — even in your deepest sleep. Amongst those at Jujutsu Tech, you’re the only one who can tell when he’s about to warp out of thin air. It’s become a running joke of sorts. Gojo Satoru has the Six Eyes and you possess a sixth sense for him.

Or so you thought.

“Are you hearing yourself?”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Loud and clear, yeah.”

“This isn’t funny, Satoru!”

“I’m not laughing, am I?”

“No, but,” you inhale shakily, wisely taking a second to tame your tongue. “You’re not taking this seriously— not taking me seriously.”

He frowns. You come close to regretting your words, falling just a few inches short. Arguments aren’t your forte. Determining when to surrender ground, bolster your defenses, or charge into enemy territory; this is a skill that requires practice. Especially when facing Satoru. You don’t want to consider him an opponent, but that’s what he feels like right now. An imposing wall blocking you from the road you have to take.

You regret turning up the duplex’s heat. Chilly as it is outside in the throes of winter, the air in this room has become scorching.

“Is that genuinely what you think?”

And there it is. He already knows the answer, as do you. He simply wants you to have your confession on record.

You grab the water bottle you left on the kitchen countertop, drinking enough to help ease the lump in your throat. This isn’t the time to cry. Not yet. Not before anything major occurs. The crisis hasn’t taken the stage, Christmas Eve holds that honor. Illogical as it may be, you don’t think you’ve earned the emotional release crying brings. That should remain a consolation prize to you in the future.

The you who will witness the horrors Geto Suguru plans to orchestrate.

The you who will learn how this decade-long saga ends.

Can the human heart endure anguish worse than this?

Tomorrow, this question will receive an answer, whether you want it or not.

“... It isn’t.”

“Good,” he says, somehow soft and firm. He opens up his arms. “C’mere.”

You’re sinking into him before he finishes the word. He secures you against his chest and the two of you tangle together like you’d unravel should you part. Satoru rests his chin on the crown of your head, mindlessly tracing patterns into your back. Or so you think, until you recognize the distinct grooves and curves of the characters which form Gojo.

He engraves it into you over and over again as if casting a spell.

This action must soothe him. You count each thump of his heart, noting how it settles into a steadier rhythm as the seconds tick by. The world’s strongest sorcerer is made of flesh and blood just like you are. It’s easy to forget that those you love and admire are mortal, regardless of how well they hide it. Those close to godhood must act the part, lest their audience murmur in suspicion.

“I don’t think I could do it, Toru.”

He doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

“Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that?”

No, you desperately scream to your younger self, as if there were any way to make her hear you. There really isn’t.

“I know.”

“... Could you?”

Satoru’s muscles stiffen. From this alone, you can glean his answer. From your lack of prodding, he must piece this together too. Talkative as you both are, it’s in these pockets of total silence that your communication shines best. Everything from the subtle hitching of breath to the twitch of one another’s lips reveals streams of information to sift through.

You can tell he doesn’t want to let you go, but you manage to wriggle out of his vice-like grip, creating a few inches of distance.

Reaching up, you undo the bandages around his eyes. He leans down to aid you in your task. Once the last strip comes off, you fold the linen neatly and put it aside. Satoru’s pretty eyes follow your every movement. When your attention returns to him, it’s impossible to overlook how hard he’s straining to fight back a smile.

He quickly abandons the farce.

Large hands seek out yours. Subconsciously, you meet him halfway, automatically drawn to him as if you were both different ends of a magnet. His slender fingers interlace with yours. His countenance radiates such fondness, such unfiltered reverence, that you find yourself getting embarrassed.

“W-What?” You choke out.

“Just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy alive, is all,” he hums. His grin widens at how his unabashed compliments fluster you. Shame isn’t in his lexicon. “You went from looking like you wanted to bite my head off to doting on me.”

You roll your eyes yet chuckle nonetheless. He visibly perks up at the sound. He must’ve made you laugh thousands of times over the years, but he still treats each instance as if he’d experienced the most delightful composition.

He whispers your name.

“You trust me, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then do this for me, baby.”

“But…” you trail off, unable and perhaps unwilling to reinforce your argument, “Everyone is going to be risking their lives. Nanamin, Ijichi, ours and Iori’s students; even Shoko’s going out on the field. How am I supposed to sit still knowing that?”

“You don’t have to sit still, my little energizer bunny.”

The deadpan look he receives has him (wisely) reconsidering his word choice.

“I’m not asking because I don’t trust you, I’m asking because there’s no one I trust more,” Satoru tries again. You bite your lower lip. It’s unfair how much his rare glimpses of sincerity move you.

“And this is all based on a hunch?”

“Mhm.”

Satoru lifts your left hand. He caresses your skin, his smile softening into something tender. An expression that’s exclusively for you.

“Historically, my hunches are rather reliable.”

You can’t argue with the truth.

Suguru appears to have some unknown design for Okkotsu Yuta, who is to remain at Jujutsu Tech during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. The special-grade curse Orimoto Rika poses too many risks for him to be on the battlefield alongside allies. Since everyone down to the Ainu society is being called upon to deal with this threat, you’ve been awaiting your assignment. There’s no way they wouldn’t utilize every resource available.

Satoru ruined this assumption.

He personally requested that you remain on standby at the school.

He didn’t even tell you this himself. You found out from Maki of all people, who earlier asked why you were stuck ‘babysitting the exchange student.’ You were confused. This made her confused. Then you both remembered the menace that is Gojo Satoru and everything started adding up.

His explanation upon answering the phone?

“Oh, I was just getting around to telling you about that!”

Needless to say, you didn’t share his enthusiasm.

“Alright,” you sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on Yuta until everything is finished.”

Content, he squeezes your hand. As he does so, the gemstone on your ring finger catches the light, mesmerizing you both.

You close your eyes and smile.

‘Call it intuition,’ huh?

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #reader insert #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #golden girl #my stuff

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nicosraf · 7 months

Text

i talked to my ex professor two days ago about shock value and violence and offensive art and he did a really good job of reminding me that graphic (violence, sex, and all) is good, it's unafraid, "those most offended by your work are those it struck the hardest," it's emotionally evocative, art is nothing if it doesn't make you feel, you have to disturb the comfortable, comfort the disturbed — and shock is no lesser of an emotion than love or curiosity, and art that exists to shock is not lesser than art that exists to love

And shock is power. terrorists and paramilitaries build themselves on shock, they behead in public and send you home to your parents in pieces tucked into a small cardboard box, and they leave bodies hanging from overpasses for the town to see, and this is how they keep you quiet. and when they recruit you, the first thing they do is hand you a knife and make you kill to horrify you, to shock you (change you)

and my prof says "for those of us on the margins of society, everything about living is a shock" and "these are real things that happen to real victims, and the least you can do is read a book about it, watch a movie about it," in the comfort of your home, with a cup of hot tea, wrapped in a blanket, and watch someone get cut open, someone who really felt that blade in their gut; and you have what they don't — the pause button, and you click it if you wish but try not to look away, do not be afraid

they say the best anti war film ever made is 1985's Come and See, because it's unrelenting, it never cuts away, never turns the camera away from the horrors of war. it tells you to come and see, do not look away — and the title is a reference to Chapter 6 of the Book of Revelation: I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, "Come and see!" And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. But you can pause, and you can step away, and you can return when you are ready to be shocked. you have to be shocked. you will not understand violence unless you are shocked so deep that it reaches your soul

and there is no tasteful violence. you can't write about death or war or assault tastefully. the more tasteful you frame it, the further removed from reality it becomes. there is nothing but shock about violence. there will never be meaning to it, but there is religion and there's delusion, and you will find a meaning for violence when it is over. but some people will live in violence forever, live in shock forever, in the margins of society. displaced in warring states or in a house of abuse or standing in the most contaminated rivers in colonized nations.

victorian england loved comfort literature. the imperial cores always have, always will. they see shock and see themselves in it. we all see ourselves in shock — but do you see the violence you've suffered or the violence you've committed. are you angry because you remember the hands at your neck or are you angry because you have been the hands.

#mine

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froggibus · 7 days

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hiiiiiii i just wanna say i love ur work so much. i was wondering if i could request a jason todd hurt/comfort fic. i recently had a really scary experience outside of a bar, and it has been taking a toll on me. maybe something like reader and jason fight over something silly, and then something like that happens to reader and he comforts them after and feels bad about the fight before? with a lot of fluff and reassurance. maybe he gives them a bath or something:) THANK YOUUUU

Never Let Me Go - Jason Todd

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn! reader

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst -> fluff

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: after an argument with Jason, you're left to fend for yourself outside of a bar

CW: attempted assault, attempted SA, chasing, slight violence, dissociation/shock (reader), arguing, alcohol, hurt/comfort, pet names (Jason calls reader baby/hun), bathing together, jason is snarky at first

sorry this took so long! really hope you're feeling better, but if you (or anyone else reading this) ever need to talk, my inbox is always open <3 i talk about my own struggles with ptsd on this blog, and i want everyone to be able to feel safe enough to talk about theirs, too

i tried to keep the assault scene short and brief, but i've also added cuts before and after in case anyone would like to skip it.

(title slightly based on this song)

“You know that stuff is pure sugar and no alcohol, right?”

You roll your eyes when Jason gestures to your drink with a look of distaste, hiding his snark behind the rim of his glass. You’re tempted to remind him that the foamy beer he’s pounding back has even less alcohol than your Cosmo, but think the better of it. He’s in a bitchy mood, and there’s no point making it worse.

He’d gotten into a fight with Bruce the night before, and had practically gone on a rampage through Gotham’s underground. The anger radiated off of him still when he’d showed up at your apartment an hour earlier, even after he’d flashed you a tense smile and planted a tentative kiss to your lips.

You’d told him at least three times since then that he didn’t have to come with you—given the bar was around the corner from your home, and you could stumble home from it drunk, backwards and in your sleep—but Jason had insisted. As if you ever thought Jason would be able to relax knowing you’re out at a bar in the heart of Gotham, despite your assertions that you would only be having a couple drinks and maybe some chili fries.

You swish your glass around, watching the raspberry coloured booze slosh on the sides. “We can go home if you’re not feeling up to this,” you say gently. “I don’t mind.”

He gives his broad shoulders an irritating shrug. “You wanted to get out of the house, we’re out of the house.”

Though he doesn’t say it, you can hear the unspoken words crackling through the air. What more do you want from me?

“But do you want to leave?”

Jason’s eyes narrow, black pupils forcing out imperial blue. “I go where you go.”

It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to resist tugging at your hair. Though it’s been years since he lived in Wayne Manor, and even longer since he studied under Bruce, the lessons he learned have never left him. Including this form of aggravating, diplomatic speech where his answers gave no answers at all.

“Whatever,” you sigh under your breath, crossing your legs and tilting your body back to your drink.

Jason scoffs, “whatever? Really?”

“Yes, really!” You’re grateful that the mix of conversations and the drone of 90s rock are loud enough to cover up your rising voice. “I just wanted to get out of the house for once and you’re being mean.”

“I’m being mean?” There’s a cruel smirk on his lips. “The only reason I’m here is because of you, so that you wouldn’t have to be alone.”

“I never asked for that.”

Your heart races painfully in your chest. You’ve never liked arguing, especially not in public when the both of you have been drinking and especially not when Jason is already chafing under the expectations of others. It’s a nightmarish combination that leaves electricity sizzling in the air and everyone in the room on edge.

He chugs the rest of his beer, not even bothering to wipe away the tiny bit of white foam that catches on the shadow above his upper lip. “Fine then,” he grumbles, and tosses a fifty onto the counter. “I’ll see you.”

He leaves no room for protest, already barreling his way through the tables. By the time you’ve even processed what just happened, he’s already at the door, back muscles tensing beneath brown leather as he yanks it open hard enough to shake the hinges.

You wait until you hear the familiar rev of his motorcycle before ordering another round.

It’s late by the time you decide to pay your tab and head home. Your phone has long since been dead weight in your pocket, but even if it weren’t, you wouldn’t have bothered to check it. There was a part of you that hoped Jason would come back, that he would apologize, but that part is about as dead as your phone is.

It’s brisk outside now, and cold rain sprinkles from above. The dark rain clouds block out the moon, dim flickering street lights the only light you can see. You take a long, deep breath that clouds the air as you release it, rubbing your freezing forearms. Home is just around the corner, but that’s still an eight minute walk. Minimum.

A groan slips past your lips as you lean against the outside of the building, peering into the dark streets for any sign of a cab. A rock skids across the ground to your left and you snap your head in the direction it came from.

A man saunters towards you, his body encased in shadows. “Need a ride?”

A shiver rises up your spine. You shuffle further to your right, trying to put more distance between you and the stranger.

He doesn’t take the hint. He moves closer, purposefully slamming his boots harder into the ground to get your attention. “I said,” he repeats, “do you need a ride?”

“No,” you swallow hard, adding a quick, “thank you.”

You don’t know this man, but you despise him. You despise his imposition, the southern twang of his voice, the fact you’re instinctually polite to him so that you don’t risk pissing him off.

Despite your plea, he keeps coming towards you. “I reckon you do.”

The alarm bells in your head start to shriek. You shove off of the wall, stumbling only slightly before you regain your balance and take off down the sidewalk. It’s dark and though you can no longer see him when you glance over your shoulder, you can hear the pounding of his boots on the pavement behind you.

And then his cold, clammy hands lock around your wrist and tug you hard. You strain against his grasp, using your entire body weight to get away, to go anywhere but here.

He’s so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the warmth of his body. Not warm the way Jason is, but warm the way a fire you shouldn’t go near is. You cry out desperately. The bar is still within sight, someone has to come out, someone has to see.

“Why not just let me show you a good time?” He says, “I’m a really nice guy if you give me a chance.”

You drive your elbow into his arm and his grip loosens enough for you to tug away. You rip your wrist from his grasp, but as you do, you lose your balance and crash onto the dirty, wet Gotham pavement. With how cold you are and the adrenaline your heart is furiously pumping through your body, you barely feel the impact.

You can’t see the expression on his face as you drag yourself across the pavement, but you hear a low chuckle. You imagine it’s similar to that of a wolf zeroing in on its prey.

And then, a booming voice cuts through the darkness. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jason sounds pissed, but it's maybe the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. The most beautiful string of words in the English language.

The man spins on his heels away from you just in time to catch a harsh uppercut to the face. A loud crack reverberates through the buildings, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes on the concrete next to you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, looking up at Jason through your lashes. “You’re—how?”

“Oh, baby. Baby, baby,” he sighs, dropping to his knees on the pavement next to you. His new jeans are probably ruined from touching the ground—as are yours—but that seems to be the least of his concerns right now.

He cradles your head in his lap, his hands trailing up your damp, aching skin for any sign of injury. You shiver, closing your eyes and letting Jason hold you. The adrenaline flooding your veins has not yet diluted, and the calloused warmth from Jason’s hands is the only thing keeping you from floating away.

“I didn’t leave, baby, would never leave you. I was waiting around back when I heard you and,” he sighs, “I’m so sorry.”

His words are faint, so faint, and more gentle than you’ve ever heard him speak. Though he clutches you tightly to him, the feeling registers as barely a whisper. And then you’re on your feet, propped up against his side as he helps you back to where he propped his bike.

Your mind is somewhere else now. You’d have completely forgotten about your own body if it weren’t for the frantic, rhythmic shove of Jason’s heart against his ribcage with every step you take.

You’re not sure how you got back to your apartment, but you’re sure it was through no small effort on Jason’s part. Your waist is warm from where his hand rests—he’s refused to let you go for even a moment since he saw you on that pavement.

You shiver violently even after you return to the warmth of your home. Jason had wrapped you in his jacket but even that did little to stop the shaking.

He cups your face, a soft intensity in his eyes. “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

You barely react to his touch, or to his words. It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re in shock—Jason’s seen it more than enough times in his lifetime to recognize it at a glance.

The shivering, that faraway and glassy look in your eyes, the way your lips move as if they’ll form words but no sound comes out. Your pupils themselves have almost doubled in size from the adrenaline coursing through your system.

He’d take the crowbar a thousand damn times if it meant he would never have to see you like this. He would give away all that he has, and all that he is, to never subject you to this kind of pain.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and starts towards the dark hallway leading to your bedroom and bathroom.

You let out a choked gasp—the most sound you’ve managed since earlier—and Jason whips around. Blue eyes snap to yours, looking more like broken glass through the tears catching on your own lashes.

Don’t leave, you want to say. Not even for a minute, not even for a second. But your words fail you, and all you have to fall back on is a gasp of air and the tears in your eyes.

Jason understands, though. “Let’s go together, then.”

He grabs one of your hands in his, and holds your waist with the other. You walk like that down the hall, Jason holding you tight and guiding you to your bathroom. He helps you settle down on the toilet seat while he runs a hot bath.

Jason has you sit on the side of the bathtub, only your bare feet resting in the warm water. He sits with you, his legs on either side of your own and his arms around your waist. Already, the shaking has subsided and your eyes have started to clear. Relief floods his system, wiping away the guilt that’s been bubbling in his stomach.

He waits a few minutes, before saying, “let’s get you out of those clothes and into the bath.”

It’s posed more like a question, his fingers tracing inquisitive circles on your hip. He’s asking, you realize, if it would be okay for him to help you undress. If you’re comfortable being naked in front of him right now. The kindness of the gesture has your shoulders dropping from your ears.

“Y-yeah,” you manage.

Jason keeps his touch firm, steady, while he peels your dirty shirt over your head. He has you raise your feet above the water so he can help you with your pants and underwear, discarding your clothes in a pile on the tiled floor.

He squeezes your shoulders reassuringly when he sees you hesitate at the side of the bathtub before finally stepping in and letting your aching body settle in the warm water.

It’s an immediate relief. The chill your skin has taken on, the ice running through your blood, starts to defrost.

Jason watches you relax into the warm porcelain, your impossibly tense muscles finally loosening. “Feeling any better?” He asks quietly.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble quietly.

He grabs a washcloth from the drawer beneath the counter. “Hey, none of that.”

“I just,” you take a deep, shaking breath, “if we had never gone out tonight, none of this would have happened and you wouldn’t have had to help me and—”

Jason splashes warm water over your head. “None of that,” he repeats. “I don’t want to hear any of that.”

“But—”

“Nothing that happened tonight was any fault of yours.” He brushes the wet washcloth across your face, wiping away stray tears. “You did nothing wrong. I should never have left you, plain and simple.”

“It’s not your fault either, Jay.”

He strokes the washcloth over your forehead. “I’m supposed to protect you, hun. I didn’t do a very good job of it tonight.”

“Get in here with me?” You clutch his forearm.

He chuckles. It’s been a very, very long time since Jason Todd could comfortably fit in a normal sized bathtub, but for you, he’d do anything. He’s gentle climbing in the bath behind you, propping his legs around the outside of yours so you can comfortably lay back on him.

It’s a cramped fit, it couldn’t possibly be comfortable for anyone—but Jason sucks it up for your sake. Despite the ways his knees ache from the angle he keeps his legs, it all feels worth it when you lay your head on his chest.

“Thank you for being here,” you say quietly.

He plants a gentle kiss on the top of your head. “For you? Anything.”

And you know he means it.

(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !!)

Masterlist | DC Masterlist

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd angst #jason todd hurt/comfort #red hood x you #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff #batfam x reader

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beskarandblasters · 5 months

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Apotheosis Part One: The Capture

Sith!Din Djarin x Rebel Spy!Reader

Apotheosis; the elevation of someone to divine status; deification.

Apotheosis Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Series summary: Din Djarin is a force-sensitive bounty hunter, working for the remnants of the Empire. He's on the hunt for you, an ex-rebel spy who has key information; the location where Luke Skywalker is building his Jedi training academy. But when you're captured, you're not going to give up the location easily. Din will have to utilize “alternative methods” to turn you over to the dark side.

Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent, dark!Din, switches between Din and Reader’s point of view, eventual smut, Star Wars lore (not super heavy), (more warnings will be added as story continues)

Author’s note: Welcome to the first installment of this silly little trilogy! I hope you all come to like this different take on Din! ❤️‍🔥 Thank you to @jupiter-soups, @kajashe, and @pedgito for beta reading this for me!

Summary: Din Djarin is sent by Moff Gideon to capture you and Grogu.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: just an introduction of our two main characters, the reader gets captured at the end, reader does not know Din’s name yet, canon typical violence, force sensitive!Din, no use of y/n

You

Life used to be good. Back in the day when you had your friends in the Rebellion, you felt like you had a sense of community; a sense of belonging. But when the Empire was destroyed the need for the Rebellion dissipated. So, you chose to live out your days on the planet Corvus, in the village of Calodan. It’s a stark difference from your old life. Gone were the days of being a rebel spy, acting as an imperial officer while the Empire was constructing the second Death Star. You were someone important, reporting back to the Rebellion with information that was vital to the Rebellion.

And for what? To toss you aside as soon as they stopped needing you? Surely for someone as vital as you were to the Rebellion, they would’ve made sure you were well taken care of, living a relatively comfortable life. But the reality is quite the opposite.

Calodan is rough to say the least, living under Magistrate Morgan Elsbeth’s oppressive rule. She’s walking proof that there are still fledgling pockets of the Empire scattered across the galaxy. This time of peace will surely come to an end. And when that time comes… Wouldn’t the Rebellion call upon one of their most trusted spies?

Maker, that’s awful. You’re wishing for unrest in the galaxy just so you can live an exciting life again. The reality is, you’re wishing for more than just some thrill. You’re wishing for stability, friends, food in your stomach, a sense of community, and belonging. That’s what you’re after.

And it’s all so far out of reach.

You’re walking back from the market, your small bag of the little food you could afford slung on your shoulder. You’re always on edge here, even in your own home. It’s only right when Calodan isn’t necessarily the safest place to live. Morgan Elsbeth and her guards have people chained up in electrical cages in the village center on a whim, regardless if they did anything wrong or not. Kriff, if someone looks at a guard the wrong way, it’s straight to the cages. This causes everyone to move through the streets quickly, keeping their heads low and avoiding eye contact with others. It’s for their own safety but you can’t deny it’s also made the village lonely and secluded. You’re not living here; you’re merely surviving, just barely. This isn’t the life you pictured for yourself.

Lost in your own thoughts again you barely notice the presence behind you. Just as you turn your head to look, the figure is gone. All you saw was the edge of a dark cloak, turning a corner and heading down an alley. You don’t linger. You know better. You’ve been able to stay out of trouble ever since you moved here. And you’re certainly not going to start now.

Power walking and extending your strides, you head home, holding your breath and keeping your head low. Once you get home you lock the door behind you and finally breathe. You slump down into a chair at your kitchen table and set your bag of food on the tabletop. That could’ve been nothing. It could’ve been your imagination. Or someone else trying to mind their own business. After all, you weren’t attacked, the person didn’t say anything to you. They were behind you and then gone an instant. You’re just being paranoid again.

That is until you’re emptying your bag and you notice a small piece of paper folded up and resting at the bottom. With shaky hands you grab it and before you unfold it you try to think about what it could say. It can’t be credits that someone is after, you don’t have any. You don’t entangle yourself with the wrong crowd here. You keep to yourself, only leaving your house when it's necessary. But the idea that someone is watching you, taking note of your routines, what route you walk home every day, knowing when to plant the piece of paper in your bag without being noticed… That scares you. It makes you feel like the walls of your house are about to close in on you. It makes you feel like someone is lurking in the shadows, ready to strike when you’re not looking. If they know where you live, they will wait inside your home and strike. They could-

Breathe. Unfold the kriffing paper.

So, you do. And you’re… somewhat relieved?

The note reads;

Come to the edge of the forest at the north side of Calodan at nightfall… alone.

At the bottom of the piece of paper is a hand-drawn symbol of the Rebellion.

Maybe you’re getting that action you wished for. But you’re still hesitant. Anyone could write this note and pretend they’re associated with the Rebellion.

It is tempting, though. You have a blaster hidden deep in your closet. It hasn’t been used since you moved here. Tonight seems like the perfect night to dig it out.

You’re kneeling on the floor, rummaging through your closet. In the back, there’s a wooden box, containing your blaster and other things from your time in the rebellion. You feel it with your hand and slide it towards you, lifting the lid and being flooded with memories. Inside the box is your old imperial disguise, a pin in the shape of the Rebellion symbol, your grappling line, and your blaster. You take the blaster in your hands and rub your thumb under the cool, black metal.

You can do this, you tell yourself.

Rising from the floor, you tuck the blaster and grappling line in the waistband of your pants and set off into the night. The wall on the north side of the village is the least guarded at night. The person who left the note must’ve known that.

You’re swift on your feet, moving quietly and keeping your head in a constant swivel, on the lookout for any witnesses. But everyone is home like they should be. It’s past curfew. If you were to be caught you’d be subjected to the electric cages.

You can do this, you remind yourself.

You reach the north wall and aim your grappling line at the top of the wallet, retracting the line and pulling yourself to the top. Your landing is a little shaky but you still got it. It feels like old times again. You reattach the grappling line to the other side of the wall and slowly lower yourself on the ground. You made it. You did it.

But there’s still this strange person to meet, a stranger who for some reason knows who you are, knows your past. Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the forest, anxiety brewing in your stomach about just who this person could be. The forest is misty and it’s hard to see. You replace the grappling line in your waistband and draw your blaster, on high already for any attackers or one of Morgan Elsbeth’s guards who somehow noticed you leaving the village.

“You made it,” a woman’s voice calls from your right.

You turn and look who it is. You can make out a figure standing in the fog, wearing a dark gray cloak. Her hood is on her head but you can make out blue and white head tails peeking out.

“Do I know you?” you ask.

“No, but I know of you.”

“Oh?”

She removes her head and you're certain it’s Ahsoka Tano. You’ve never met her but you’ve heard stories during your time in the Rebellion. She was never associated with it, laying low and in hiding. So why would she leave a Rebellion symbol on the piece of paper?

“Ahsoka Tano?”

“Seems like you know of me, too.”

“Why are you here? And why did you leave me that note with the symbol?”

“I knew it would get your attention; get you to trust the anonymous sender. It worked, didn’t it?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“For Luke Skywalker.”

Kriff, Luke Skywalker? The Luke Skywalker?! You haven’t seen him in forever. You gotta play it cool, though. You can’t seem too eager.

“What does he want?”

“He doesn’t know about it yet but… I need you to watch over someone very important to him.”

“Well, how can it be important if he doesn’t know about it?”

“He’s building a Jedi academy on Ossus and I rescued a force-sensitive child from the Empire-“

“The Empire is still around?”

“There’s always remnants; sympathizers left in the galaxy.”

“Right.”

“I need you to watch over him until I can take him to Luke. I have to make some repairs on my ship before I can go and it’ll take me some time.”

“That’s all you need me for?”

“I needed someone I could trust. Leia said you’d be the perfect person here.”

Leia. Maybe you need to do this.

“When will you be taking him?”

“Two rotations from now. So you’ll do it?”

“Fine. If it’s to help Luke then why not?”

She smiles and moves her cloak to reveal a pouch hanging over her shoulder, hitting her at her hip. Inside the pouch is a small creature, pastel green with large black eyes. He looks to be of the same species as Yoda, whom you've never met. But you’ve heard stories of him.

“This is Grogu,” she says, taking off the pouch and walking forward to hand it to you. You take it in your hands and wear it on your shoulder, looking down at Grogu who’s peering up at you with questioning eyes.

“She’s a friend, Grogu,” she reassures him.

“How old is he?” you ask.

“About fifty. But for his species that’s still pretty much a baby.”

“So… How do I take care of him?”

“Don’t let him out of your sight. He can find things to get into if you’re not looking. Just make sure he’s fed and he should be pretty good for you.”

“Okay… Am I meeting you back here when you’re going to take him?”

“Mhm. Meet me back here in two rotations, same time.”

“Alright…”

“May the force be with you,” she says, turning and walking deeper into the forest, her cape billowing in the wind.

You sigh and look down at Grogu. He doesn’t say a word but you don’t expect him to, instead, he cocks his head to the side, looking up at you with a blank expression on his face.

“Alright, kid. You’re going to have to be quiet on the way back to my house. Got it?”

He babbles a strange noise that you can only assume is a noise of acknowledgment before you set off back toward the village. You grapple up and over the stone wall as you did when you left, landing softly on your feet and retracting the line. The coast seems to be clear. And just like before you’re light on your sweet, moving like the wind. Once you’re home, you let Grogu out of his pouch and onto your bed. All you know about him is that he’s young and force sensitive so he’s going to need a watchful eye at all times. This is going to be the longest two rotations of your life.

Din

Moff Gideon recruited Din to join his cause several cycles ago, but it wasn’t willingly. He knew Din was special back then. Force-sensitive Mandalorians are hard to come by. But it took some “convincing” to turn him over if you could call it that. Most people would call it torture.

“Please bring me Din Djarin,” Gideon says to one of his officers.

He bows at the command and leaves the cockpit, setting off down the hallway. Gideon has a task for Din, a special one this time. For a while now, Din’s been working as a bounty hunter for Gideon’s small remnant of the Empire. He’ll go after anyone Gideon tells him to, and he normally doesn’t ask questions. But this time, Din needs to know the full scope of who he’s going after. That someone… being you. And also the child. The Empire knows Luke is out there somewhere, building a Jedi Academy. They plan to stop Luke in his tracks and capture any force-sensitive students he may already have, turning them over to the Dark Side as soldiers for the Empire.

The cockpit doors open once again. It’s the same officer as before but this time Din is behind him, stance strong and ready to take on a new mission.

“I have a task for you, Din Djarin,” Moff Gideon says.

“To where?”

“Corvus, more specifically the village Calodan. One of our own, Morgan Elsbeth is the Magistrate. I’ve just received word from her that an ex-Rebel Spy has crossed paths with Ahsoka Tano and has taken the child into her care until they leave for the Jedi Academy. I need to go there to capture the spy and the child. If you talk with Morgan Elsbeth she’ll tell you when to strike.”

“I understand,” Din says with a tip of his helmet and nothing more.

He turns and leaves the cockpit, thinking about his new mission and how he’s going to capture you. If he can, he’d like to sneak up on you when you’re sleeping or walking down a dark alley. You’re an ex-spy. He’ll have to be smart about how he goes about this. But once he captures you and tries to get you to talk? That’s when the fun begins.

He leaves the docking bay in his ship, a Razor Crest, punching in the coordinates for Corvus and setting a course. On the way he thinks about how he’ll get you. Sure you’re an ex-spy, but that doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s never missed a bounty and he’s certainly not going to start now. Moff Gideon is confident in him, too. He is sending Din with no backup after all. This is all routine for Din, nothing to lose sleep over.

Din is a force to be reckoned with… literally. There are not many force-sensitive Mandalorians out there. He could’ve chosen to be a Jedi, to follow the Light Side of the force. But the Dark Side was calling to him in a voice louder than the Light Side could ever appeal to him. He’s never felt so much raw power before, tapping into abilities he never knew he was capable of.

But for a fleeting moment when he thinks about the other Mandalorians, the covert he left behind, he feels bad about what he did. The feeling doesn’t last long though. Instead, he feels sorry for them, sorry that they’re weak. If they’re so weak, then maybe… they don’t deserve to live at all.

He grips the gear shift on the Razor Crest a little tighter and makes the jump to lightspeed, hyper-fixated on you and your demise.

You

It’s been two rotations since Ahsoka delivered Grogu to you. You’re due to deliver him back to her tonight and honestly… you couldn’t be more relieved. He’s adorable but he’s also a handful, getting into things when you’re not looking, moving things with his mind, hiding on you, the list of mischief he gets into goes on and on. When you were wishing for more action and excitement in your life, babysitting was not what you pictured.

Part of you wants to ask Ahsoka if you can go with her but the other part of you is embarrassed, worrying that you’ll look desperate seeking out any chance of an adventure.

Alas, all you can do right now is wait until tonight.

Din

Din parks the Crest in the forest before heading to the front gate of Calodan. The guards at the watch tower take notice of him and let him in. They knew he was coming. One of them meets Din down below and escorts him to Morgan Elsbeth. She’s waiting for him on her pathway to her house, surrounded by water and her garden; a beautiful place to discuss something so grim. Her front gates open and Din walks towards her on the path. Her lips curl into a smile when she sees him.

“Welcome,” she says.

“I was sent by Moff Gideon,” he says, standing with his hands hooked on his belt.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“You say there’s a spy in possession of the child… How are you so sure?”

“I always have at least one of my men patrolling the forest surrounding Calodan. One of them overheard them talking. She’s meeting Ahsoka Tano tonight at the forest on the north side of the village.”

“When?”

“At dusk tonight.”

“Understood. I will capture them then,” he says, turning and walking to leave.

“So confident,” she says in a somewhat hushed tone so he wouldn’t hear.

But he does, stopping in his tracks and turning to look at her one last time.

“I never miss.”

And with that he’s gone, walking back out of the village and into the misty forest. For now, all he can do is wait for you and Ahsoka to meet up and ambush your little meeting.

You

The sun has finally set. You’re placing your blaster and your grappling line in the waistband of your pants again, the same as you did two nights ago. Grogu behaves on your way out of the village, staying quiet as you weave in and out of the dark alleys and hop the wall with the grappling line.

Stepping into the forest you’re on high alert, anxious to hand him off to Ahsoka already. You swear you hear a twig snap somewhere. You turn to look in the direction of the noise to see… nothing. It’s just your imagination. You’re being paranoid.

Pull yourself together. You were a spy for many years in the Rebellion. And now you’re jumping at the snap of a twig?

A figure appears in the mist. You can’t make out who it is, blinking a few times.

“Ahsoka?”

But then a lightsaber is drawn, illuminating the figure and the mist surrounding them. It’s not Ahsoka. It’s… a Mandalorian? He’s wearing pure Beskar armor, vibrant and silver in color, with a black cape billowing in the mist. His stance is strong and menacing, making you feel small and inferior. And the lightsaber he’s wielding is one like you’ve never seen before. It’s black and its blade is one of a traditional sword. It sounds different, too, emitting a higher-pitched sound than that of a normal lightsaber.

Without thinking you draw your blaster, aiming at the Mandalorian and moving Grogu so he’s behind your back. And then, the Mandalorian begins charging at you, running at you with full speed. You shoot at him but it’s no use. Every blast is defected by him. You scramble thinking about what to do next. But Ahsoka’s voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Over here! Throw him to me!” she shouts.

She’s on your right, hands outstretched and ready to catch him. You slide the pouch off your shoulder and toss him over to her. There’s no way he’s going to make it but Ashoka catches him, using the force to carefully pull him towards her.

But before she can take him into her arms the Mandalorian stops and does the same. And now you can’t believe your eyes. He’s pulling Grogu towards him with all of his might. But Ahsoka’s strong, not letting go of him that easily. It’s like a game of tug of war between them with Grogu stuck in the air. If they do this any longer it’ll hurt him. Without thinking you aim your blaster at the Mandalorian, somewhere his Beskar isn’t protecting him, and shoot at the side of his thigh. The Mandalorian yells in pain and lets go of Grogu, sending him flying into Ahsoka’s arms. She takes him and runs, light on her feet as she runs through the trees. The Mandalorian will go after her next if you don’t stop him now. You keep shooting at him now that his attention is on you. But same as before, he deflects every single blast.

Your next instinct is to run, either after Ahsoka or back towards the walls of Calodan, somewhere, anywhere just away from him. You take off running as fast as you can, into the forest and narrowly missing rocks and tree roots. You don't dare look over your shoulder to see if he’s chasing after you.

All of a sudden you feel something around your legs, closing in on you. You look down to see a fiber cord whip, not too dissimilar from your own grappling line, encircling your legs. Within an instant you’re down on the ground, head slammed against a rock. You try to wiggle free but it’s no use, the cord is tightening around you rapidly. The last thing you see is the Mandalorian standing above you, piercing into your soul with the stone-cold glare of his visor before the world around you fades to black.

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lokischocolatefountain · 1 year

Text

Salvation

Series Masterlist

Kind of a sequel to Say No to Me, but can be read as a standalone fic

Fandom: Narcos

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: 18+ (warnings: mild choking, name calling, Papi kink, Mami kink, handcuffs, crying, spanking, fingering, mild cuckolding kink. Justification of violence and American imperialism?? Idek you guys)

Word count: 5.8k words

Summary: Shaken to his core by witnessing Colonel Carillo shoot a kid, Javier comes home guilty and questioning the role he plays in the war against drugs.

A/N: Say No to Me did soooo well, so I wrote a little more about about Javi and his wife. Hope people like this too 🥺🥺🥺. Warning: The characters’ views on violence and geopolitics are not my own.

“I don’t see the difference.”

“What do you mean you don’t see the difference? Those assholes poison this country, poison the US. We’re trying to stop them.”

It was their first argument. Leave it to him to bring work home and argue about it with the pretty professor he’d been dating. His job was always a point of contention for them. She didn’t care that he flaked out on dates, forgot to turn up for dinner with friends and slinked into bed late at night with no explanation as to where he’d been. No. What she worried about was the fact that he was a man with a gun.

The first time he met her outside the restaurant the both of them frequented, he was on a raid where her friend happened to live. He’d opened a door, gun in hand, just like he opened many other doors in Columbia in his quest for men associated with the Medellin cartel. He’d surveyed the rest of the place like he always did. Behind the woman was her. The beautiful woman he’d been buying buñuelos for at the restaurant like he’d buy a drink for a woman at a bar. The woman who’d smiled at him in a silent thanks each time the waitress brought her the buñuelos he ordered for her. The one who reciprocated by sending him coffee.

She never saw him the same again. She stopped meeting his eyes when before, she’d always looked around for him shyly. She stopped eating at the restaurant, opting instead for takeaways he found her eating in her car. He’d confronted her, sweet-talked her and gotten her to take his buñuelos again. Talked her into having coffee with him every morning and took her back to his place to fuck.

They always wondered out loud to each other what life would be like had he not done that.

“I wouldn’t be picking up dirty socks from all over the apartment.”

“And I wouldn’t find hair clogging the drain. But I would also be perpetually single.”

“And that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Bad thing. No wife to come home to. No one to wake me up with a warm wet mouth around my cock.”

“Jodón!”

“Te amo, Cariño. Eres mi corazón, mi conciencia.”

If he weren’t a married man, he would have driven to the brothel he used to frequent before he decided he would go on a date with her. He’d take the first willing woman he saw and fuck his pain, his frustrations, his failures into her. She’d be nothing but a warm wet thing in which to bury everything for a bit of cash.

Doing that with his wife didn’t take away the pain or the frustration. It produced guilt. Finding hand-shaped bruises and bite marks on her body made her hide her face in his chest to keep her sweet shy smile away from him. But it just made him feel undeserving of her, like he was tainting the one truly good thing in his life with his violence and brutality.

Her black and white perspective on his job changed eventually. Marriage wouldn’t have been possible without it. For the first time, he felt a pang of guilt for deceiving her into marrying him. When it was just coffee and sex, she insisted that he keep his gun and badge away from her sight. They scared her. He felt offended that she wouldn’t accept him whole.

Eventually he stopped hiding work from her. She grew comfortable with his gun on their bedside table along with her pretty night lamp, books, personal diary, jewelry, and framed picture of their wedding at the embassy. She no longer flinched when she wrapped her loving arms around him and found his gun tucked in the back of his jeans.

He changed her, turned her into someone who could casually listen to him vent about the day to day violences of his job. Turned her into a woman who shared a bed with the kind of man who stood by as his colleague put a gun to a kid’s head and pulled the trigger. He wanted to drive off to the closest bar and drink himself to death, but as though on autopilot, he’d already driven himself home. He parked the jeep in the garage, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

What should he have done to stop Carillo? Could he have stopped him at all? It wasn’t as though he knew what the man would do… Or maybe he did. He couldn’t plead innocence over Carillo’s actions when he was the one celebrating his return, knowing fully about his cruel tactics. He sensed something was off when Carillo made those kids kneel on the ground, hands on their heads. Some of them still had baby fat in their cheeks. The Colonel knew what he was going to do. It was why he left Steve behind.

Steve was given immunity from these cruelties. While he’d been a bachelor when he first met Carillo, Steve was always the family man with a pretty wife to go home to. And now a baby. Now, he was also a family man with someone awaiting his return. Did Carillo not know that? Did he not see the glimmering gold band around his finger? Or did Carillo see something in him that indicated he was prepared to witness such horror? Something that said he lacked a heart unlike Steve. How did Carillo manage to go home to his wife and kids? How did he hold them in his bloodied hands?

“Javi?”

She’d opened the jeep door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was truly out of it.

He whispered her name as she cupped his cheek, taking all the comforts that her touch afforded. He closed his eyes and swallowed as the guilt set in. The kid’s parents would need comfort tonight, not him. He didn’t deserve this. He should pry her hand off of him, reject her gentle touch. Stop her from tainting herself further.

She leaned close to him and he hummed gratefully for the proximity that allowed him to breathe in the fresh scent of her citrusy soap and her coconut shampoo.

He said her name again, like a prayer, like she was his god and he, a devotee who sought her for salvation. “It’s going to be okay, mi amor. Whatever it is…It’s going to be okay.”

“I need you,” he said as he nuzzled into her neck.

“You have me, Javi. I’m right here, whatever you need. Okay?” She swept her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp, already taking care of him.

He hopped out of the car with a renewed energy now that he had her permission. “Need you right here, baby,” he muttered hurriedly and curled an arm around her waist, picking her up and placing her on the hood of the jeep. He tugged at the satin tie holding the robe together, untying it to reveal her in her purest form. No underclothes, no jewelry except her rings, just her. He palmed her shoulders and pushed the garment off of her, holding himself back from ripping it off when she took a few seconds too long to free her arms from the sleeves.

He spread her legs apart, mumbling, “Need to see you, querida. Need to see your pretty pussy.”

He placed a hand on her belly and pushed, forcing her to lie back down on the hood. It had to be uncomfortable, but he couldn’t think beyond getting his dick wet. She said whatever he needed, so he was going to take whatever he needed. He was going to take everything he could out of her, leave her spent and unable to offer him anything more.

He pushed her legs wider, spreading her out obscenely for his eyes. Her body held marks of their passion. Her knees were bruised from kneeling at his feet and bringing him pleasure with her lips. Bruises of various colors were scattered all over her, tainting the pure smooth skin she brought into their relationship.

She left her marks too. If he looked in the mirror, he would see the crescent shaped scars she’d left behind, some still healing from spilling blood for her. He would find that her name was etched on every scratch and bite she left behind, claiming him as hers and contrasting between the scars he did not ask for, scars he earned chasing sicarios on rooftops.

Javier was marked by all the successes and failures of this perpetual chase of the bad guy. He’d tripped, fallen, jumped from balconies, been shoved into walls, pistol whipped and grazed by bullets.

She’d asked him for one thing only when he was on one knee in front of her— Give me all of you, Javi. So he did. He came home every evening, touched her with hands covered in the blood of the innocent collateral damage in this war.

He bent over her and pressed his chapped lips on her plush ones as his hand found her breasts. She tasted sweet as she always did. There was something beyond the sweet treats she was so fond of. It was just her, just the sweetness of her heart and the kindness of the words uttered by those lips. Once upon a time, she did not like his taste. Their first kiss had her pull away, face scrunched and the lips that’d rejected him complaining about the taste of cigarettes. He used to keep a pack of gum on him at all times- in his pocket, in the glove compartment, on his bedside table, in the living room just to rid himself of the vile taste of his terrible days so he could drink her sweet moans from her lips.

She no longer complained. She’d gotten used to it, had grown to like it even. They didn’t want to waste time washing away the day’s traces before getting lost in each other. They took each other as they were, accepted the ugly and the gruesome, the sweat and the weariness, the mistakes and the guilt.

He released her from the kiss and nudged her chin up by his nose. She whimpered quietly and returned her hand to his shoulders to push his leather jacket off. He helped her out, shrugging the garment off and letting her hands run over his chest with only the thin gray shirt separating them. He nibbled on her chin, reining himself back so as to not bite too hard. She had to be a few orgasms in to enjoy such roughness. He fondled a breast in his hand, pinching his index and middle fingers together to tug at her nipple.

The vibrations of her moan as he kissed down her throat went straight down to his cock. He marked her all the way in his journey from her neck to her cunt. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, bite, bite—

Mine, mine, mine.

Fingers found her cunt faster than his lips that were busy marking her as his. He rubbed her with his tainted hand and she raised herself off the hood of his jeep to meet his hand. He pushed her back down and placed a firm hand on her belly, pressing down to send a message.

Stay down. Obey.

She stayed put, taking only what he gave. Slick coated the tip of his finger as he pushed between her pussy lips. “Were you touching yourself before I came home, querida?”

“Yeah,” she managed to voice.

“Couldn’t wait for me?” He asked as he pushed a finger in, roughly and with no mercy. She gasped silently as she squirmed on the metal surface.

“Sorry,” she whined as he found the spot inside her that drove her wild, one that her dainty fingers couldn’t reach. “Papi, ‘m sorr—” she shrieked as he pinched her clit.

“What did I tell you about touching what’s mine?” He asked, getting irrationally angry about her pleasuring herself. Useless. Useless on the job, useless at home. An absent and neglectful husband whose wife had to resort to touching herself.

“That everything that’s yours is mine too.” He could hear the smile in her voice as she recalled the sweet beginnings of their marriage even when spread out in the most vulgar way for him.

“Everything. Except this,” he said, palming her cunt. “Let me just have this. All for myself.”

“So you’ll be a good boy and share everything else? Lend my ass to some other guy, it’ll be f—” she gasped mid-sentence as he grabbed her throat and pulled her up to meet him face-to-face.

“You letting other guys in when I’m not looking, baby?” He asked, applying the slightest pressure around her neck. He knew she would do nothing of that sort. He wouldn’t either. For all his faults as a husband, he was loyal. But they liked pretending sometimes. It played into his insecurities a little, into his fears of being so inadequate for her that she had to look elsewhere. It wasn’t a fear for him sexually. Yet. But it angered him when she asked a colleague to do so much as put up a shelf in their living room. That was his job as her husband.

“Hmm, sorry Papi… He was right there and I really missed you,” she played along as she thumbed his lips.

“Told you you were all mine, baby…” he said, pinching her clit just hard enough to bring her the pain she craved from her. She jumped and wrapped her legs around him, the heels of her feet digging into his back.

“You just told me that just now! How was I supposed to know before this?”

“Put a ring on it, didn’t I?” He said before he took her left hand and thumbed her rings. “I put three on it, in fact. What else is a man supposed to do, hmm? Put a collar on you?”

Her breath hitched, letting him know that she very much liked the image he put in her head. He took it as his cue to continue, “Would you like that? Hmm? I’ll finally make you look like the bitch in heat that you are.” She tightened around his finger and dug her feet into his back harder as though she wanted to pull him closer.

“Hnnngg please!” She whined as she began fucking herself on his middle finger. He added his ring finger, making her fuck herself on the finger that showed the world who he belonged to. Showed the world that he belonged. Showed him he wasn’t a lone man, that there was someone home who gave a fuck. He pressed the pad of his thumb on her clit, circling it gently, barely touching as she used his fingers for his pleasure.

“Javiii!” She cried his name, her voice grabbing at his heart. He belonged. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled her flush against his chest, needing to feel her skin against his.

“Yeah, baby. ‘M here, I’m yours,” he whispered into her neck and sucked on that spot that was bruised from all the times he’d wrapped his lips around it because he knew it made her melt in his arms.

She moaned his name over and over— Javi, Javi, Javiii— and he drank in all of it as he fucked her with his fingers. It grounded him, her moans. Told him she was real, this life they had was real and pushed away the horrors he’d participated in. He was just Javi, her husband Javi who just came home from work and made her scream his name. Not Agent Peña.

“Come for me, Cariño,” he encouraged when he felt her nearing her peak. He continued doing what he was doing, kept up the pace, kissed her neck and squeezed her tits, taking turns between each one when she finally collapsed in his arms, dropping her entire weight on him as she gasped for breaths.

“Want more,” she whined, her voice raspy from screaming his name. She palmed him through his jeans, making him hiss before she moved up to his belt buckle and tugged impatiently. “Want your cock, Papi.”

“Greedy little thing,” he scolded before kissing down her neck. “I just made you come, didn’t I? You’re still shaking but you already want more?”

“Pleeeeease!” She cried, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and letting her hands roam his chest. “I missed you.”

“Missed me? I fucked you silly in the morning before you went to work. Did you forget?”

“Missed you all day. I thought about it the whole time, thought about your cock.” She said, palming him through his jeans. He managed a smirk, trying his best to not let her know how much her touch affected him already.

“Thought you were more professional than that, bebita. Did you rub one out in the restroom thinking of me? Take a break from teaching to touch this wet little cunt for me, Mami?” He asked as he touched her gently, knowing she was still sensitive from how he played her with his fingers.

She shook her head and nuzzled into his neck, her bashful smile catching his attention before she could hide it away from him. “Can’t disappoint my darling wife, now can I?” He teased, quickly unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his jeans to free himself. She reached behind him and squeezed his ass before she grabbed his gun and set it aside on the hood.

The cavalierness of her action struck him. The woman who was frightened by the mere sight of his gun was now handling it casually. If he had noticed it any other day, he would’ve been proud. But not anymore… He had changed from the ambitious fool he used to be in Laredo. And he had changed her.

“Hmm yeah, don’t want your wife letting other men in her ass,” she teased as her hands roved over his torso, the pointed tips of her nails making the hairs on his arm stand up. She reached his dick and wrapped her hand around it when he decided enough was enough. He slapped her hand away, pulled her off the hood and turned her around before pushing her back down face-first. It happened so quickly that she didn’t seem to realize what had happened.

Usually, he felt guilty only after taking his frustrations out on her. Now, he felt the guilt had already begun to surround him, thickening the air he breathed until he felt it was choking him.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, holding her down as he reached into his pocket for his handcuffs. He snapped the cold metal around her wrists and leaned over to whisper into her ear, “I’m gonna take you rough, cariño. Can you handle it?” When she nodded, he asked her again, “Will you let me fuck you hard? That’s okay tonight? I need to hear a yes. A clear yes.” The nodding wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t feel right in the head and he needed her to be clear.

“Yes, Javi,” she said, turning a little, her cheek pressed on the hood as she met his eyes. “I want it. I’ll tell you to stop if it gets too much.”

“Okay,” he breathed out as he pulled his leather belt off through the loops of his jeans. As the leather cracked in the air, he noticed her ass clench. He grabbed a handful of her behind and let go before swatting the flesh. Mesmerized by the jiggling of her behind, he let her find reprieve for a few second before he repeated the motion for the other cheek. He reduced the gaps between each slap to her ass, enjoying her screams and cries, unbothered about whether they were waking the entire damn neighborhood.

When he felt she was adequately prepared, he folded his belt in two, holding the metal buckle tight in his hand and wrapping the excess leather around his fist to make sure he didn’t accidentally hit her with it. They liked leaving marks on each other, but none that would be as painful and permanent as the damage metal would cause. He reached between her legs and found her pussy, wet from her cum, making her let out the soft sounds he would lock up in the depths of his mind to look back on whenever he missed her.

“Love the pretty sounds you make for me, bebita,” he praised, pleased with himself as he caught her dazed smile. As much as he liked seeing her in the throes of pleasure, he liked it more when he could bring out her sweet smiles. It made him proud, knowing he could do that to her.

“Think you forgot the belt, Papi…” she said softly, her tone contradicting the depraved thing she was requesting.

“So eager,” he mumbled, his words buried by her scream when his belt made contact with her ass. “Quiet, querida. You don’t want to wake our neighbors. Don’t want them to run over here to check on you now, do we? They might accuse me of being an abusive husband and I will be forced to explain that my little pain-slut of a wife begs for this shit.”

She trembled underneath him, holding her hand up to seek comfort. He took her hand glady, entwining their fingers and giving it a kiss before he dropped it back down. She huffed in disappointment, making him feel just a little guilty for taking her comfort away from her. Promising himself that he would give her all the love and affection she needed after this, he slipped his ring finger inside her. He was met with no resistance and he enjoyed how she took him in, enjoyed how she dripped down his finger and coated the gold band with her deliciousness.

“You would like that, won’t you? My little exhibitionist. I knew you were one when you made me finger you in my jeep before I could take you home for a proper fuck,” he reminded her of their first time together, delighted in himself as she tightened around him. He gave her a few quick pumps before withdrawing abruptly to make her taste himself on his fingers. He tightened his grip around the belt and landed another one, the black leather kissing her skin. His hand effectively muffled her scream, but she bit down on him hard, making him hiss.

He fucked her mouth like he fucked her pussy, aloowing himself to be satisfied with how her tongue swirled around his fingers. Forgetting himself, he pressed himself against her ass, grinding to relieve himself just a little. She pushed back at him and he took a step back, realizing what he’d done.

“Mierda!” He cursed. This was not the right time to rub the rough denim of his jeans on her sensitive behind.

“Lo siento, mi amor…” he apologised, bending down to kiss her temple. “Just… can’t wait to have you.”

“Just a— just few more, Javi baby…then— and you can have me,” she breathed out between pants.

“How many more? How many can you take?”

“Four. Each. No breaks, just go. Alternate it.”

“Sí, Mami,” he nodded, taking her command. He crumbled up the soft tie of her robe and pushed it into her mouth before he stood back and took quick aims, raining her with one hit after another.

Her cries and screams were muffled by the cloth he’d shoved in her mouth, but he was certain she would be heard if someone happened to walk by the garage door. While this was a safe neighborhood thanks to it being embassy staff quarters, late night screams were unfortunately not a rare thing for the city. At other times, it chilled him to the bone and made him want to send an armed bodyguard with his precious girl wherever she went. Now, he contented himself with the fact that nobody would come knocking to check on the poor screaming woman.

He pushed his jeans down to his knees and lined himself up with her tight, wet heat before forcing himself in.

“Feel. So. Fucking. Good.” He grunted, alternating each word with a thrust into her pussy. She gripped him so tight, so good, so fucking good.

“Dios mío, Mami. Tan perfecto,” he spewed praises, grabbing her hair with his fingers and giving her a painful tug to force her to show him one half of her face. She was utterly debauched, freshly washed hair all tangled up in his hand, eyes glazed over with everything he gave her, lips bruised and swollen and cheeks covered in her tears. He was sick in the head, he knew that and God, she knew that too. He was a sick fuck, making her cry for him, getting himself harder in her cunt as he watched her spill more tears from his thrusts.

“Lo siento,” he mumbled, still giving her what brought on the tears in the first place. He knew she wanted it, she’d told him so several times, reassured him as she cradled him in her loving arms. She understood him, sometimes more than he did. She knew the depths of his wretched would and found herself a place in it rather than running away screaming.

But that didn’t make him stop apologizing, “Lo siento, Lo siento, por favor… Mi amor, perdóname, por favor—” his words caught in his throat and he let out a sob around her name. He let his tears fall, bent over her and slipped an arm around her shaking body to pull her close to himself. He buried his cries into her neck as his thrusts slipped out of rhythm.

She spat out the cloth that he’d stuffed her mouth. “Javi? Are you okay, baby?”

He shook his head, unable to hide himself from her any longer. “No te merezco,” he whispered.

“Uncuff me. Wanna— need to touch you,” she begged. He snapped her cuffs open, having left it unlocked for her safety. Her hand was on her immediately, comforting him with her touch.

“Javi…I got you, honey. I got you,” she reassured him, taking his hand in hers and giving him a squeeze. He peeked out a little like a frightened yet curious child and caught the gleaming silvery metal of his pistol on the hood. It simply sat there, too close to his wife, not inspiring the fear it should in her. He’d ruined her so much that she could simply have it in her line of vision when she took him.

“Lo sien—”

“Javi, Javi, it’s okay. Everything’s okay, mi amor… It’s alright.”

“Dime que me quieres,” he begged. He needed to know, needed to hear that she still loved him even though he doubted she would if she knew Agent Peña as much as she knew her husband Javi.

“Te quiero, te amo, Javi. Mi amor, mi corazón, mi—” she whined as he unknowingly hit a spot. All these years knowing her and he somehow didn’t know that this did it for her. He repeated the motion, thrusting in the exact same angle with the same vigor that made her cry so sweetly.

The world turned hazy around him and for just that moment, he was just Javi, just her Javi. He belonged to her and the pleasures she brought him, belonged right in her sweet pussy that made his lips moan her name over and over and— He let out sounds he didn’t recognize to be from his throat as she gripped him like a vice and he struggled with the in and out motions, needing to just bury himself in her for eternity and never leave. As though she’d heard his plea, she granted him the high he’d come home craving, pushing him over the edge yet holding onto him, keeping him safe, keeping him hers.

He stayed put even after he’d spilled inside her, needing the closeness, needing to surround himself in all her goodness whether he deserved it or not.

“Javi…What happened, baby?” She asked, caressing his hand with a tenderness that warmed his heart. “What were you apologizing for? What happened?”

He removed himself from her and turned her around to face him. He kept his eyes on the ground as he retrieved the robe that had fallen to the floor. He draped the fabric around her and she stumbled as she took a step ahead. He pulled his jeans up and zipped up before he surveyed her form. She couldn’t walk without limping. Fuck! He was the piece of fucking shit.

He picked her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him on his chin and then on his cheek, keeping her eyes on his as he carried her through the corridors. It was thankfully too late for anyone to be wandering outside.

He laid her out on the couch when they got home, opting to sit on the floor at her feet rather than next to her. She let him place his head on her lap and even massaged his scalp with her caring hand. He shut his eyes and let himself get lost in the feeling, needing the comfort despite being undeserving.

“You were right,” he spoke quietly into the night.

“About what, mi amor?” Another time, he was sure she would have laughed and said she always was.

“When you said you didn’t see a difference. Our first fight. You said you didn’t see the difference between them and us. ‘S bad no matter who does it, the violence. Guns.”

“That was a long— why are we talking about this now? Is that what’s got you so worried? Javi, I didn’t know what I know now. It was a very…reductive way of thinking about it. I told you that much later.”

He felt he’d manipulated her somehow, put the perspective of the bright-eyed young Javier who’d come to Columbia to be ‘the good guy’ who put bad guys in jail and saved the world or whatever the fuck he thought he was going to do. He had done good, sure, but the bad… Oh god the bad.

“Carillo is back.”

“Yeah, you told me…”

“Whenever we go on a fucking operation, the guys we’re trying to nab are always a step ahead of us. Escobar’s got informants everywhere. Kids. Some the size of your nieces. Couple teenagers. Bad situation at home, either they don’t have a choice, or they don’t yet understand what the hell they’re doing… I thought we were just going to scare them. We rounded them up, Carillo was doing the talking. This kid got too mouthy, you know that kind of teenager with the ‘fuck the police’ attitude and enough blind courage fuelled by his newfound independence… It just felt off, baby. I should’ve done something, but— This is how it’s going to go from now on and everyone will turn a blind eye because we’re just that desperate.”

“Javi… Tell me what happened.”

“He shot him,” he managed to say. “Carillo shot the kid. To make a fucking point.”

Her hand stilled in his hair and her eyes widened. “I want to think there’s a difference, but it’s getting harder and harder everyday to see it. Escobar’s using these kids to save his own ass and we’re killing them to send him a fuckin’ message.”

“You didn’t pull the trigger.”

It was a statement, but he replied as though it was a question. “I didn’t pull the trigger.” He was a piece of shit, but he needed her to know that he hadn’t gotten that bad.

“You can’t carry others’ sins on your back, Javi.”

“I was there when—”

“So were the others. And Carillo pulled the trigger. You think he’s at home apologizing to his wife?”

Yeah but you didn’t marry Carillo.

He shook his head and she took his face in her hand, cradling his cheek like he was something precious. “You do what you can, Javi. Your hands are as clean as can be for a DEA Agent. You can’t bear other men’s sins. And you can’t change how entire governments operate.”

“You wouldn’t have said that before.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have. Back then, I didn’t have to stay up all night waiting to hear my husband’s car arrive so that I could run to him and see for myself if he’d come home to me in one piece. I was on the outside before but now I’m in the heart of it, with you. I know you try to shield me from the worst of it. I see how you and Steve whisper about work instead of talking out loud. But I’m not naïve. I know you’re in danger most days and there are some things that you just have to do.”

“I have blood on my hands. I’m not the same man you married. And you’re not the same, I changed you. I made you believe in something I don’t believe in anymore, pulled you into my mess and—”

“It’s okay,” she declared with a quiet smile. “As long as it’s not your heart. As long as you’re not bleeding out on the streets. If you need to get blood on your hands to keep yourself alive out there, I won’t stand in your way. I don’t want you thinking about whether I would approve of the morals of what you did. I don’t care if I change. Change me, get the blood on your hands on mine and I’ll clean you up before I have to send you back out there. I don’t care who has to bleed for you to see another day. I’ll always take the man you are when you come home, no matter how much you have changed. I know in my heart that you’ll never do what Carillo did. I know who I married and it’s not a Carillo.”

She pushed his errant curls out of his face, bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead. “You are the same man I married. You have heart. And you want to do the right thing. Unfortunately,” she said, taking a deep breath. “There are just some things you can’t control and you just have to let go of it to face the next day. You can’t do that with others’ sins on your shoulders. You know you have enough of your own to lug around.”

She allowed him her comforts, her words and her touch and the warmth of her lap as he put his head down. He wasn’t wholly convinced by her words, but closed his eyes knowing she would be there when he came home. She would have him, broken down and full of guilt. He would come home to her for the rest of time and find salvation in her arms and that would be enough.

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wangxianficfinder · 9 months

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In the mood for...

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1. I’m in the mood for fics A) where WWX doesn’t want anything to do with LWJ and LWJ is the one chasing after him.

I am also looking for any B) fics where WWX comes back and instead wants nothing to do with the cultivation world. @bigmeatycl0ws

1A)

My chain hits my chest/When I’m bangin’ on the radio by x_los (T, 2k, wangxian, modern w/ magic, case fic, competence kink, YLLZ WWX) kinda

我的皇后是農民 | sowing seeds in the cold palace by sweetlolixo (E, 49k, WIP, WangXian, Imperial Palace, Emperor LWJ, Imperial Consort WWX, Farmer WWX, Angst, Romance, Wingman LJY, Wife-chasing-LWJ, Arranged Marriage, Best Boy A-Yuan)

12 of this itmf

1B)

Ad Oblivione by Baph, HikariNoHimeWriter (M, 70k, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, POV Multiple, Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Identity Reveal, Golden Core Reveal, Cultivation World Critical, Not JC Friendly, Abusive YZY, Angst with a Happy Ending)

Lay my body down by tawaen (M, 48k, WWX & WQ, WWX & WN, wangxian, WWX & JYL, canon divergence, time travel, rogue cultivator WWX, no golden core transfer, not cultivation world friendly, not JC friendly, OCs)

Home isn't Where the Heart is. by Hauntcats (Not rated, 7k, wangxian)

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2. Hello hello! I’m in the mood for fics where BOTH of Wei Wuxian’s parents live — or, if one of them does die, fics where Wei Changze is the one who survives. There’s so many fics where WWX is raised by CSSR and I’m getting sick of it. BOTH parents, or single-father WCZ pretty please!

tall as the mountains that sheltered us by thelastdboy (M, 4k, CSSR/WCZ, CSSR & WWX & WCZ, wangxian, canon divergence, CSSR & WCZ live, crack treated seriously, childhood friends to lovers, genius WWX, inventor WWX, bg character death, happy ending, WCZ pov)

Cartwheels In Cloud Recesses Series by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 23k, WangXian, CSSR/WCZ, CSSR and WCZ Live, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans)

Post Mortem by Cataclysmic_Calamity (E, 78k, WangXian, Modern AU, Psychological Horror, friends with benefits wangxian, they're both fucked up but they love each other so much, Slow Burn, Mystery, Unnegotiated Kink, Dom/sub, Anal Sex, Consensual Non-Consent, Stalking, Drug Addiction, Serial Killers, Angst with a Happy Ending) I would say Post Mortem counts except it’s Papa Wei/Jiang Fengmian after his wife die

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3. Hello! I'd like to make a request for ITMF! I'm really craving wwx becoming sect leader of yunmeng jiang! Has it been done? Yanli has weaker cultivation and is to be married out etc. Maybe the core transfer didn't work or never happened at all and wwx ends up the only one left with a core and able to lead? If anyone knows any fics with this premise and can recommend them, I will love you always ❤❤❤ @theladypeartree

The River Runs Forever by Cerusee (T, 185k, WIP, WangXian, SangLi, Badass WWX, Inventor WWX, Jiang/Nie sibling power quartet, Dead JC, Jiang Sect Leader WWX)

Trapped and Patient by Vrishchika (E, 18k, wangxian, canon divergence, non golden core transfer, JC has no golden core, slow burn, WWX & NMJ & LXC friendship, politics, WIP) This has exactly the premise but is an abandoned WIP. What is there is excellent and worth reading though.

Something From Nothing by sami (E, 55k, WangXian, XianLi, Minor QingLi, XiCheng, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Character Resurrection, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, Assassin's Creed Fusion, Kinda, Assassin's Creed Vibes, Wangxian is endgame, Slow Burn, specifically for wangxian, no infidelity, no partner betrayal, Angst with a Happy Ending) It's a WWX/JYL and WWX/LWJ fic, not polyamory, and had really nice stories for other characters.

Twelve Moons and a Fortnight by stiltonbasket (M, 290k, WangXian, Humor, Slow Burn, Post-Canon Fix-It, Long-Distance Relationship, Epistolary, Love Letters, Family Feels, a-qing lives, teenage romance, Adoption, Romantic Comedy, Happy Ending, Weddings, Case Fic, Parenthood, Politics) this is post-canon but WWX does become Sect Leader Jiang (temporary, but with full powers)

💖 empty as the sky by incendir (T, 23k, wangxian, JYL & WWX, CSSR & WWX, be careful what you wish for)

~*~

4. hello! thank you for all your hard work!! itmf for "straight" boy wwx suddenly (or slowly) realising that lwj is actually very attractive. if there's smut, preferably bottomji but i also like bottomxian!

hi! I'm ask number 4 in the latest fic finder. to answer the question, I don't particularly have a preference for modern or canon. the same goes for whether it's more serious or funny, just that "straight" boy wwx is there

for #4, do they want modern or Canon? also lots of the fics in the "straight boy Wei ying" tag sorta has this "oblivious ! Wei ying" , does the requestor want something in that bent or more serious ?

Hide Away by sassybluee (E, 19k, WangXian, Modern AU, Modern: No Powers, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, straight boy WWX, straight boy LWJ, everyone’s convinced they’re straight tbh, LWJ FUCKS, WWX fucks, referenced but not shown for both of those, Reality TV, Love Island, Slow Burn, Getting Together, Drunk kiss, Shower Sex, Ambiguous/Open Ending, POV Alternating)

To See You (Again) by FrameofMind, Jo Lasalle (Jo_Lasalle) (E, 84k, wangxian, modern, London au, LWJ fucks, bottom LWJ, friends to lovers, self-discovery, pining, grindr, light bondage, experienced LWJ, less experienced WWX, straight boy WWX)

Our Song by gusucloudbunny (T, 15k, wangxian, modern, college/university au, straight boy WWX, bisexual WWX, heteronormativity, sexuality crisis, coming out to yourself, compulsory heterosexuality, fluff, friends to lovers, alcohol, music majors)

~*~

5. In the mood for transmigrator/ modern world to canon era/ isekai/ real life to inside a novel - Wei Wuxian. @whateverweilanlovechild

So Call Me a Pessimist, but I Don’t Believe in It by Anonymous (Not Rated, 127k, WIP, WangXian, Food Issues, Family Feels, WWX is a music teacher, WN and WWX are Best Friends from the future, They use memes to talk covertly, Transmigrator WWX, transmigration au, Slow Burn)

i told you when i came i was a stranger by Caramelized (M, 50k, OFC/LXC, wangxian, canon divergence, isekai, transmigration, amateur cartography, butterfly effect, sunshot campaign, not everyone dies au, no golden core tranfer, dimension travel, politics, self-insert, foreknowledge, angst w happy ending) is my current favourite. It's not WWX as the MC but it's very good

Leveling Up Cultivation by DarkSylph (G, 72k, wangxian, LXC/WWX, JC/WWX, JZX/WWX, NMJ/WWX, WN & WWX & WQ, canon divergence, Harems, Jealousy, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, BAMF WWX, WWX has a system, Bad Parent YZY, No Golden Core Transfer, Not Everyone Dies au, Everyone Loves WWX, Transmigrator WWX, Overpowered WWX, Oblivious WWX, Cinnamon Roll WN, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Age Progression, WWX is a Niè, WQ & WN joins the Nie Sect with their sibling, beast taming, spiritual beasts, Multiple Transmigrated Characters, Secret Realms, Dungeons, Monsters) It's not exactly what the asker wanted because wwx comes from a modern fantasy world.

A Game for the Fool by LadyCroft_Undead19 (T, 292k, wangxian, JYL/JZX, canon divergence, Gamer-fic, BAMF WWX, YilingWei, For Want of a Nail, Slow Burn, oc-self-insert, Unreliable Narrator, Massive World Building, Fluff and Angst, WIP) The second one is one of my favorite fics that I hope will update one day. Even if it's not finished and also not exactly what they asked for (because this time it's an OC that transmigrate), it's worth the read!

~*~

6. ITMF modern office-au identity shenanigans? Like where one character doesn’t know the other is his boss, ou perhaps they work for rival companies but don’t know it, etc. Preferably WangXian or ChengXian! Thank you so much! (PS I just read “Hello, IT. Have You Tried Turning It Off and On Again?” by overmountainandmeadow and loved it! More like this please!)

~*~

7. hey there ♡︎ for the next itmf could you share some fics where wangxian enlope, leave the cultivation world, go to the burial mounds or become rogue cultivators before post sunshot but before wwx's death?? thank you for the good work!

wide enough and wild by impossibletruths (E, 64k, wangxian, canon divergence, Getting Together, Canonical Accidental Baby Acquisition, Families of Choice, References to Depression, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Noping Out Of Society With Your Boyfriend And Your 50 Wen Refugees: The Novel, Overzealous Use Of Imagery, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Well Except Wen Ning But He Was Already Dead So, Fix-It of Sorts, Podfic Available, Spanish Translation Available) they don't elope after sunshot but they do bail

the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break by RoseThorne (E, 88k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Self-Esteem Issues, Fix-It, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, PTSD, Handfasting, Panic Attacks, Getting Together, First Time, Aftercare, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Scars, Chronic Pain, Golden Core Reveal, First Time, Switching, sex-related injury, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, LSZ is a Wèi, Good Sibling JC, Dissociation, Burial Mounds Settlement Days) technically

Blossoming flowers in a full moon - 花好月圆 by ThisIsWhereTheMagicHappens (T, 64k, wangxian, canon divergence, happy ending, fix-it of sorts, wangxian cuddle to immortarility) they don't exactly become rogue cultivators, but they do leave the cultivation world behind

To live with no regrets Series by Lyna_Mei (E, 81k, WIP, WangXian, Fix-It of Sorts, Canon Divergence, Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Golden Core Reveal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Developing Relationship, non-consensual marriage, CQL-Verse, Case Fic, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Cultivation Sect Politics, Cultivation World Critical, Not JGY Friendly, Family Feels, Found Family, WWX Has a New Golden Core, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch WangXian)

~*~

8. Seeing the reblog of the last ITMF reminded me to send the ask! So, for the next one: fics where Lan Wangji is hooked just by how Smoking Hot Wei Wuxian is. Before anything else, he's just obsessed by his looks for a good while before actually being won over by his personality too.

Not the biggest fan of modern aus, but anything will do, I just want him being Very Gay and Very Shallow for a minute xD

Thank you so much for all the work!

~*~

9. ITMF a fic where LWJ's gay awakening was NMJ. It doesn't have to be the main plot, but I want it to be mentioned and acknowledged. Wangxian endgame, of course!

~*~

10. ITMF for CQL post canon getting together fics? Something so fluffy and feel-good that you finish the fic with the biggest grin ever. I've been reading too much angst and now I need something to fill the hole that the angst left lol

❤️ The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts by aubreyli (T, 20k, wangxian, in-universe RPF, romance novel, post-canon fix-it, Mojo’s post)

Senseless by carolyncaves (T, 6k, wangxian, post-canon, fluff, little angst, pining, getting together, first kiss, oblivious WWX, wingman juniors)

Worth the Price by Minyoongiisacatuwu (T, 22k, wangxian, post-canon, rabbits, Getting Together, Slow Burn, Pining, Epistolary, Marriage Proposal JC & WWX reconciliation, Introspection, Fluff)

Something Unpredictable by airinshaw (E, 28k, wangxian, post-canon, Getting Together, Prophetic Dreams, Sharing a Bed, Pining, Misunderstandings, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, Anal Sex)

💖 Nice work if you can get it by deliciousblizzardshark (M, 11k, wangxian, protective LWJ, genius LWJ, post-canon, fluff & humor, getting together, chief cultivator LWJ)

Disaster on Four Legs by DrJLecter (T, 17k, wangxian, post-canon, Cursed WWX, Cat WWX, Light Angst, Humor, Happy Ending, LWJ pov, WWX pov, Good Kid LSZ, Good Kid LJY, Pining, Getting Together, Animal Transformation)

And these are all for you by Deastar (E, 4k, wangxian, post-canon, ABO, non-traditional ABO dynamics, omega LWJ, alpha WWX, WWX has self-worth issues)

~*~

11. itmf con noncon wangxian please 🙏🏼 maybe with an extra flavor of yllz wwx too, but that's not important. thank you!

Honey Roast by uaevuon (E, 54k, wangxian, modern, BDSM au, dom LWJ, sub WWX, disability, HIV/AIDS, impact play, knifeplay, cock & ball torture, closeted character, implied self-harm, ageplay, matchmaker MXY, overstimulation, forced orgasm, S & M, sadism, masochism, body worship, consensual noncon, love confessions, blowjobs)

eating sugar out of your hand by azuresummer (E, 20k, WangXian, Modern AU, A/B/O Dynamics, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX, A/B/O Roleplay, Dom/sub, Dominant LWJ, Submissive WWX, Established Relationship, Roleplay, Consensual Non-Consent, Under-negotiated Kink, degradation kink, Praise Kink, Light Bondage, Size Kink, Size Difference, Spit Kink, Hair-pulling, Daddy Kink, Slight Crossdressing, Lingerie, Creampie, Feminizing Language, Dirty Talk, Overstimulation, Prostate Milking, slight breathplay, Facials, Snowballing, Finger Sucking, Panty Kink, Spanking, Crying, Mentions of Face-Slapping, Drunk Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, LWJ and WWX Have a Breeding Kink, PWP)

chaos in becoming by HappyPrince (E, 4k, wangxian, modern, PWP, exes, getting back together, angst, unhealthy coping mechanisms, references to depression, consensual noncon, rough sex, spanking, spanking, cock slapping, spit, dom/sub, choking, not safe or sane, name-calling, verbal humiliation, objectification, degradation, multiple orgasms, subspace, possessive behavior, crying, rimming, asphyxiation)

Closer than my hands have been by Spodumene (E, 5k, wangxian, post-canon, established relationship, rough sex, dom/sub undertones, consensual noncon, hair-pulling, face-fucking, light bondage, spanking, cock slapping, jealousy, top drop)

love will stay tethered by typefortydeductions (E, 10k, wangxian, modern, getting together, consensual noncon, blowjobs, forced masturbation, trauma, self-discovery, kink negotiation, warnings in author’s note, first time, cuddling & snuggling, come eating)

alidade by spookykingdomstarlight (E, 12k, wangxian, modern, BDSM, consensual noncon, rape fantasy, rape roleplay, light bondage, objectification, sex toys, orgasm control, Somnophilia, Sex Tapes, Barebacking, Comeplay, Spanking, Humiliation, Praise Kink, Loss of Control, Pining, Lack of Communication, Possessive LWJ, Dom LWJ, overwhelmed LWJ, Sub WWX, Love Confessions, Mentioned LWJ/Others & WWX/Others, Pining while fucking, Safeword Use, Crossdressing, Aftercare)

strange kind of dream by typefortydeductions (E, 17k, wangxian, rape/non-con, canon divergence, everyone lives au, Getting Together, Love Confessions, Sparring, Sexual Roleplay, Rape/Non-con Elements, Consensual noncon, Kink Negotiation, Compulsory Heterosexuality, coming out to yourself, dubious coping mechanisms)

reap what you sow by matcha_ado (E, 4k, wangxian, fantasy au, royalty au, bottom LWJ, breeding kink, consensual noncon, marathon sex, overstimulation, prince LWJ, YLLZ WWX)

Mansion with a view by 74243, dustyloves (E, 10k, wangxian, modern, Gossip Girl fusion, Established Relationship, Dom/sub, Sugar baby fantasy, Verbal Humiliation, Under-negotiated Kink, Consensual noncon, Jiang Family Dynamics, american psycho LWJ)

Gentian ⋛ Jingshi by x_los (E, 4k, wangxian, Madam Lan/QHJ, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lan Family Backstory, Pseudo-Incest, Married Life, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Relationship, BDSM, Dom/sub, Consensual noncon, Aftercare, Feminisation)

something so flawed and free by verseau (E, 59k, wangxian, modern, college/university au, Graduate School, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Non-Sexual Submission, Kink Negotiation, Biting, Overstimulation, Cock Warming, Consensual noncon, Spanking)

Letterless by diamondbruise (E, 16k, WangXian, DragonJi/FoxXian, marriage proposals, Getting Together, Pining, Kinda Crackish though we treat that seriously here, Anal Sex, Consensual Non-Consent, Double Penetration in One Hole)

mercy, tear it down. by orange_crushed (E, 31k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Dual Cultivation, Light BDSM, In Which Wangxian Fumble Towards An Understanding of D/S Dynamics, Porn with Feelings, Recovery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Wangxian-Typical CNC Play, Aftercare, Slight Feminization (ie Wei Ying Keeps Saying ‘Wife’), True Love, Past LWJ/Other)

~*~

12. For itmf: Are there any fics where people think WWX dies like in canon, but he actually survives the fall from the cliff and secretly lives as a rogue cultivator for several years before being found? I basically want WWX alive and hearing rumors about his own death and/or helping in secret for the events that happen while he is “dead.” Thank you!

Hi! I just sent in an itmf asking for WWX to surviving his “death.” I wanted to clarify that I want everyone —like JC, LWJ, the Jins— to all think him dead. I want WWX to be the only one who knows that WWX is not dead. Sorry I didn’t add this to the first ask!

💖 Ghosts Shouldn't by ShanaStoryteller (Not rated, 15k, wangxian, canon divergence, grief/mourning, angst w happy ending)

The storm comes and goes (and I keep walking) by Naamah_Beherit (M, 41k, LSZ & WWX, WWX & WN, Canon Divergence, Found Family, Blood and Injury, Reunions, POV Multiple, Canonical Character Death, Canon Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Identity Reveal, POV Outsider, No Romance)

~*~

13. Hey friends! What's everyone's go-to wwx-centric hurt/comfort fic? When I'm feeling a little down I just really love to see wwx going through it and people caring about him and trying to help.

💖 总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) by yiqie (E, 76k, wangxian, modern, getting together, mental health issues, suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, depression, hospitals, overdosing, eventual happy ending, pianist au)

some things go forward by everythingispoetry (T, 73k, WangXian, Modern AU, Hospitals, Teenage Drama, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Happy Ending)

take my hand, will you share this with me Series by doodlebutt (E, 137k, wangxian, JC/WQ, modern, figure skating, hurt/comfort, pining, angst w happy ending, major character injury, recovery, getting together, past trauma)

Salt to the Sea by Starmins (M, 31k, wangxian, JYL & WWX, modern, grief/mourning, roadtrips, canonical character death, love & loss) have tissues ready

to the river of rivers by haysel (T, 27k, wangxian, post-canon, character study, pining, dissociation, getting together, misunderstanding, trauma, angst w happy ending, hurt/comfort)

out in the garden, there’s things you hid away by saltyfeathers (E, 121k, wangxian, post-canon, possession, animal death, mass death event, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, hurt/comfort, WWX centric, bodily fluids, serious injuries, angst w/ happy ending)

Come Around and Stay by trippednfell (M, 160k, wangxian, modern, slow burn, kid fic, found family, it gets worse before it gets better, PTSD, blood and injury, dissociation, trauma, angst w happy ending, musicals, alternating pov, JC & WWX reconciliation, hurt/comfort, panic attacks)

Red Flower With One Hundred Petals; Smoke Carried on the Blue Dusk Air by carolyncaves (T, 32k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Post-Sunshot Campaign, Alcohol, Mental Health Issues, Angst, Golden Core Reveal, Hurt/Comfort, thoughts of death/dying, Caretaking, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Fluff, Family Feels, Literal Sleeping Together, Shotgun Wedding, angry wedding planner JC, Yunmeng sibling drama and fluff, physical affection, Terrible Parties, Happy Ending, for WangXian)

the best of you by sysrae (E, 41k, WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, slightly undernegotiated kink, but in a very soft and consensual way, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, JFM and YZY’s A+ parenting, Dysfunctional Family, Mental Health Issues, therapy is good actually, Reference to animal attacks/animal cruelty, descriptions of past violence)

Stars bring us apart (Stars pull us together) by Sixlayerhouse (sixlayerhouse) (E, 124k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, (Vaguely) Star Trek AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Psychological Trauma, PTSD, Body modifications, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Recovery, married!wangxian)

To lurk, to lie in wait by trippednfell (M, 124k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Huli Jing, strangers to co-parents to lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Dragons, Kid Fic, teenage juniors, background NieLan, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Fox Spirit WWX, Dragon LWJ, Blood and Injury, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note)

build me no shrines by occultings (microcomets) (M, 54k, WangXian, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, First Time, Getting Together, Confessions, Sharing a Bed, Hair Washing, Sentient Burial Mounds, Case Fic, Post-Canon, CQL Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Light Angst, Flashbacks, mild body horror, foot washing, Happy Ending, Non-Sexual Intimacy, …then sexual intimacy, podfic available)

爱不释手; never let me go by yiqie (E, 68k, WangXian, All the clan leaders, Literally so many OCs, There are just lots of people, Case Fic, Blood and Injury, Demons, Body Horror, Mystery, The intrinsic horniness of wound tending, Yearning 2: The Electric Boogaloo)

this river runs to you Series by aubreyli, sundiscus (T/E, 66k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Mutual Pining, Dragons, Literal Sleeping Together, Tender wound tending, First Time, Oral Sex, Coming Untouched, Porn with Feelings, Established Relationship)

Birthday Party by waffles_4_breakfast (E, 100k, wangxian, canon divergence, fix-it, Angst w happy ending, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Sharing a Bed, Getting Together, Pining, Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Poison, Torture, Requited Unrequited Love, First Time, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Rough Sex, Oral Sex, Come as Lube, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Spit As Lube, Rimming, Consensual noncon, Safe Sane and Consensual, Additional Warnings In Author's Note)

🧡 Company by WithBroomBefore (T, 29k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Pre-Relationship, Getting Together, POV LWJ, Fix-It, Pre-Canon, at least to start, WWX goes to Cloud Recesses, But Not In The Usual Way, fear of character death, Everybody Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Light Angst, good teacher LQR, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, brief discussion of past minor character suicide, Kitten, Not YZY Friendly)

~*~

14. in the mood for a fic where wwx is the unpopular student at school, while lwj is the popular one (basically the opposite of unpopular nerd lwj and popular student wwx)

~*~

15. For the next ITMF I was wondering if you could recommend Wangxian stories that have to do with one of them being some type of sea creature. I recently saw the comp that included the fic based off The Shape of Water movie so I’m in that mood now. It can be any type of sea creature, mermaid, half-octopus, or even full on different creature like in the one amazing fic every time we touch (i get this feeling) by celerydragon. I’ve read a few so I was wondering what the favorites are or if there are any new ones in spirit of MerMay recently passing that I possibly missed.

Do not waste your pearls for me by moonwaif (G, 9k, wangxian, fantasy au, mermaid LWJ, trauma, abuse, healing, unresolved romantic tension, Mojo’s post)

you’re a bird in the water / i’m a fish on the ground by plonk (Not Rated, 8k, WangXian, Merpeople, Canon Era)

in the deepest depths by lazy_lousy_lizy_jane (T, 3k, wangxian, F/F, cisswap, gender or sex swap, modern, lighthouses, selkies, minor violence, heist)

One for Heaven and Earth by cerbykerby (T, 7k, wangxian, canon divergence, supernatural elements, angst w happy ending, madam lan lives, getting together)

luminous by azuresummer (E, 26k, WIP, WangXian, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant LWJ, Submissive WWX, Modern AU, A/B/O Dynamics, Dark LXC, Dark LWJ, Possessive LWJ, Protective LWJ, Crime Boss LWJ, Omega WWX, Siren WWX, Merperson WWX, Hurt WWX, WWX Whump, Precious WWX, Spoiled WWX, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Nesting, Scenting, Power Imbalance, Obsession, Kidnapping, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Excessive Amounts of Tenderness, Pining LWJ, Dark WangXian)

The Greatest Catch (meryao) Series by Shiome (E, 51k, XiYao, Modern AU, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Merpeople, Romantic Comedy, Meet-Cute, Cultural Differences, Courting Rituals, Xeno, Miscommunication, Happy Ending, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Shapeshifting, Blow Jobs, Non-Human Genitalia, Explicit Sexual Content, Interspecies Sex, Wedding Planning, Domestic Bliss, (And domestic troubles), Misunderstandings, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Eggs, Egg Laying, Service Top LXC, Power Bottom JGY, Feeding Kink, Mpreg) Would The Greatest Catch series by shiome count? It's technically Xiyao, but the second story does have WangXian with WWX as an octopus.

~*~

16. sorry for the long requests, feel free to ignore or divide it!! thanks for the heavenly work!!!

does anyone know any fics that A) resambles "if wishes where donkeys", as in time-travels fix it's where wangxian just want to be together no matter what?

B) also if anyone knows any fics where wwx actually becomes the lan-er furen, as in he is not only married to lwj but recognized as an authority in the lan sect and the cultivation world's gentry

C) + if anyone knows any fics that dive into wwx ancestry, that gives answers to wwx own questions about his parents that are never given in canon, or reveals that he is more than a servant or a servant's son not only buy merit but by blood, be it that he is from the gentry, baoshan sanren's grandson, mythical ancestry or even cross overs with mxxt other works

16B)

Into the Oubliette by Ruixx (M, 124k, WIP, wangxian, JYL/JZX, growing up, fix-it of sorts, time travel, arranged marriage, sibling bonding, adopted sibling relationship, light bdsm, sunshot campaign, war, politics, hostage JYL, visions, LXC redemption, good uncle LQR, empire building)

16C)

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 663k, WangXian, WIP, Fix-it of sorts, Talisman master WWX, Not JFM Friendly, Study Arc, Getting together, Fluff and Angst, Engagement) our beloved fic by tomatenmark dives into this somewhat

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17. For ITMF, looking for fics where LSZ either retains his memories (either partially or wholly) after being brought to CR, or regains them somehow before WWX's return, & has to deal with the effects (eg. trauma from losing his family & also intense distrust at the adults around him who preach about justice & truth while he knows they helped massacre innocents & are lying about WWX's actions) @thispatternismine

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If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

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communistkenobi · 7 months

Text

This is going to be an extremely messy post, but I’ve been grappling with the argument that “fascism” is nothing more than an exceptionalised label for the cyclical political crises of capitalism, as opposed to an actual historical force in and of itself - just as capitalism has cyclical economic crises which are necessary for its continued functioning, fascism represents the political crises of capital, a bulwark against class consciousness and socialist organising which threaten capitalist rule. Fascism does this by instead emphasising a racial or national consciousness, using white supremacy and the promise of property to divert people away from class consciousness. In Anatomy of Fascism, Paxton talks about how important the promise of property ownership to Italian peasantry was to establishing fascist rule there - class mobility up into the middle classes was used in concert with racial/national politics to stop people from identifying with the proletariat (“homeowners are too busy to be communists,” to paraphrase that American housing developer I forget the name of atm). This is especially weaponised against Jewish people, who are framed as having no national affiliation and are thus eternal outsiders to the bourgeois Christian homeland.

I have encountered a lot of definitions of fascism. The most productive and evocative definition I’ve found is Cesaire’s - colonialism come home. He was speaking of Europe when he said this, saying that Hitler was only doing what Europe did overseas. But what does this mean for settler colonial states? There is no “home” for colonialism to return to for countries like the United States or Canada, because this colonial process has to constantly and at all times maintain itself upon indigenous land in order for the state to continue to exist. The colonialism is always home, always domestic (while also obviously being exercised globally through imperial domination and violence, especially in the case of the United States). Are these states essentially fascist in conception? If this conclusion is true (which I’m leaning towards yes), is “fascism” a useful analytical category at all? If we speak of the political processes of capitalism when we speak of fascism, can we simply just call it all capitalism? It would be like if we called all periods of economic crisis “collapsism” and partitioned these periods of depression or economic instability into exceptional circumstances divorced from the history of capitalism (which we already have done with The Great Depression in the 1930s, or the 2008 Financial Crash - these are exceptional periods where something “went wrong,” where the system “failed”). Sitting with this conclusion for a moment, calling these processes fascist is to divorce them of their material history, to decouple them from the violence and exploitation inherent to capitalism, and to ensure that any analysis of fascism does not conclude with a call to abolish capitalism - for if fascism is merely an interruption of normal capitalist democratic functioning, then preventing future fascisms does not require the abolition of the current economic and political system.

I’ve been engaging with this essay recently, which calls liberals the “left wing of fascism,” and argues that liberalism, far from providing an alternative to fascist rule, instead provides a stabilising quality to it, acting as a stop-gap to the more destabilising right-wing bourgeois elements of capitalism. And despite these conclusions I still find fascism a useful label, both because I think it has a lot of strategic value to engage with particular historical periods (such as right now) as fascist - fascism as a label has widespread recognition, if not widespread understanding - and also because it provides a neat shorthand for the historical process of capitalist political decay.

Anyway I’m talking this all out publicly because I’m in the process of reviewing a lot of literature on the subject for my PhD, and I keep coming to this conclusion - that fascism is not “real” in the sense that it cannot be divorced from capitalism itself, and in fact is a necessary process to the continued functioning of capitalism - but I’m having a hard time seeing what analytical limitations this conclusion produces. I have so far been the most persuaded by post-colonial and Marxist accounts of fascism, but I wonder if multiple definitions of fascism are still strategically or analytically useful to use in concert with one another, even if I disagree with them

#book club #anatomy of fascism #.txt

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starphasedd · 5 months

Text

Unmade

1 - The Prelude

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Rating: 18+ for violence, explicit language, and eventual smut.

Synopsis: "When Din saw the look in your eyes at the sight of the child, he knew he made the right decision coming to you."

Notes: Hiii 🥺 It's been so long since I've had the motivation or inspiration to write. I'm so happy to finally post chapter one of my new works. 💓

This is a new multi-chapter series that will be worth reading, guaranteed. 👌 updates may be slow. But I promise I am working on it. And yes--smut coming soon. In the next chapter 🔥

Each chapter will have an assigned theme song. Literally just a song I listened to while writing that had me vibing. Name and artist in the notes below. 😊

Word count: 5k +

AO3 | chapter 2

9Aby - Tatooine - Ten months prior to present

It was getting increasingly difficult to find work.

Jobs were getting smaller and less complicated by the day. Some were bigger than others, but nothing compared to what you used to bring in. You've seen everything from small weapons repair, to minor speeder bike maintenance. But for the most part, they were small and low compensating jobs.

You found it hard to afford the essentials anymore. Food, water, toiletries–any base comfort to life. You hadn't had a home cooked meal in months . You ate what you could find or pawn off any wealthy vendor along the streets.

Luckily, you owned your own shop. You were infinitely grateful for that. It meant you had a place to sleep; a roof over your head. Most importantly, a door to close and lock at the end of the night. To keep the thieves and possibly more , out.

Mos Eisley had been attracting people from all over in recent years. You heard of a spice trade running rampant nearby from people in the village, but you always tried to ignore the banter. It was never good to involve yourself with those kinds of things. You made it a personal goal to stay pretty introverted. It was best for you, and everyone around you to not get involved in trivial things like gossip and politics.

It was testing, though. The drugs coming through town had taken a toll on your business.

It makes it hard for you to bring in any credits. Very hard. The criminals were starting to take over, driving all of the families with children out. Not only was it becoming difficult for you to earn any credits, it was making it difficult for you to earn clean credits.

For the longest time, your customer base were family men with speeders, regular weapons used for recreation and such. They were clean, good credits. You could take pride in helping the people of this town. You were contributing to happy and healthy lifestyles. It was relatively wholesome.

It’s not like that anymore.

Outsiders would come in looking for repairs on their weapons, only for you to find out the particular weapons they had in their possessions were registered as stolen. Ninety nine percent of the time, that meant they were previously owned by Imperials and were now being used in some type of crime syndicate. At first, you would turn them away. Even if it meant getting cursed at or losing business. You had options back then. But when more of them started rolling into town, driving the city folk away, you had no choice but to start taking their business. It was survival, at this point.

You laid awake at night, wondering–thinking of ways you could turn everything around. It always came to the same conclusion. You were a defenseless woman, operating a male dominated trade, in a town that was now overrun by criminals.

And you were alone.

You didn't have any family. Or even friends, for that matter. You kept to yourself all these years, solitude being your closest friend.

You did have an acquaintance that worked out of a hangar bay in the spaceport. Peli Motto. She was just that though. An acquaintance . Not a friend. There was something about her that irked you. Maybe it was the righteous part of you that wanted to be pure and good–because she was somewhat of a scammer. But her methods had her eating well every night. She was always at the bar, drinking and having fun. Gambling, all of it. You hated to admit it, but you often found yourself jealous of her.

Not just the scheming way of lining her pockets, but also her mechanical talents. She was definitely gifted in her trade, and she had loyal customers from all over. All of which could be possible clients of yours, but would never set foot in your shop because of her. Sometimes you thought she tried to spoil your name so everyone would come to her–a rotten way to get rotten business.

Day by day, you watched ship after ship land and leave her hangar. It angered you. Stars , it really pissed you off.

That is, until one day, she actually sends someone right to you.

It was incredibly muggy that day, you remember. Your hair stayed damp, sticking to your cheeks and neck. Your clothes clung to your body uncomfortably. Sweat rolled down your skin constantly all day. At some point, you wished you could walk around butt-ass-naked . Anything to escape the heat at this point. You wanted to rip your shirt and pants off to cool down. Even for a little while.

You sat atop an old project speeder bike in the corner of your shop. Some sunshine was able to come through missing pieces in the makeshift metal roof. Part of your shop was a building with one wall knocked down. You kept your personal belongings there. The other half of your shop was relatively open space. The roof was held together by pieces of metal you had found here and there. Most of it was rusted, and broken. Hence the big ray of sunshine that's beaming down on you right now. The floor on the open side of your shop was nonexistent. It was the raw, sandy ground. The floor leading into the closed part of your shop was tile you had laid down a while back. Something to walk on other than the sandy floor.

You tried covering up the brick walls of your shop with old blankets to give it a more 'homey' feel. You thought it may make your customers feel more at ease when they were around. When you had customers.

The speeder was a side project of yours that was slowly becoming your only project. You had always dreamt of owning a speeder for recreation. So, you bought a scrap, hollow shell of one a few years back to work on and restore for yourself. Sadly though, it was now becoming your survival project. You needed to sell it to feed yourself.

Red hued safety glasses shield your eyes from hot sparks that fly up from the soldering iron in your hands. Your fingers glide delicately over the sensitive wires in the ignition chamber of the speeder's engine bay. You’re sitting on the warm leather seat; the top half of your body hunched over in what you can only refer to as a “gremlin looking” position. It should hurt your back, but you were used to it by now. The long term effects lost on you for the time being. The only thing on your mind was getting this machine running so you could sell it and fill your cooling chamber.

Sweat glistens your face, neck and exposed chest as the hot Tatooine suns beam down on you. You have a bottle of water next to you on the ground in case you start to get nauseated. Which happens more frequently than not on this maker forsaken planet.

You reach up to wipe some of the sweat off your forehead with your arm. The heat from the surrounding areas combined with what radiated off the molten wires in front of you was taking a toll on your physical state. Maybe not the best day to do this. One of the hottest reported days in the planet’s history.

You sigh through chapped lips, deciding against starting the next bundle of wires. You lean down, gripping the water bottle with what little strength you had left to bring it up to your lips. You chug, sucking down the entire sixteen ounce bottle in one thirsty gulp. Despite the painfully hot air surrounding you, your water managed to stay relatively cool in the shade of your bike. The liquid runs cool down your throat; coating it in sweet relief for a few moments before you feel it hit the inside of your belly.

You sigh again, sitting up straight on the bike’s seat. You let your head fall back on your shoulders and you close your eyes, resting them for a few moments. Your arms fall limp to your sides, your thighs straddling each side of the hot speeder. The sun beams down on your skin and you can feel the burn starting up again. The red safety glasses also help to shield your eyes from the sun.

Your shop is far enough outside of the main streets that you don’t get all of the city noise, thankfully. Most days, you can sit here and just listen to the quiet noises of the sand and wind. It was relaxing sometimes, and deafening the other times.

So, you sat there for a few minutes. Head back, posture relaxed. Just enjoying the silence for a while.

After a few more minutes, you heard the distinct sound of the main shop door opening. The door was large and made of very flimsy durasteel. The sound of that loud wobbling paired with durasteel scraping on the sand surface was something you didn’t hear very often anymore. This was all followed by heavy footsteps; leather boots clumping lazily over the ground. A large man crested around the corner, looking down at you sitting on your bike.

You glance over at him. He appears human, his whole body brandished with expensive looking weapons. He had short cut hair, blonde in color. His eyes were blue. His skin was pale and freckled. He wore a black leather jacket on top of a black tank top. Both were dirty, and he didn’t seem to care.

A grin spread across his face and chills immediately shot down your spine. Your back stiffened as the large man began sauntering in your direction before he came to a halt in front of you. His thumbs hook in the pockets of his pants on either side.

He nods arrogantly before finally speaking to you.

“They told me a pretty little lady ran this shop. I dn’t believe em.” His accent is unfamiliar to you, his words almost slurring together. Or is he drunk?

He licks his lips once and smiles down at you. His teeth are dirty and unkempt.

You cough and shift away from him, swinging your leg over the other side of the speeder. You take a couple steps back from him, but not too many. As to not set any red flags off in the man's head. Your hand reaches up to push the red glasses onto the top of your head. You squint when the sun hits your sensitive hues. After pushing your glasses up, your hands slide back down to your waist and lock onto your hips.

Usually with these types of guys, you choose a more aggressive approach. You would immediately tell them to get lost, or chase them out. But, something is different about this one. He seems…off. Unhinged, maybe? Something about his demeanor screams at you. You’re uneasy.

You’re playing it safe this time. Just…see what he has to say.

“Guess I’m that lady,” You say sweetly, a very fake smile cresting your cheeks. You pretend to be busy, shifting around to pick up some useless spare parts hanging around. “How can I help you?”

His breathing is a little heavy, you notice. And that scares you. That hints at something unstable within him.

He takes his hands from his pockets and flattens his palms on the fabric, rubbing them up and down to dry them of the sweat he’s exuding on this hot day. He grins again and shifts to follow you when you opt to start walking into the shaded part of your shop.

“Need a piece of equipment fixed.” He says plainly, directly behind you.

There’s a tall, bar-like table to the left of your shaded space. Behind the bar-esque table is storage for your customers' weapons. You walk behind the bar, and he follows around to face you from the other side. Thank the maker. Breathing room.

“What kind of equipment?” You ask innocently.

The man reaches behind him and pulls a large rifle from his back. He drops it down on the counter in front of you.

You grab it softly, pulling it closer. Your fingers wrap around each end to bring it up for a better view. A knot is tightening in your gut. As you thought; an illegal weapon. Again. This one in particular is especially heinous.

A T7 Ion Disruptor. A rifle banned by the New Republic.

You clear your throat, slowly setting the weapon back down on the table in front of you. You glance up at the man through your lashes. He’s still grinning at you, shifting weirdly on his feet. Back and forth.

“I’m sorry. I can’t work on this.” You say, slowly pushing the rifle back towards the man.

You know there’s trouble when he stops shifting from side to side, and his grin slowly fades. He huffs, slapping his hands back down onto the weapon and pushing it back to your side of the counter.

“I’ll pay ya, No questions asked.” He says, his blood shot eyes boring into your face.

Your heart is starting to race, goosebumps covering the skin of your arms as the situation slowly starts to escalate. You’ve seen this desperate type of behavior before. Especially here. Especially now. The spice coming into town has corrupted many people here. The crime syndicates were always looking for better weapons. But they would only buy if the weapons were in working condition. Addicts would find these illegal rifles and bring them to you, desperate to have them fixed so they could go sell them to the syndicates. All to get their next week's fix of drugs. You feel for these people, you really do. This is a way of life for them. This is how they survive. You wish you could help, but you can’t put yourself under the radar of any crime syndicate.

“--’m sorry. I can’t. This rifle is banned by the New Republic.” You say softly, pushing the rifle back towards the man.

His breathing has increased; it’s loud and almost rabid now. He’s sweating and twitching. He stands there for a moment, staring at you. And without any notice, he violently slams both hands down on the table and shoves the rifle at you. It hits your lower stomach. Your heart drops into your belly.

“I don’t care if it’s fuckin’ banned by the New Republic. I need it fixed–” He says, leaning over the counter. His hot breath is fanning your face as he grunts. “ Now .”

He’s huffing heavily through his nostrils. Sweat is dripping down his cheeks and dropping on the weapon below him. His fingers are twitching on the wood countertop, and his eyes are wide. They’re bulging out of his head, red and bloodshot. The skin around his eyes is dark and almost hollow.

You let a soft, shaky breath escape your lips as you struggle to find the courage or words to confront him. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t give you a chance to respond. He just…waits.

You’ve experienced men like him before, but never this violent. Most men that came in here were trying to get a rise out of you. Always something to say. They always thought they could take advantage of you; overpower you. But you pride yourself on your courage and cunning. You never let them get to you.

This was different, though. This man is explosively violent and unstable.

He’s desperate . That scares you the most.

You struggle to find words as fear settles into your skin. Your hands drop below the counter to a shelf underneath. He doesn’t notice, as he has his eyes fixed on yours. Your nimble fingers begin to wrap themselves around an emergency blaster you have hung under the counter.

Finally, as your fingers secure defense, you muster the courage to speak.

“I can’t ,” You exhale slowly, finger tightening on the trigger of the blaster.

The man exhales hard, fingernails starting to scratch into the wood surface below his palms. He leans up slightly, letting his chest have room to inhale so he can speak.

“ You little bitch ,” He starts, but he’s cut off.

“Is there a problem here?” An unfamiliar voice rings in. It’s modulated, almost like it came from a droid.

It startles the both of you. In unison, the two of you shoot your heads in the direction of where the voice came from.

In the entrance of your shop stands another man, and your heart sinks even more.

He’s tall and covered in armor. The armor is all different colors, worn and damaged from much use it seems. He also has weapons brandished all over his body. He has brown boots on, strapped with bombs of all kinds. He has a dark brown flight suit underneath. Every important part of his body is covered by the worn armor.

When you get to his head, you immediately recognize what he is.

A Mandalorian. A distinct helmet.

He stands tall and confident. He has broad shoulders, and large arms.

Your fingers are still locked on the trigger of your blaster as you struggle to tear your eyes from the Mandalorian standing in your doorway.

The man in front of you grunts and shifts to stand up to his full height. He shuffles before turning back to look at you.

“I’m almost done with her,” he starts, before shooting around the left side of the counter at you. As he’s coming around, he’s speaking. “ You can have her when I’m done .” He growls out, sweaty and vicious hands grabbing for you as he breeches the left side of the counter. He’s moving so fast it’s hard for you to process. You don’t fully register what’s going on, not really. All you can see is his large, looming figure coming at you at lightspeed. All you can hear are the quick shuffling of his feet and he charges you.

Instinctually, you bring the blaster out from under the counter and point it towards him as he charges you.

But as soon as you brought the blaster out, the man was shot down. A red beam of plasma blasts past and so close to your head the wind gust from it causes your hair to fly up and over your head.

Not a sound comes from the man as he falls to the ground. He thuds loudly, loose limbs hitting the ground after his back. You’re still holding the blaster up in defense, almost like you’re stuck there. Your heart is racing out of your chest and your breathing is slightly elevated. It takes you a few seconds to fully register what just happened. You finally let your arms drop slowly.

You look down at the blaster in your hands, watching your trembling fingers grip the cold durasteel. Your skin is white from gripping the weapon so hard. Your head is dropped, preoccupied, as the Mandalorian slowly approaches the counter.

“Are you alright?” The man asks softly.

It startles you out of your stupor and you look up, seeing the Mandalorians’ hulking figure standing in front of you. He’s even bigger when he’s up close.

You softly set the blaster back in its place under the counter and look up at the Mandalorian.

“Yeah...” You mutter softly, confusion evident in your tone. You look down at the dead man on your floor. “ Maker. ..why would he just…?”

“Exactly why you think.” The Mandalorian speaks. His voice is deep and weathered through the vocoder.

You glance up at him, eyes searching the T-visor of his Beskar helmet.

“Apologies. I heard the whole thing.” He says.

You look from the Mandalorian in front of you, back to the body on your floor once again. You stare at it as you speak.

“Another victim of spice addiction.” You say softly, your tone caressed by a tinge of sadness.

The Mandalorian silently nods his head, his hands coming down to grip the buckle on his belt.

After a few moments, you can hear him shift, grabbing ahold of the Ion Disruptor on the counter. You turn to look back at him and watch as he examines the weapon with diligence. His helmet tilts with the weapon, and his gloved fingers glide delicately over the durasteel.

“Could I take this off your hands?” he asks after a few moments of examining the weapon.

“ Please take it.” You say, a soft smile on your cheeks.

His helmet turns to look over you for a few seconds, like he’s examining you now.

“How much?” He asks.

“It’s yours. No charge.” You say, letting your hands rest on the counter. Your blood is starting to cool, and you’re not trembling anymore.

He looks down at you again and nods, throwing the heavy weapon behind him to sit with some of his others. “Thank you.”

You can’t help the cheeky smile that crosses your face. Your cheeks start to burn. You shift to cross your arms over your chest. “Any particular reason you ventured into my shop, Mandalorian?”

He nods. “I could use your help repairing something.” He says, reaching into a bag on his side. He pulls out a hyperdrive ignition key and gently sets it on the table. He shifts his hips to lean on the other side. “Peli Motto told me you’re good with old ships.”

“Peli Motto? She sent you to me ?” You ask, astonished at the man's words as you lean down to get a better look at the hyperdrive part.

“Not a friend of yours?” He asks, watching you examine the part.

You huff. “Not exactly.” You say nonchalantly, sliding your fingers over the delicate part. “She couldn’t help you?”

“No. She said you’re pretty well versed with electrical failures. On older ships.”

You glance up at him for a moment and chuckle. “Interesting.”

“Don’t usually get referrals from her, I take it?”

“Never. She’s the reason I never have business, if I’m honest.” You say softly, leaning back up and putting your hands on your hips.

He cocks his head to the side gently and watches you.

His gaze is deep, and silent, as he watches you. You find yourself fidgeting with the hem on your hips.

“I..uh, can fix this. Easy. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour.”

He nods, and you take that as your que to get to work.

It takes you forty three minutes, actually. One of the quickest jobs you've had in a while. It was a relatively easy fix. The Mandalorian stood and watched you the entire time, intrigued by your knowledge of the machinery.

"Razor Crest, right?" You ask.

"Yes. How can you tell?"

"This hyperdrive ignition design was used on most pre-imperial ships. But, this one has a significant trait that ties it to the Razor Crest, and the Razor Crest alone ," you say, using a finger to draw him in close by pointing down at the part.

"This is air cooled. See the little chamber here?" You ask, pointing to a small, empty glass chamber in the middle of the device. "Like any other part on a ship, this can get hot. So it's got a pocket of air that feeds directly into the ignition pump, that sends fuel to the thrusters."

He watches you.

"The Razor Crest was the first and last ship ever to have a glass chamber for the hyperdrive ignitions. Afterwards, they were all Durasteel chambers. Easier, cheaper. The glass chambers had so many issues with cracking and leaks, that they immediately discontinued the design. And went for something more durable."

He watches as you slowly pull out the glass chamber and set it aside.

"We'll replace the glass with some durasteel, and you'll be all good to go." You say with a soft smile.

The Mandalorian stands over you, continuing to watch in silence as you make a small durasteel chamber by hand, and fit it to the hyperdrive ignition.

"You're very knowledgeable." He speaks, his voice low and scratchy.

You glance up at his visor for a moment and shoot him a quick smile before looking back down at your work.

"I'd hope so, otherwise I'm in the wrong profession."

A loud click indicates that the durasteel piece is back in place. You gently slide it towards him once you do your final examination.

"You're all set." You say with a smile, hands resting on the counter in front of you.

It's dark out now. A small bit of moonlight shining in through the holes in your makeshift roof. Fairy lights and small cantina lamps light the space around you, painting everything in a soothing orange hue.

The Mandalorian gently grabs the part from your counter and slips it into his satchel.

"What do I owe you?" He asks.

You think about it for a moment; hard. And then you glance over at the lifeless body of the attacker on your floor.

"Nothing." You say, still staring at the body.

He pauses, seemingly confused. "I don't understand."

"No charge today.” You say, looking back up at him and nodding towards the body–hinting.

He takes a deep breath in, this chest rising steadily as he shifts on his feet again.

You offer him another warm smile. “A token of my gratitude.”

His chest falls after a few moments and his helmet turns to look around your shop. He hadn’t had time to until now.

"Your kindness will not be forgotten." He speaks gently.

You smile. "Nor will yours, Mandalorian. Safe travels."

He stands there for a few moments longer than you anticipated, almost like he's thinking. Then he nods and turns to slowly make his way out of your shop.

You thought that would be the last time you saw him. You were wrong.

It was probably a month later when he came back.

It was another hot day. You chose to take the day off, this time. You sat in your bedroom which was closed off from the rest of the building by a large blanket hanging in the doorway. Your room looked like every other building on Tatooine. The walls were crafted of sandy colored pourstone, rounding at the top. A large window on the left lets in plenty of natural sunlight to illuminate the room. There’s just enough space for your bed. You keep a small, single person table and chair directly under the window, where you sit and eat your breakfast every morning.

You’re sitting under the window drinking some caf when you hear the door to your shop open. You stop what you’re doing and listen to see if the person approaches your counter. Heavy footsteps lead directly to the enclosed part of your shop. Quickly, you set your cup of caf down and shuffle to meet the customer out in the open area.

When you shove the blanket out of your way, you’re surprised to see the same Mandalorian from a month earlier standing in your workshop. His appearance is different though. Before, he only had the Beskar helmet. The rest of his armor was pretty old and worn. But today, he appears to you in nothing but pure Beskar armor. From head to toe. He looks clean, and well put together. Shiny.

You rub your hands together and smile softly as you approach him. His helmet follows you as you walk over on the other side of the counter.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here again.” You say softly.

The Mandalorian nods, his hands looped in the buckle of his belt like the last time you saw him.

"What brings you back, Mando?” You ask. The nickname slips, but it suits him.

“Are you looking for work?” He says, his voice smooth through the vocoder.

You tilt your head to the side a little, slightly confused. “Pardon?”

“I could use your help,” He starts, his hands coming up to rest on the counter top. “...maintaining my ship and…” he starts, but trails off and he reaches behind himself to shift his shoulder bag to the front. When he does, he lifts the cover to reveal something extraordinary to you. “..with this.”

He reveals a small, green baby. It’s wrinkled, and has pointed ears. Big brown eyes look up at you in wonder as your mouth gapes. It coos softly, tilting its head to one side as it observes you.

“ Stars ….what the hell is that?” You stutter over your words as you lean down to gently pull the baby from the satchel. It coos again, happily, as you pick it up.

“I've been bequested to bring him back to his kind.” Says the Mandalorian.

“H-how did this happen?” You ask, eyes focused on the little green baby in front of you as his claws grip your hands on either side.

“It’s a long story,” He starts, watching you observe the baby carefully. “I can’t watch him and I need to continue hunting to fund this quest,” He says softly.

You glance up at him for a moment. “And you…came to me? Why?”

“He needs supervision, I can’t leave him alone.” He swiftly bounces around the why part of your question.

You look from him, back down at the baby. The baby watches you with wide, curious brown hues. His mouth gapes open so show small, jagged teeth underneath. One of his hands comes up to touch your chin softly.

There's an odd feeling that comes over you when he makes those little noises. The way he seems to smile, and immediately warm up to you.

“I can pay you handsomely.” The Mandalorian speaks after a few minutes of silence.

You glance back up at Mando through your lashes, he’s closer now than he was before. You’re slowly cuddling the green child into your chest as he seems to settle right into your warmth. One arm is under his bottom, and the other is behind his back to hold him firm against you.

You start to say something, but no words come out. A breath of air sneaks through as you lock onto his T-visor.

You shake your head, looking back down at the child. “M-my shop? How will…? I can’t just leave..?” You mumble out.

“Peli agreed to look over it,” Mando says.

You look back up at him once again, softly rubbing your hand over the baby’s back.

“Peli ? Now I'm confused.”

“She proposed using it for storage.”

You click your tongue, looking down at the child as he lays comfortably against your chest. “Of course she did.”

“You’ll have plenty to keep you busy aside from the child. My ship is old,” He says, his tone softening. A gentle approach. “...it always needs work.”

You look up at Mando for what feels like the hundredth time. He stands tall over you, his broad shoulders blocking the sunlight behind him. His posture is serious; stern. This is important to him. You find your eyes needlessly searching for him under the T-visor, though you know you’d never find him.

“Okay…” You speak softly, just under your breath. Almost like you didn’t mean to say it.

“Yeah?” He asks, his shoulders slouching a bit; relaxing.

“Yeah, okay.” You say again, this time it was louder. Like you were reaffirming it. Like you needed to hear your own voice to register you had just agreed. The baby in your arms coos softly in your warmth.

The Mandalorian nods, clearing his throat softly. “Thank you.”

Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was nervous. You tell by the softness in his tone; a stark difference from what you had heard before. He was out of his comfort zone here, dealing with a child. You understood why he came to you now. He was familiar with you, and trusted you wouldn’t turn him down. He just needs help and guidance in this uncertain time for him.

“I’ll go grab a bag.” You say softly, looking down at the baby in your arms.

As you walk through the blanket that covers your private quarters, Mando can hear you whispering to the child in your arms. “ Wanna come with me, sweet boy? ” Your tone is soft and motherly, unlike what he had heard when you were dealing with that spice addict a month ago.

When he saw the look in your eyes at the sight of the child, he knew he had made the right decision coming to you.

‐-------

Chapter theme: With Love From - Aly & AJ

#din djarin #the mandaloria/reader #the mandalorian #star wars #din djarin x you #mandalorian and grogu

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chamerionwrites · 5 months

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Aimé Césaire saying that colonization works to decivilize the colonizer truly lives in my head rent-free

#this is the essence of the v problematic anticolonial critique in so much 19thc literature (eg heart of darkness) right?#(and also its more modern inheritors eg apocalypse now and the Doing An Imperialism Makes Our Soldiers Sad genre of war story)#it glosses right over the crucial 'systems of rapacious cruelty are bad IN THEIR OWN RIGHT BECAUSE BROWN PEOPLE ARE HUMAN' bit #but in that one limited sense - that cruelty also brutalizes the perpetrators - it is very much the same critique #anyway i guess my brain continues to find ways to circle back round to discourse on colonialism no matter the initial topic #lit tag #no more war #imperialism #imperial violence always comes home #cultures of dissociation #aimé césaire #i am also choosing to tag this #sherlock holmes #as like solidly 98% of the stories in which the murderer is a former colonial officer or official are ROILING w this exact anxiety #(especially the hella racist ones. lol.)#i mean loads of authors in that time period are doing it but i have a tag for acd so.#my posts

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lesbiansandgayssupporttheminers · 3 months

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The UK government has released a statement on the ICJ ruling, which is pretty concerning and disgusting.

I will preface this by saying that I don't think UK politicians are the solution to the problems in Israel and Gaza, although obviously we need to stop arming Israel and sending them money as soon as possible.

However, I equally think this statement reflects some pretty disgusting imperialism on the part of the British government, which is especially rife under the Tories, and I want to pull that apart.

Firstly, to describe the prosecution as "unhelpful" very much smacks of a former Imperial power trying to state they know what is best on the world stage, whereas their former colonies do not, and that is pretty disturbing. "Wrong" and "Provocative" by whose standards, exactly?

In this specific case, we are looking at a former apartheid state raising a case about a current apartheid state. Arguably apartheid is always genocidal, but Israel has recently escalated the violence towards Palestinians into active murder of tens of thousands of people, and the displacement of millions more- which the ICJ has recognised as a genocide. Britain as an Imperial power contributed to South Africa becoming an apartheid state and directly caused the creation of the modern state of Israel. Who's more qualified here to decide what is "helpful" or "wrong"?

Israel's existence is part of a colonialist agenda on the part of the US, and yes, the UK as well. The statement says the UK government wants to work towards a "sustainable ceasefire", and yet the majority of MPs voted against the SNP amendment calling for a ceasefire...

I also have further concerns about Britain distancing itself from the ICJ and UNWRA. Many people have commented about the rising fascism in the UK (myself included). Aimé Césaire wrote about fascism being imperialism coming home. In the UK, we should all be concerned about this.

In many contexts, this sort of behaviour would lead to a country being called something like a "rogue state" in the Western media. But of course being called a rogue state is reserved for those outside the imperial core.

#uk politics #palestine #gaza #icj #south africa #israel #imperialism #fascism #britain as a rogue state

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irithnova · 9 months

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Notes on Empire of Care by Catherine Ceniza Choy

The scapegoating of Filipino nurse immigrants: Filipina Narciso and Lenora Perez are examples of two nurses who were scapegoated.

Filipino nurses with temporary work visas, H-1 visas, were exploited

Mass murder cases involving Filipino nurses included the 1996 Richard Speck massacre. Some of his victims were Filipino nurses and the only survivor was one of these Filipino nurses

The only survivor - Luisa Silverio

The victims

The 1975 Veterans administration hospital murders that happened in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and involved the previously mentioned nurses Narciso and Perez, bering initially convicted and then later acquitted. They were accused of poisoning and conspiracy

These cases reflect how US imperialism shaped the treatment that was levelled at Filipino nurses

During the late 1970s, Filipino nurse organisations emerged in order to combat the exploitation and discrimination that Filipino nurses faced

There is still a huge gap in the study of Filipino Americans. Quoted from Sucheng Chan's essay on Asian American historiography

"Despite the steady progress in Asian American historical scholarship, significant gaps remain. The most glaring is the absence of book-length studies on Filipino Americans"

American imperialism still shapes the way in which Filipinos - especially Filipino women are perceived

Jesse Ventura, an American politician in his autobiography "I ain't got no time to bleed" reminisces on his days as a Navy Seal stationed in the Philippines.

He talks about being young with a large libido, and how the abundance of Filipino women for him and his comrades to take home relieved that.

He spoke of going through less hurdles when he came to getting a Filipina to sleep with him compared to American women back home. In other words - Filipinas were easy.

This is a reflection of how US imperialism has shaped how the Philippines is viewed.

Filipino women are used in order to portray the Philippines as a feminised, hypersexual, always-willing paradise for the pleasure of Western men.

This depiction of so called "love" between Filipinos and Americans erases the long history of US violence, US domination, the colonial relationship between the US and the Philippines and the history of sexual violence perpetuated against Filipino women. Not to mention the destruction of the environment and spread of disease

US military presence in the Philippines also helped in influencing migration patterns.

By 1970, there were more Filipino men in the US navy than the Philippine navy. This was due to the active recruitment of Filipino men into the US military

Yet another example of how the US imperialist narrative erases truths about history and the lived experiences of Filipinos:

Filipino American organisations had to convince Minnesota legislature to correct a plaque commemorating the Spanish-American war.

The plaque stated that it was honouring the fact that the war was fought to free the Philippines from the tyrannical Spanish

This is unequivocally untrue and rings back to the concepts of American exceptionalism - The US being far more "benevolent" to it's colonies than their European counterparts.

The war was fought in order to defeat the Spanish - not to liberate the Philippines.

The Philippines then fought against the US for independence thereafter

America's so called "forgetfulness" when it comes to Filipino-American history continues to hurt Filipinos.

In particular, Filipino American war Veterans who struggle to fight for their access to veterans benefits.

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inyri · 1 month

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Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 41: Good Soldiers Follow Orders

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M. Trigger warning: graphic violence, depictions of torture, body horror.) Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction Dot Net

Author’s Note: Please note the trigger warnings. I had to step away from this for a little while (all right, more than a little while). Chapters are consecutive, of course, and as I posted the last one and moved to wrapping up this one I found life imitating art in a very, very uncomfortable way. I don’t talk a lot about my work for many reasons. Normally it’s not very exciting. And then there are the days that stay, the reminders that sometimes the world is deeply, viciously cruel in ways that are hard to process. As part of my work I met two men who were subjected to that cruelty, heard their stories, and helped care for them on their paths back home.

The first iterations of this series of scenes were very different from where we ended up. Nine and her team were far nastier at first, which wasn’t really true to her, and then I tried to make it funny which- well, obviously we can see the problem with that approach. So this is where we ended. It’s still an ugly chapter, but here we are.

This chapter is dedicated to AD, AH, and all victims of torture.

Good Soldiers Follow Orders

Theron follows her close as a shadow as they make their way from her ship across the base, dodging carefully around the first watch guards on their patrol routes. A month ago it would have been simple but a month ago they’d been sloppy; since then she’d ordered new watchposts set, new floodlights installed, locked down the turbolift platform to the valley below. There were so many other places to land a ship on Odessen, canyons and clearings and deep, dark forest far beyond the view of the towers, and it would have been far too easy for an infiltrator to sneak in.

Or one might simply use your landing bay. Valkorion’s armor gleams as an arc of light cuts across the path. In through the front door. All comers welcomed. Perhaps Arcann should-

The illusion shatters when she steps through it, the sentence left ominously unfinished.

Second patrol. Third patrol. Through the external door on the heels of a pair of Sana-Rae’s adepts, weaving through the hall and crammed into the back corners of the lift with an absolutely massive Zabrak with a distinct half-ring of glitterstim around one nostril (she makes a mental note- the cantina’s more than necessary but if they’ve got a spice problem that’s another vulnerability they can’t afford), down the hallways into Science Wing and nearly to the lab- outside door’s open, good, but how’s she going to-

Shit.

She’s six steps ahead of herself in contingency plans as usual, mind racing, but that doesn’t matter worth a damn when she fucks up Step One. Stopping so abruptly he almost runs right into her, she grabs Theron by the wrist and pulls him into the darkest corner of an empty meeting room. His head tilts in silent confusion as she reaches toward the stealth generator clipped to his belt. I thought- he starts to sign, one hand raised.

Switching, she replies, left-handed; pulling it free, she replaces it with hers. Backup has a shorter clock when the main’s off. If it overloads-

Theron nods. Bad. Right. Where should I stand?

Back- her fingers stutter as she considers (Void, she really isn’t thinking, is she? She needs to be. One mistake and the whole thing comes apart)- back left corner. You’ll have a five-count to get through the door before it closes, then don’t move and-

Don’t say anything. I know. He repeats the sign, an added emphasis. I promised.

She rubs her forehead, trying and failing to settle the ache building between her eyes. I know. Come on.

***

The inner laboratory door slides closed with a soft hiss, just muffling Theron’s last few footsteps as he settles carefully into the corner, and she lets her stealth field drop.

“I got your message.” Nine forces the words out, forces strength into her voice as she sets the lock. She cannot falter, not now. “SCORPIO, give me the holo. Let’s get it opened up.”

“Commander.” Doctor Lokin looks up from across the room, setting a handful of instruments and an empty syringe- not all clean, she notes- neatly into place on a polished metal tray. Beside him, her would-be killer slumps forward against the treatment chair’s restraints, an intravenous catheter in his right arm and his lower body wrapped in a surgical dropcloth, head covered by black fabric and bound around the middle with thick strips of spacer’s tape. “We were just beginning.”

[ sleepy already, cipher? but we’re only just beginning.

when hunter’s slap hits she startles bolt upright in the chair and then wishes she hadn’t, her ribs shifting beneath the straps like so many shattered potsherds as she grinds her teeth to keep from screaming. she’s screamed so much already and she won’t give him the satisfaction of another, won’t-

hunter gestures- toward the woman, she thinks, it’s getting hard to see now with her face so bruised. let’s wake her up, hm? ah, no- something cold and metallic tightening on her right index finger- the other hand, to start. now the left side, still the index finger, tighter and tighter and oh void it hurts it hurts it hurts she’s got to say something or it-

i’m telling you, she gasps, when those reinforcements get here from- and there’s a sharp snap and she can’t help it and she screams-

keep singing, little bird. I do so hate to have to break your pretty wings.]

Her hand throbs.

“I didn’t tell you to start without me.” Her stomach churns even as she curls her fingers into an easy fist, testing their movement; she couldn’t do that for a month after Corellia so it’s only the memory of pain, isn’t it? “And how long has that tape been on? We need his eyes open, not swollen shut. It’s too fucking tight.”

“If you’re referring to this-” Lokin lifts a pair of bloody-gripped forceps with one finger and a long-suffering look- “your knife tipped his saphenous, and I assumed you would prefer he not hemorrhage before you had the chance to work. I’ve only just run the amytal in, nothing more. But,” he squints at the rings of tape, flips a vibroscalpel from the tray into his palm and before she can even begin to move he slices through the binding neatly, once and then again, “you aren’t wrong. SCORPIO restrained him while I was busy with his leg, but I ought to have-”

SCORPIO turns from the console, shoulders lifting in what might have been a shrug. “My primary directive on Odessen remains operational security, Commander. He cannot share what he cannot see.”

“Yes, but-”

One of the wall-mounted monitors beeps, shrill and insistent, until Lokin prods it with a gloved finger and it lapses into red-flashing silence. “He’s starting to wake. Shall we?”

Void, she hates interrogations. (She used to be good at them once, when she was younger and followed orders better. She used to be good at them because of course, why waste precious time on subtleties when you can simply pry and bend and break and it all comes out in the end either way- maybe in pieces, yes, but that was just another puzzle to solve if one was clever enough, even if it was messier-

Orders were orders.

She used to be good at them once. Before Corellia.)

“Is Lana coming? She’s covering for me with Sana-Rae, I think, but-”

She turns too quickly as the door opens behind her and as she spins the room tips sideways and then it starts to spin, too; pausing midstep, she grabs at the nearer benchtop to steady herself, her left hand raised as a counterbalance. Lana clears the doorway in two steps, the worry lines across her forehead deepening.

“I’ve got you,” Lana murmurs. “We’ve just finished, and I had a feeling you might-” she only wrinkles her nose a little as she glances toward the instrument table- “want my help with this.”

When she nods the world shifts unpleasantly anticlockwise. “Yes. Dialing out blind on his holo’s a losing proposition. With any luck he’ll talk, but I’m not counting on it and we haven’t got the time to wear him down.” Pressing her lips together against a wave of nausea, she inhales. Exhales. Inhales. The spinning slows.

“Physical methods, then?”

She shakes her head- oh, Force, there it goes again- inhale. Exhale. “Just tell me what you see. I’ve been bled on enough today, and if we push too hard-”

“Does it matter? You can’t possibly intend to let him-” at her gesture Lana lowers her voice, just above a whisper- “walk away from this. An attack, here, on you- there have to be consequences.”

“Do I look like a Jedi to you? You know me better than that.” When she says it Lana snorts and rolls her eyes and to be fair she has a point- of course she has a point- but a misstep now could be the last strand of a rope to hang herself by, the final block knocked loose that brings the whole tower crashing down, and she can afford that far less than to give away a shred of undeserved mercy. “You’re a step ahead of me, that’s all. I need the who before I decide the what.”

Lana sighs. “I know. I only- I defer to you, Commander. It’s your decision.”

“Maybe, or maybe it’s Trant’s. But we won’t know until we know, and-” another warning chime from the monitors; another warning look from Lokin. “We’re running out of time. And when we’ve finished I’ve still got to talk to Koth and Senya, and-”

“Already postponed, and that can wait in any case. There’s nothing to discuss that won’t keep for a day. We’ll call them once we’re in transit,” Lana eyes her up and down, “after another round of kolto.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” Lana’s hand comes to rest beneath her lifted arm; with the world still half-spinning she’d have missed the subtle pulse of energy if Lana hadn’t flinched when their fingertips meet. “Force help me, you’re not - I’ll take it over, Nine. I’ll… I can do it. You should rest.”

“No.” When she shakes her head the room stays level now, at least. It’s something. “No. This is my mess to sort out. Just lock the door.”

***

Five minutes later all she’s got out of him is a slurred sequence of names, ranks, and serial numbers (lying, Lana says each time from her perch behind the chair, though she knew that long before she said it) and the unwavering gut-punch certainty that the man is an SIS agent. With so little actual information to go on and their databases two years out of date- when Theron left he’d downloaded what he could but slicing back into the mainframe to sync them’s a risk none of them are willing to take right now- trying to find a name for her attacker’s useless, with dozens of dossiers a partial match to the same physical parameters: average height, average build, Underlevels accent, Republic emblems tattooed on biceps and back and another handful laser-faded to barely visible outlines. With half the Republic’s infantry dredged up from the Coruscant undercity’s gangs and prisons and half the SIS (and nearly all of SpecOps) poached from the army, she could have shot into the Dealer’s Den or the Red Rancor on a Primesday night and hit five clones of him in a straight line between the door and the bar.

She studies his face from every angle, waiting for a memory to trigger, and- no, still nothing, barely a nod in the corridor or a passing glance in the mess line. Three weeks on Odessen and the man’s practically a ghost, a traceless alias for a name and a ride hitched on a transport from Port Nowhere. Granted, both she and Theron had been off-planet most of that time, but stars, if this one got in so easily how many more could?

That’s a problem for another day. It has to be.

But for now SCORPIO runs the serials, just for the sake of thoroughness, and- ah. Those faces she knows: Corellia, six years ago; a Coruscanti gala, bloodstains on a black dress; Dromund Kaas, only a month or two before Zakuul.

She just hadn’t known their real names, then. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had.

Orders were orders.

“So you’re ten dead men in a trenchcoat, then? And you’re wrong about that last one, by the way. That was probably Cipher Four. I’ve never been to Ord Mantell.” She pushes his commpad away with a scowl. The damned thing’s wiped clean- all the more likely he’d spoken to Trant within the last half-day, then; that was a lesson from Alderaan that only the Director ought to have learned. With enough time they could have recovered it, but they don’t have time. So she turns back to him instead, her thumb and index finger poised on closed eyelids gone puffy from the pressure of the binding. “Last chance to make this easier on yourself. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”

“More’n ten. Way more.” His words are less slurred now, the serum finally taking effect, and Lana sits up straighter. “‘nd hells take your easier. You’re gonna kill me anyway, so-”

Void, why are they always so insistent on dying?

She doubts he can see her, so she just adds a twinge of melodrama to her sigh. “Not necessarily, agent. You tried to murder me. Naturally, I objected-” a little more pressure on his eye, just enough that he starts to shift against the restraining strap- “but if I really wanted you dead I’d have let you use your kill pill instead of wasting perfectly good antitoxin on you. I can be civil if you can.”

Lana closes her eyes, focused and still.

“To be clear, you’re alive as a means to an end and it’s in your best interest to cooperate. But you and I know how it goes, don’t we?” When she lifts her open hand SCORPIO presses the holotransmitter into her palm. “Good soldiers follow orders. It’s not personal. You were only doing as you’re told.” She leans in closer, knee jostling against his mended leg just a little harder than necessary as the paper drape crinkles, voice lowered in a simulacrum of confidence. “Stars, I remember those days. He sits in his big office and sics you on a target, unclips your leash and you just- well. Ours not to reason why, hm?”

The cuff around his right wrist clinks against the arm of the chair as he makes an obscene gesture.

Wrong tactic. Well, then.

Her sigh’s loud enough to make him flinch. “And it was all wrong, wasn’t it? All that planning, all that time pacing, writing a five-line message that he never even saw, all for nothing?” His breath stills, his heart rate spikes, and Lokin hooks another syringe to the IV port and slowly pushes the plunger down. “DId you think I wouldn’t see? I’d almost feel sorry for you if it wasn’t so utterly pathetic.”

His head lolls forward against the restraint, a counterpressure against her hand.

“Oh, no, no.” Shifting, she pushes him back upright with two fingertips in the center of his forehead. “Not yet. Not until-”

“I almost got you.” His mouth contorts- it might have passed for a grin in a darker room, teeth bared, feral- and something in his voice makes her hair stand on end. She recoils, pulling her hand away from his face even as he pauses. “So fucking close. Just a few more seconds and I’d’ve bled you dry, Cipher, and then I’d-”

(The words barely register; he’s not the first and certainly not the most creative person to threaten her with postmortem indecencies but somehow they always think it’s going to shock her into silence, as though it’s the single most awful thing that could ever happen when she’s lived through far worse horrors and more to the point she wouldn’t even know, she’d be dead).

“-see enough and you know Shan’d come running- Force, that would’ve been even better, the look on his traitor face even if it was the wrong way round-”

wait.

WAIT.

no, Trant wouldn’t have-

When she blinks she sees it all in the span of a millisecond: half a hundred ways it could have gone, half a hundred indignities inflicted, half a hundred times it breaks Theron for just long enough for the blow to fall. Lana must see something else; she makes the smallest little sound, a muffled gasp of disgust covered over by knuckles cracking in clenched-fisted fury and then a snarled Sith curse she doesn’t understand (but Valkorion clearly does- she isn’t wrong, he murmurs) and it brings her back to herself.

Her comm buzzes; her eyes flick down toward the screen.

Kicking him for breaking comm silence would be counterproductive, she supposes, but what does Belsavis have to do with anything? If Theron knows his name he ought to have just said so, not making her work harder than she already is.

< don’t know him but think I know the unit> <told Marcus it was a bad idea> <don’t think he listened>

That would explain the burned-off tattoos. Stars, has the SIS truly become that desperate? Or was this another Garza project- some experiment likely as not to fail just as Eclipse Squad had, so why waste frontline troops when the Republic had a whole planet full of froth-mouthed maniacs more than happy to keep killing as the cost of their freedom and if things did go bad, well, they were going to die one way or another so what did it matter?

Then SCORPIO blinks once, head turning toward her comm and then, slower, toward the corner and oh, damn it all-

“Didn’t think the SIS went in for necrophilia,” she says conversationally, covering her mouth over a particularly exaggerated yawn as Lokin barely stifles a snort. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the Jedi. I am curious, though- did you pick that up on Belsavis, or was that why they locked you up in the first place?”

His teeth clench.

“Piracy? Hm, no. Some flavor of war crime, I’m sure- oh, I know. Fragged your CO, I’d bet. You’ve got that sort of look.”

“Onomatophobia. Go fuck yourself.”

(She’d come at it all wrong, hadn’t she?

She’d thought this wasn’t personal because for her it wasn’t. Okay, fine, with Trant maybe it is, now, but this is no old enemy. She only hurt him to start with because he cut her first and deeper and even Theron doesn’t know his name- and stars know his memory’s brilliant, to judge by his stories he remembers everyone he ever worked with and it was far harder for him when they weren’t all just Minder Ten and Fixer Twelve and Watcher Three. The garotte alone might have been sheer bloody-mindedness in a way she wouldn’t have expected from the SIS, but even the Republic for all its supercilious moralizing had its fair share of sadists; Hunter hadn’t truly been one of them but they’d certainly all thought so at the time and still they’d all turned their heads, every single time, even when she’d screamed until her voice gave out.

Of course her control word was in her Republic file. He wasn’t the only one to try to use it, the first ones in earnest and then, when she’d shredded enough of them into bloody little pieces that they realized it didn’t didn’t hold her any more, as a vicious sort of mockery. That worked a bit, she supposes; maybe it always will. Not well enough to save them, of course.

She’d thought it wasn’t personal, that orders were orders and he’d come after Theron because he had to. But stars, she’d been out of the game for five fucking years and he’s practically got her dossier memorized, errors and all, and he’d called Theron a traitor and the first time she really pushes his buttons he-

Oh, this was very personal.)

“No,” she says, and breathes, trying to untie the panic-knot tightening in her chest, “I don’t think I will.” Snatching up a scalpel from the instrument tray as her voice wavers, she presses its tip, just so, beneath his chin. “You thought you were close? Close only counts in horseshoes and heavy ordnance, puppy, and that and a slip of my hand’ll buy you an unmarked grave. And-” he’s trying not to move, trying not to flinch. A single bead of blood wells up beneath the blade and stars, it’d be so easy, just one little movement and stay calm stay calm stay calm- “you still haven’t answered my question. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”

Lana exhales as her gaze comes back into focus, lip curling. Whatever she saw, she didn’t like it. “Today. It was today. But beyond that-”

“It’s good enough.” It was never going to be that easy. “SCORPIO, you don’t still have Belsavis census access, do you?”

A yellow flash, and then- “I am no longer tethered to Ward 23, and what I retained is long out of date. Proximity would be required.”

“Never mind. We’ll move on to the holo, then. Doctor?”

“Ready.” Lokin nods approvingly as she sets the scalpel down. “Retractor?”

“Retractor, please. Left eye.”

One click. Two clicks. Three.

The ‘pub squirms, fighting the restraining strap in earnest as he tries to blink against the cold metal instrument. “What are you-” his pupil constricts until she shifts the operating light away- “you gonna take my eyes now, Cipher? Keep ‘em in a jar somewhere, or-”

The holo’s scanner locks on as she holds it level with his forced-open eye. “No, thank you. I never was much for souvenirs.”

It chimes cheerfully as it comes to life in her hand; she flips idly through the settings. The user ID’s a string of alphanumeric gibberish, the message system’s not set up and the whole thing’s still on factory default but she’d expected all of that. It’s almost certainly a burner. The call log’s intact, though, with four time-stamped entries. One: incoming but barely five seconds long, likely a functionality test. Not useful. Two: outgoing, eighteen days old. Confirmation of arrival? That’s a Coruscanti subnet, but that could be a handler. Three: outgoing, one day old, to the same address as the second- they’d landed back from Nar Shaddaa by then.

Four: incoming. Coruscant again, but a different address. One minute and six seconds duration.

Two and a half hours ago.

He said he’d call it off, Void damn him. If Trant kept his word and she’s wrong, if she burns the last thin strands of the bridge between Theron and everything he ever believed in to ashes and she’s wrong-

(He did say he would call them. Reflected in the freezer’s glass door, Valkorion tilts his head contemplatively. And tell them what?

He said-

he said-

[-but those last few breaths last longer if you don’t struggle, don’t they? You’ll figure that out soon enough.]

For the first time she can remember there is something like approval in his smile. So you did hear it, he says. But oh, little Cipher, you didn’t listen.)

She gestures to Lana and Lokin, pointing with two fingers at each one in turn and then the door with a snap of her wrist that sets it throbbing. “All of you but SCORPIO, clear the room. Now.”

Lana blinks but it’s Lokin who speaks first. “Commander, if I may? If you plan to proceed further, the subject may require additional stabilizing mea-”

“Wait outside until I call for you. That’s an order.”

He’s halfway to the door before Lana starts to move from the benchtop and even then she pauses beside her as she passes, one hand on her shoulder and her mouth lowered level with her ear. “You’re not getting Valkorion involved? I know you’d rather not dial out blind, but I thought I felt-”

“I’m not,” she murmurs in reply. “On either count. But if this goes bad I don’t want you in the room when it does.”

“All right.” The sheer force of disapproval contained in Lana’s sigh might have leveled buildings; it isn’t all right and they both know it but it’s far too late to argue over it now. “Should I go and find Theron, then? I can think of some excuse to keep him with me until you’ve finished.”

They both startle at the sound of SCORPIO’s voice. “Unnecessary. He is-” her heart stops as the droid’s eyes flicker- “secure.”

“We can’t be certain of that. He still doesn’t know, does he? If there’s a second-”

“I see many things that you do not, Lord Beniko.” Five metallic fingers uncurl ceilingward (not toward the corner; her heart stutters, then resumes). “I am perfectly certain.”

Lips pressed together, nostrils flared, Lana grits her teeth against a retort before she simply continues toward the exit. “Then I will wait,” she says, a sparking halo of electricity coiling around her words as the door slides shut behind her, “until I am needed.”

And then the room is quiet save the beeping monitors, the ‘pub’s ragged breathing and the sharp rattle of his restraints, and Nine glances sidelong at SCORPIO as she settles herself carefully in the blind spot on his right. “Be nice.”

“Error. Program file: nice not found.”

She must have iterated again; the sarcasm’s new. Rolling her eyes, she glances down at her comm again.

< Also, you are welcome.>

She flicks an ironic salute toward the droid and that too makes her wrist ache. More time in the tank, then, on the way to Voss. More time lost that she can’t afford and a favor owed that she probably can’t afford either- stars know SCORPIO’s kept secrets for her well enough through the years but she’s no particular fondness for Theron; the last time he’d cracked a joke about needing a processor update she’d signal-locked his implant to play That Slippery Little Hutt Of Mine on repeat for forty-three minutes straight until half his face was twitching and he’d finally apologized- but hopefully that can be negotiated. Ongoing access to the network, maybe. Lana will fuss and she’ll be right, but if that message had gone through unintercepted they all know what it might have meant. It’s a small enough price.

“If you’re done arguing-” the ‘pub’s slurring again. He’s burning through the serum faster than she’s ever seen- “either get this thing off me or-”

If he keeps that up she may as well not bother with the call. She ought to have known better than to think that he’d say much of anything useful but his ranting’s absolutely tedious; they’re going to need to gag him after all, aren’t they? It wasn’t supposed to be that sort of interrogation, but she also hadn’t particularly expected him to- oh, if he calls her that one more time she might just stab him after all. (Like he’s got any room to criticize- all her old sins could overfill an archive but at least she’s not a stars-damned corpsefucker.) “Shh.” When she tilts her head toward it SCORPIO picks up the spacer’s tape and tears a strip from the roll, pressing it firmly over his mouth until th+e noise quiets into muffled incomprehensibility. “That’s quite enough out of you, I think.“

Hm. That brings to mind a better idea, actually.

“Do we have enough input for a voiceprint? Something like this?” Tapping a brief message into her commpad, she sends it through to SCORPIO. Only a few lines, but if it truly is Trant on the other end of the connection it should be enough to be certain.

It has to be enough.

She doesn’t look toward the corner. She mustn’t look toward the corner.

“Way more than enough.” It’s near enough a perfect mimic. SCORPIO folds her arms smugly and the ‘pub goes grey. “Prepared for playback.”

“On my signal, then, but give me a twenty second delay on video.” Her fingers twitch despite themselves, tingling at the tips; she forces her breathing into rhythm. (Lana was right. She isn’t fine.

Lana was always right. But she doesn’t have a choice.)

Inhale. “And prep the package files for transmission on verbal command. No passcode.” Exhale.

A pause, a flash of scarlet. Inhale. “Yes, Commander.”

Exhale.

Inhale. She smooths her hair back, adjusts her collar carefully under her chin, slaps both cheeks briskly with closed fingers to bring a little color into them and even that little jolt rattles her brain inside her skull. She considers, briefly, the backs of her eyelids. That seems to help. Exhale.

The far corner remains quiet.

She lifts the holo in line with the ‘pub’s eye once more as his pupil shimmers finely from side to side; they’d definitely pushed the dose too high but even so it’s far faster than it ought to be, chasing some other vice out of his system, and the camera struggles, beeping and chirping error after error until finally it locks on.

Inhale. Exhale.

She meets SCORPIO’s gaze, scrolls back to the end of the call log, and presses redial.

Inhale.

“Connecting.” The tinny synthetic voice of the SIS operator sets her nerves on edge. “Connecting.” Come on, pick up-

The channel opens with a click and she nods, lets her breath out into the following silence before the voiceprint begins.

“It’s done. Shan and the Cipher. Wrong way ‘round, but-”

“Well-” the video delay goes both ways but she doesn’t need it, she’s heard Marcus Trant’s voice in so many briefings it’s burned into her brain; the last brittle shard of hope she’d clung to shatters and leaves her with nothing left but rage. How dare he- “it’s about fucking time.”

Oh, she is going to end him.

***

Nine’s body language shifts then, her spine rigid where she’d been starting to hunch forward in fatigue, her hands fisted, fingernails digging hard into her palms. Her stance settles, just a little wider, forward on her toes; her chin lifts. He can’t see her face, still angled toward the prisoner.

“Send the photo confirmation, then execute extraction- and get your video on. Where are you?” Force, he’s going to throw up. Even when Jonas told him, even after hearing Marcus with his own ears he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d called it off. It had to be a mistake- or maybe Nine’s paranoia got the better of her (and he knows why and he doesn’t fault her, she can’t help Valkorion in her head and the poison he’s feeding her day after day after day) and this was just another shadow to peer into. Dragged into the light, it would have been nothing at all. A mistake. A mistake.

She nods to the droid once again. “ Just a few more seconds. Bad connection but I’ve almost got it.”

He shudders. The copywork’s uncanny and he knows for sure that’s not all readback. If SCORPIO gets it in her head to playact as one of them, starts giving orders in Lana’s voice or Koth’s or his own? He’s no reason to think she would, but whatever loyalty she seems to owe starts and ends with Nine. They’ve got to talk about it, at least.

Nine angles away from their prisoner, raises the comm chest-high as the little hologram springs up in the hollow of her hand. He can see her better now, her face blank and beautiful and perfectly, utterly cold, and then she smiles and-

(He has spent far more time than he’d ever admit to, from Rishi to Ziost to Zakuul to tonight, every hit and hurt and shattered bone and her bloody armor left in a pile again and again on the medbay floor, being scared for Nine.

This might be the first time he’s honestly been scared of her.)

“Hello, Director,” she says. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s only a little flinch, but it’s there. “Cipher. Still alive, I see.”

“Commander. You lied to me, Marcus. You know what happens now.”

“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.”

Every syllable of her laughter’s a rifle shot, clear and piercing. “Yes, yes. You said you’d call, and you did.” By his posture he’s caught and he knows it, back straight, shoulders set. “But you know perfectly well that wasn’t our agreement. To go by the way Theron spoke of you I’d have thought you an honorable man, but-”

Marcus lifts one hand, a futile placation as Nine’s mocking smile fades back into hard-eyed silence. “I really am sorry about Theron, for what little it’s worth. He-”

“You’re sorry?” That wasn’t a laugh, not quite, halfway caught in her broken throat. “You’re certainly about to be, but Theron’s fine. This puppy was just as stupid as the last one- worse, actually, since he got himself caught in the bargain.” She turns her body, lets the camera capture the prisoner behind her straining against the chair straps in wide-eyed muffled fury. “He never got anywhere close to Theron.”

“He knows, then?” (He still can’t see Marcus’ face. He isn’t sure whether he wants to.)

She shrugs, noncommittal. “One thing at a time.” Her free hand gestures vaguely toward the instrument tray. “I’ve been a bit busy, I’m afraid, and now I’ve got all these dossiers to send off-”

“I’d suggest some time in kolto first. You don’t look at all well, Cipher.”

“Commander.” When she blinks her eyes stay closed half a second too long and she sways back and forth and stars, she needs to sit down before she falls over but she’s too stubborn to let anyone see her hurting. He knows her tells now, though- her jaw clenches, her left hand curls and uncurls. “Five years in carbonite couldn’t kill me. You honestly thought a garotte would be enough?”

“No,” Marcus says softly. “Not really. But we make do with what we have, don’t we?”

“I suppose we do. SCORPIO, transmit file Eclipse . Full recipient list.”

One red flash, two green. “Transmission complete.”

(She really did it. Oh, fuck, she really, actually did it.

He should never have gone home. He should never have gone-

It isn’t home. Not any more.)

Marcus sighs. “Where?”

“Everywhere.” Nine looks up abruptly as one of the monitors sounds yet again; she reaches up and simply shuts it off completely and at this angle he can finally see properly, both of their faces in profile. “Every reputable news service in the Core Worlds and about half of the disreputable ones, so you may want to warn your receptionist. I suspect your switchboard’s about to melt.”

“She’ll handle it, and Eclipse Squad was Elin’s mess. I’m afraid I can’t comment. Now, if we’re finished-”

“We are not. Transmit file Legate. Full list. Call it off. Now.”

One red flash, two green, and Marcus winces, his composure finally breaking. “Are you out of your fucking mind? No one came out of that clean, you least of all.”

“I might be.” A knock at the door- no, it’s there, not here, and a comm chiming. “But Legate died in a warehouse collapse on Quesh, poor thing, though with all those warheads going up at once confirming it was quite impossible. Pity.”

A single vein pulses across his forehead.

“Call it off.”

Another knock. “Do you think Theron will believe that?”

“He doesn’t need to. He knows about the Castellan restraints- he’s known for years.” She glances, for the smallest fraction of a second, toward his corner. “I think he’ll understand if I blur the truth a little.”

(He nods before he remembers she can’t see him. Of course he understands. He wishes she hadn’t done it, wishes she hadn’t needed to do any of this, but of course he understands.)

The room goes quiet, the stillness broken only by restraint buckles clinking against the chair frame.

“Do you think he’ll believe this?”

The angle of her head’s a wordless question.

“What wouldn’t you do to bring down an enemy? The head of the SIS, no less.” The framing of the projection changes, the bottom edge of a screen coming into view as he stands up slowly from his desk. Marcus’d always lived at the office, one of so many bad habits he’d passed down to him over all the years they’d worked together (the work always comes first, he’d said. It always will. It will take everything you can give to it and then it will take more and you’ll swear and shout and threaten to quit. And then you won’t, because this is what we were made for. And that is how we win). “It’s everything you ever worked toward. So: a foiled assassination attempt in your own base- how terrible.” He clicks his tongue, a mocking little tsk. “You’d have to retaliate, and who would fault you?”

Nine’s eyes narrow.

“But if it came out that you set it all up- a few intercepted messages, perhaps, shared by an old friend-”

Her lips draw back from her bared teeth. “Stay away from him.”

“I’m finished,” Marcus says. “I know that. But that doesn’t mean you get to win. Once a iiar, always a liar, Cipher Nine. Who do you think he’ll believe- you? Or me?”

No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t . Not that it would have made a difference, but Marcus couldn’t have known that- Force, he really is going to throw up.

(When Theron joined the SIS he was seventeen years old and every adult he’d known for more than a galactic standard month had abandoned him, sold him out or simply sold him at the first sign he’d outgrown his usefulness. It took nearly a year on Coruscant, nearly a year of steady paychecks and a bed to sleep in every night, before he owned more clothes than he could fit into a go bag; it took almost two before he stopped apologizing for asking for equipment. But Marcus never gave up on him, even when he fucked up (which back then was more often than not), even when he bristled and snapped like a half-wild animal, even when he wanted to give up on himself. If Master Zho had been the nearest thing he’d known to a father- stars knows it wasn’t Jace, especially not now- Marcus had come close too, once.

Once.)

She takes a deep breath. She’s fading fast, now, hands tremulous even as she’s fighting to keep the holo steady. He can’t just sit here and watch this, he can’t, he can’t-

“Her,” Theron says, letting the stealth field drop as he takes a step forward and she spins, startled, at the sound of his voice. It comes out as a gasp; he doesn’t even know how long he’s been holding his breath. ”Who do I believe? Her. Always.”

Marcus buckles like he’s been gut-shot, bracing himself against his desk. “You- you said you hadn’t told him yet. You said-”

“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.” Nine smiles, absolutely feral and absolutely beautiful, and he steadies her with one hand at the small of her back. “Though as you can see, I really have been busy.”

The last time he saw that look on his face was the day the blockade went up around Coruscant. “Hello, Theron.”

“Hello, Marcus.”

He sits back into his chair, heavy, elbows resting on the desktop. “This office would have been yours, you know. You were ready for it. But you’re on the wrong side of the war.”

“Which war?” Nine says it at the same time he does and then she dips her head, ever so slightly- you first. “We’re here fighting Zakuul. We’re here fighting Arcann,” he continues, “and we’re finally winning. I know you know that. I know Jace knows that, and I know you’re both still fighting the same fucking war against the Empire that you’ve been fighting since before I was born because for you that’s the only thing that matters. But I’m not.”

“You dare-”

“I made my choice,” he says softly. “Now you make yours. Are you going to drag the whole SIS down with you?”

Marcus rests his head in his hands. For a moment it’s the day after the Ascendant Spear, the day after Ziost, the day after Tython, the weight of a thousand impossible choices and ten thousand lies pressing down on him, and then he looks up and shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “No, I’m not. What happens now?”

“Resign,” Nine murmurs. “Retire. Disappear before the Senate comes for you, or let them scapegoat you: I don’t care what you do, but you will call this off. You will do it now, and if I ever have reason to doubt you- if anyone from the Republic so much as breathes harm in Theron’s direction- the Ralltiir file goes public.”

Someone’s pounding on his office door, a woman’s voice shouting something incomprehensible as he reaches out of frame, and then a few moments later a series of four tones in a cadence burned into his own memory- send message; subnet selected; confirm?-

Message sent.

The holotransmitter in Nine’s hand chimes.

“Done. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

Nine turns once more (and he turns with her, careful) to put their prisoner back into frame. “What do you want me to do with him? I’d put him back on Belsavis if I was you, but-”

Marcus stands up abruptly, even as he makes a face as she says Belsavis, at the unmistakable sound of a single round of blaster fire and the hiss of a door sliding open. “Elin,” he snaps, “not now -”

“Yes, now.” General Garza’s got a blaster pistol in one hand and a commpad in the other when she crosses into camera view. “I just got a fucking call from the fucking- oh.” She cranes her neck toward the projector. “Well, we can fix that problem, at least-”

The call disconnects abruptly.

Nine sags against him, exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I know I promised-”

“Commander.” He’d nearly forgotten SCORPIO was still at the console until she speaks, and he’s never heard that tone from her before; he looks sharply up at her and follows her sightline. The prisoner’s sitting bolt-straight, back rigid, eyes wide, and a high-pitched whine like a drill through durasteel shrills warning from somewhere that isn’t his mouth- “Commander, get down!”

All Theron can do is drop where they’re standing, his body a shield over Nine’s, before there’s an awful wet noise and the smell of blood and something else familiar in his nose, hot and metallic and not his and not hers and even though he knows he shouldn’t he looks up again and oh, fuck-

The lab door slides open and Doctor Lokin comes running into the room, Lana just behind with her lightsaber blazing, and they both stop short at the sight of it, at the ‘pub still strapped into the chair with half his head just gone and at him and Nine on the blood-spattered floor.

“What- who-” Lana covers her mouth with her free hand. “What in the Void happened?”

Nine’s shaking so hard she can barely move; he curls her close against him to keep her upright. “Not me,” she whispers. “Not me.”

#inyri writes #equivalent exchange #swtor #swtor fanfiction #imperial agent/theron shan #nine/theron #cipher nine #thank you all for your patience #as i wrote this one fought me for a very long time #so i hope it was worth the wait #and the next chapter is kinder to them i promise

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hexonthepeach · 25 days

Text

a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 27: wild

pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127

tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content

summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself

but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out

ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting

now, you must make them choose you

[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [26: fallen]

wc: 7.3k

warnings: action violence, mild omega slander

recommended listening: box - nct dream (truly enjoying this ep)

Your face is buried in a strange texture, the scent even more unimaginable. Dirt–real and rich as a forest floor, scattered with dead leaves and flakes of bark. Rot and green and something carbonized as well, a scent map that transports you back a decade and a half, hundreds of clicks due north on the 127th meridian.

Home.

It can’t be. This dream is too real–trees rising on either side, the chittering of insects and birds echoing from their tops, the moon centered above beyond a green haze of aurora–

No, you think. That shifting light is too distinct in its pattern, too geometrical to be a natural phenomenon. Your head throbs as you slowly register the familiar bright rectangles of color visible through the leafy canopy, the sound-dampened rumble of voices.

“Welcome back to the main event. As our guests return to their seats from the intermission let’s set the scene. Tonight we have a very special stage, a little corner of the Wild carefully transplanted for your entertainment.”

The announcement through a speaker sounds underwater, but Key’s voice is unmistakeable.

You’re back in the arena. But that’s also impossible–there’s no way the breadth of this space could fit even in that huge room. This is something different. A botanical garden? A zoo? Enclosed, you think, much warmer and damper than the Neo Seoul night you’d shivered against earlier on the rooftop.

“For the safety of our esteemed guests we have transported our participants in tonight’s death match to a confidential location, to demonstrate the resources granted to us by our newest corporate sponsor, Zhirafa Technical Manufacturing.”

Zhirafa? The name has no meaning to you.

“This display of our Park clan ally’s newest offerings for private and public security celebrate their new investiture to our NSMP response teams. Let’s hear a few words from our sponsors.”

You pick yourself up, tripping on the ridiculous train of your gown, shaking a small storm of leaf litter free. Your slippers are gone, feet deadened by cold and inactivity, coming back to life with your pacing around the opening in the forest.

“Help!” you shout.

You hear your voice echo in the vast structure beneath the music of some distant advertisement, muffled by the dense trees. Based on the autocar-thickness of the trunks and their building-tall height this isn't new growth–this must have been here for years. That the treetops haven’t broken through whatever is containing them overhead is a testament to how well-architected it is against it.

“The classic Savannah line has been modernized for Neo Seoul’s most prescient threat: the cyber-fitted feral alpha. Tonight’s demonstration is proof that in the war of organic and robotic, the apex predator will always be the one that can’t be killed.”

The music swells above you, scored to a video you can’t see.

This is where real fear finds you, remembering anthems played in the distance over speakers. The constant chatter of gunfire, the arc of rockets overhead. You taste metal and gunpowder just the same. Kicking at the ground with your bare feet displaces weathered shell casings and bits of exploded plastic beneath the leaves.

There’s no way you’ve been transported North. It would take days, not minutes. They don’t even know you’re gone if this stupid game was proceeding with you at its heart.

No, it dawns on you. This must be an NSMR training ground.

You knew them best from the melos, places where new recruits from Seoul had trained to fight against Neo-Manchukoan guerilla forces, acting out their deaths before inevitably meeting them in the Wild.

You have to alert the audience somehow–get out before the event begins. Even if you don’t have a mic and tracker there’s the familiar low-register buzz of drones overhead, you just have to get the attention of one.

“Is anyone out there?” Your voice echoes a little less, the artificiality of the soundscape revealed in how the birdsong and insects continue unphased.

There is something–though–the rustle of leaves nearby that makes you twist around. Your ears swivel towards the noise, hunching low out of instinct and searching for something to use as a weapon.

“No more surprises, please,” you speak without saying, backing away from the unnatural gleam of blue-white in the thicket.

[Present identification, citizen.]

The voice is electronic and uncanny, different from your kidnapper’s in being devoid of any humanity at all.

“I’m not a citizen,” you say, calmly, “I’m Lee ____, born–”

There’s a metal-on-metal sound, pneumatics hissing as the thing breaks free of the bushes, four-legged and bristling with attachments of dull chrome.

The robotic construct is built like and yet unlike any large cat you’ve ever witnessed–larger than Johnny in his original form. It’s surprisingly smooth in its movements despite its clunky profile, its metal claws and chain-like tail just as ridiculous additions as the grenade launcher fixed to its back.

[Scanning] the drone says, giving you the grace of a few moments to keep searching for a weapon as a white net of light is projected from the thin rectangle of its eyeline.

You think for a moment you might have made it before the scanner pulses from white to red, metal jaw opening wide, fangs sharp past the light.

[Level 3 security protocol in effect. Unknown intruder detected. Countdown T-10 to detainment. Do not attempt to flee.]

Terror rushes through you, animal brain screaming to bolt while your rational self tells you to hold, to not give the drone a reason to chase you. It’s absurd, treating an artificial creature as having an instinct but a step to the side is answered by a mirror-like movement.

“Is there anyone there?” you plead. “I was abducted here. Get me out.”

[6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . .] the impartial countdown continues.

“Nine hells,” you mutter, ripping off your outer robe and approximating the stance of a matador with an angry bull as you begin to back away.

You don’t have experience with these kinds of machines but you understand programmed intelligence–the limitations are cartoonishly absurd no matter how many years of advancement have tried to make them as reactive as a human mind.

[ 3 . . . 2 . . . Engaging protocol.]

You wait until the drone lunges at you, wait longer to watch it break to slam its stun-paneled flank sparking from conduced energy, before throwing the swatch of weighted fabric towards it.

You have seconds of its head and body being covered to turn and bolt, path of retreat already erratic before you glimpse a red-shaded observation camera in front of you, the blink of another–

It’s visible for an instant ahead of colliding with cold metal and 50,000 volts pulsing through you in a heartbeat.

You can’t even scream.

Your body seizes and rolls across the ground–stunned. Heavy thuds hit the earth around you as the drones close in, mechanisms grinding and whirring. One of those wicked three-pronged paws bears down on your chest before you can curl away, pinning you to the earth.

[Cease resisting, citizen.] the drone’s pre-programmed voice is oddly calm. [Further resistance will be met with deadly force, comply until additional units can be engaged.]

“Fuck . . . you . . .” you wheeze with the remaining air from your lungs, screaming once you’re able to pull in air. “Get OFF OF ME!”

Something–someone–rumbles overhead, guttural and loud.

The drones attention on you breaks, met with a flash of chrome as the unoccupied Savannah Panther darts up the side of the nearest tree. It’s absurd watching that stupid thing claw the wood uselessly, unable to fight the pull of gravity on its dense chassis.

The shadow above takes advantage of its struggle, attacking as the drone is sliding down, before its hind paws can hit earth again.

The impact shakes the ground, metal screeching as black furred arms tear the drone’s jaw from its skull with barely any give, a fluid movement stabbing the jagged metal deep into its visor. Sparks fly from the downed Panther, unable to see but further assaulted by that shard pulled out and dug into its neck.

Your own Panther makes the choice between continuing to hold you down and dealing with the more obvious threat–suddenly you’re free. You twist in the soil against the awful pain in your chest, struggling to get up and finding the exposed back of the predator creeping towards your savior.

Without thinking you pounce, climbing on the back of that wretched thing.

You have to hold on for dear life as the drone drops and rolls you both, limbs and head rotating to try and dislodge you. You grasp the cannon-like protuberance from its back, claws digging into the exposed pneumatics at its base to disable its hindquarters before several hundred kilos of angry robot can buck you off.

“Why don’t you just self-destruct–” you hiss, tearing your hands raw hooking into the gaps of its plating for its more-fragile innards. A rotor dies, the cat stumbling as you feel the launcher under your chest whir into life.

[PleaaAAAse comp comp comp–]

The electronic voice jitters into intelligible speech as you rip another cable or hose–some snakelike thing spewing gas in your hand, the entire forest floor blinking red from the malfunctioning unit as the launcher fires.

You brace yourself against an explosion–realizing that the cannon lacks compression and ignition when there’s a pop and the grenade rolls to the ground, barely out of range. The sight of that palm-sized canister makes your entire body go cold, fear breaking your fight into flashes of horror.

Faded green writing on a metal can, leaves in a circle. Biotechnica.

“It’s a bomb, eomma?” you ask.

“Spring,” your mother corrects. “Bom, not bomb. But yes, a bomb.”

She pulls the seedling blooming from the torn canister, showing you the remaining markings in English.

“Nothing is burning. Where did everyone go?”

You’d looked around you at the new growth, strange for it being in the middle of what had once been a bustling refugee market. No people remain–wrecked stalls enveloped in fresh herbs and blooms out of season, bamboo and fruit trees bursting through the cracked pavement of the train station.

“A long time ago someone predicted the planet would go silent, if we kept destroying and polluting it.” Your mother says. “Men made this to try and stop it.”

You accidentally kick something at your feet–a dense twisting of vines and mushrooms that appears to be vaguely human-shaped, like someone curled onto their side. Spores rise up into the cold winter light, like specks of gold.

“When you see this, don’t touch it, don’t even move towards it, ____, just . . .”

“RUN!” you scream your order, looking up to see that dark-furred hybrid bash its opponent drone a final time into the shuddering, splintered remains of a tree trunk.

You can make it, you can get out of here, both of you–

Crunch.

The sound is more horrible than the pain with the adrenaline rushing through you, metal jaws closed on the back of your thigh gripping you in place and pulling you facedown into the dirt.

You fight against the stuttering hold, feeling cloth and muscle shred between twin fangs, crawling towards the protector who’d taken your instruction literally, but towards you, not away–kicking something just past your head–

The explosion compresses the air inward before blowing it out, the force of its blast throwing you free and against the nearest tree.

You know it’s not an incendiary grenade. There’s no red flash or the heat of fire–no sound except the ringing in your ears from the sonic boom.

Your vision streaks with green-yellow, a swirl of dust washing over you and that familiar smell . . . something like the rain after a drought. It's burning so deep with each lungful you can only cough as the scent fills your lungs and nostrils, trying to get it out.

Through misty eyes you see the thing beside you, booting back to life, cat-like jaw working beneath its blinded visual sensor. The battered Panther drone picks itself up from newly-formed moss and plant-life, red lights blinking on its chassis casting the newly grown meadow in shades of horror. You claw weakly at the grass, cringing away from the metal claws.

And then, a roar–

–not from the drone, but him.

He’s so real and loud it breaks past the damaged muffle of the explosion to resonate within you, that black belly and the ghost of its weight over you so familiar it hurts more than the oozing, aching awfulness in your leg or the internal damage from your pathetic fight.

You’re back in that abandoned building, terrified and dying as Taeil and Yuta try to keep you amongst the living, your unlikely savior a thing with no resemblance of the man buried within.

It’s not an easy fight for him, at least, not with the Panther drone recognizing the threat of 1500 PSI of bite force in the jaw closing around its armored neck. The cats rise in a two-legged, clawing grapple, the earth drumming beneath you with each stomp of claws beside your face, metal and organic, dirt and contagion blinding you as you shrink away.

Not a thing, no. Your mate.

“Youngho,” you whisper, realizing too late it's the wrong time–the jaguar pausing for a moment in its battle to twist around towards you, yowling when metal claws rake across his thick black hide.

“Left side,” you gasp. “Wires, left side.”

The jaguar hears you, at least in the backwards turn of those gold-dusted ears. He uses the unbalanced weight of the construct against it, climbing atop it the way you had, but much more elegantly, rolled with less visible damage.

Sparks fly as he tests each weakness with yellow-white teeth embedding in the metal and synth plating, ripping chunks free until the repeating electronic scream of that thing dies, the grenade launcher in its back unable to fire with the critical point of information cut clean.

It drops to the shifting ground, just so much scrap. Leaves twine around it, growing slowly at least, shoots erupting through a metal carcass.

The flesh-and-blood cat roars over its frame, triumphant, clawing and kicking roots over its destroyed corpse. He’s unaware of the danger, only visible to you as the self-destruct cycle begins, numbers streaking across the lit visor screen where its eyes should be.

“Run,” you say, having already given up, cheek pressed into the familiar scent of home.

Jaws close on your back, snagged in the fabric, picking you up as he drags you away like just another kill. You make it as far as the brush, leaves ripping at your face, before the world explodes again.

This time in fire.

Everything about this entire ceremony-turned-circus has been sucking him down into the last point of control but this is the final straw on the camel’s back. Mark is incensed, claws out without any conscious control to hide them.

He’s starting to understand what Johnny had said about it hurting every time, that after a while the pain of them piercing the skin barely registers. The constant burn in his ears and his spine is more worrisome.

“We need to speak to the Crown Prince,” he says, shoving Haechan back when he slithers up beside him. The younger Canid is on a warpath, having already chucked the last Kim attache’s tablet into his face so hard it knocked him unconscious.

“Against the rules.” The servant seems to be enjoying the experience of saying no to their ragtag Nyctos contingent–all four of them with Renjun limping beside him, supported by Taeil. Yangyang had already been transported to one of the medical centers, unable to be roused from the stun that had crashed his system while Yuta went to security to investigate the feeds.

The man’s eyes keep flicking up between a personal roster of wagers and the modified stage behind them with its ghostly phantoms of trees and lights in the 360 degree model of the next arena.

The fight should have already started a long time ago, but Key has stopped announcing anything besides advertisements, agitated murmurs in the crowd revealing that something is deeply wrong beyond the obvious absence.

This ends now, Mark thinks. If they want their bets and bloodsport it can wait.

“Tell him the Princess Consort has been kidnapped,” he finds himself saying, earning the immediate attention of the men–no, the buzzards–flocking around his cousin and pack leader. They look down on them from the vantage of their booth, Choi Siwon laughing.

“Impossible,” Elder Bang says, leaning over the edge as he pokes slowly at his agent. “This building is secure.”

“We were attacked by an unknown assailant, a solo,” Renjun reports, tail whipping behind him. “Check the security footage in the west side service corridors.”

“Did you see her taken?” That gray-haired old doctor makes his way down, AR glasses scrolling with information. Mark’s nose wrinkles at the lavender-like scent of the tobacco on him, something oily and metallic underneath.

“No,” Renjun says. “They knocked me out before I could go after her–”

“Contusions, skull fracture–” he assesses the fox, signaling to Duke Kim to call for additional medical support and security.

“We’ll send a team to the site and investigate,” he says to the Duke. “Quietly. We don’t want anyone panicking.”

“We can’t track her without an agent or a biochip,” Mark says. “We’ll need to check all exits–”

“First and foremost, keep quiet, we don’t need to raise an alarm,” Duke Kim says. “Is the Tenth Prince secure?”

Mark gestures towards the illuminated royal box, frustrated already with the lack of response. “Does it look like he’s missing?”

“Check yourself, Lee.” His uncle-by-law threatens, fixating on Renjun with a measured look of disgust. “You’ll watch your tongue or we'll let this fall on your heads.”

Mark immediately feels the surge of anger that’s been so quick to strike aflame these past few days–the recognition that another is attempting to dominate his Alpha.

“This is on your security, not mine,” he warns, eyes flashing up past the crowded entrance to the booth. “I will speak with our pack lead–”

“He’s occupied,” Elder Park joins them on the stairwell, looking entirely unsurprised by the news. “You’ll report to me.”

Mark takes one look at his smug, modded face and makes the decision to breach the fifteen-foot gap between the outer arena floor and the heavily-decorated exterior of the Syndicate booth, fuck formality.

He’s been itching to use his new claws–wishes he had a tail to make scaling the wall less awkward.

The Syndicate’s security response is immediate in the barrels of several guns aimed at him by the time he peers over the ledge, teeth gritted against the ache deep in his shoulder as his boots skid on carved wood.

“What in nine hells,” Taeyong stands along with a number of Syndicate guests, disrupting an entire table of drinks, credit chips scattering.

Mark is grateful when he reaches out to take his arm, sheathing the claws digging into Taeyong’s red military jacket as he pulls him over. “What are you doing?”

“____ is missing,” Mark hisses, heart pounding in his chest, turning between the multiple barrels pointed at them both, moving to guard his cousin despite knowing they’re treating him as the threat. “They almost killed Liu, too.”

“Stand down.” The Crown Prince is–mostly–himself, though he’s slurring heavily and reeking of liquor. He looks down at Duke Kim, brows lowered, until the elder gestures dismissively for security to lower their weapons.

“We’ve already deployed a team to search for her–”

“And I’ve got our NSMP representative on it. The whole building should be put on lockdown–” Mark begins.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Choi asks, moving to Taeyong’s side. “We don’t need Ten–the Imperial contingent finding out.”

“Relax,” Elder Bang adds. “That one is still safe in his box with his guards.”

“Right,” Park agrees. “She’s probably still in the building. Best to continue with the event and track her down before that freak can find out she’s given him the slip. We’d never hear the end of it.”

Duke Kim sidles over to their meeting, tablet in hand. “Entrance scans are negative. She’s still in the building. Reinholdt will find her.”

“See?” Taeyong pats Mark on the shoulder, handing him a drink that hasn’t been overturned. “Our Princess will be fine. We were just celebrating the good news, you should join us.”

There’s a familiar drumbeat on his shoulder as his cousin and pack leader embraces him one-armed, as the Syndicate heads and their entourage of cronies and Lottery escorts raise their glasses in a toast Mark refuses to participate in.

Mark doesn’t even realize he’s being signaled, distracted by the sheer number of recognizable enemies in this booth–-cold eyes fixated on him. Faces his mother had made him memorize, when they’d first been taken hostage.

“Such a smart boy,” she’d said, inspecting his homework, the artificial breeze of the Dome ruffling the pages in her manicured hands. “You still have so much trouble with your English spelling. Your father did, too.”

It had struck him that it was a lie, even then at twelve years old, with the books he’d grown up with in multiple languages in his father’s study–the ones his mother never seemed to want to read for herself or him besides Scripture. None of them, here, now in the Palace.

“You don’t have to learn any of that nonsense, precious child. Just learn the codes. Learn how to speak the language of the enemy,” she’d said.

O-K-A-S, is what Taeyong is saying in code. Okay, wait. Over and over again.

"Our clan finally has a 4th gen representative," Taeyong says aloud, proudly. "Reinholdt will do a determination of the hereditary profile once we've wrapped."

Mark pulls away from that repeated tap on his shoulder, letting his real anger out.

“Is that all you care about? Would it kill you to show some concern for her?”

He ignores the familiar bark of Haechan arguing with a guard below to maintain eye contact, watching Taeyong’s ruddy eyes blink at him, a lazy smile sliding across his mouth.

“C’mon Mark. Don’t be like that,” the Vulpine says, leaning in to whisper loudly in his ear. “Even if you didn't get a chance the kit's still your family–”

Mark grabs him by his jacket front, surprised by how easy it is to handle his cousin, realizing too late how drunk he is. Doyoung’s absence is worse than he’d ever imagined.

“She was raped,” he spits out.

Taeyong laughs in his face, quickly joined by the rest of the booth. Choi moves to intervene, waved off by the Crown Prince.

“That’s just omegas, right?” Taeyong drawls. “Always asking for it.”

More laughter. He knows his cousin isn’t like this–doesn’t believe any of the lies about his own designation–but it still makes him sick to acknowledge the words coming out of his mouth. For the first time in his entire life, the brother he’s chosen, the one he’d risked his life and limb for, is unrecognizably ugly.

“Did you take advantage of her, too?” Mark asks, tone deadly.

“She begged me for it.” Taeyong says with a shrug, earning more of a response from the corpos and their escorts. Mark lets him go, disgusted.

Taeyong turns to their audience, lifting his glass. “You’ll forgive my cousin, he’s never had the pleasure–”

“Fuck you,” Mark says, waiting only as long as it takes for Taeyong to turn back to wink at him before punching him across the jaw.

Fresh shoots spring from the ground, stringy tendrils catching at your skin and blossoming into flowers crushed under your weight as you’re dragged away.

Buried deep–a part of you kicks and screams and fights to return to it, to be enveloped within the decomposition of the environment and recreated as something new. Only your fox would remain, flesh melted down to the bones, the human side of you disappearing into the new forest.

But, no. You have to fight back. Those despicable bastards had brought the Wild to Neo Seoul.

Not just the aesthetic sensibility of it but the bioterrorist weapons used in the war, the bombs that melted human flesh into raw organic material, feeding new life. You’d been exposed before–thankfully never close enough to alter you fully.

It wouldn’t kill you–no, but contamination would pull you back to the animal you are. You might not be able to shift, not with your therapy, but you'd be in jimseung.

Even now your fox twists and lashes out with her claws, rending flesh, feeling it in your chest—your neck–as you’re dropped to the earth.

The rage makes you incandescent, fur rippling ruddy and black across your arms as you sneeze and paw at your face, half-expecting to find the fox’s snout where your nose remains as human as ever.

You’re far enough away from the strike zone, you hope. You might be able to fight the influence of the contaminant but an Alpha without anti-shift doesn’t stand a chance.

Indeed, Johnny has reverted past the point of communication, the jaguar’s movements purely animal. You try to drag yourself away as he circles you, chin pulled in with a display of dominance. His mouth is open wide, giant teeth exposed as he tastes your scent.

You bare your own canines and growl a warning. Back off.

The jaguar vocalizes in answer, a chuff almost like a laugh. Then he’s rolling you with his massive head and paws as he greets you with unadulterated excitement. When you mewl out in pain he freezes, tongue mid-swipe over your face, dropping down to sniff at your chest and the bloody wound on your thigh.

You yelp when he rips at the torn skirt with his teeth, having a moment of panic at the thought of him deciding you taste good enough to eat and pushing back on the cat’s heavy brow. His orange eyes flick up at you, gently cleaning away the drying blood and dirt as he blinks slowly at you.

At least he doesn’t seem to think you’re food. You’re being treated like a kit, pushed down by a paw when you try to get back up, all so he can continue grooming you. You roll on your back in submission, breath sucking in at the pain in your chest.

“You still in there?” you ask, weakly.

If the Syndicate is watching it would be dangerous to order him again but you know if you don’t he’s going to lick the top layers of your dermis off trying to treat the bone-deep wound.

He rumbles like an engine in answer.

“Come out,” you whisper your order.

You feel him change back, heat and moisture roiling over you from the release of mass and energy. He lifts up from your legs in a daze, eyes still bright with his cat.

“You’re safe,” he says, lisping a bit with the lingering changes to his teeth.

“Neither of us are safe here, you fool,” you scold him, coughing at the dryness in your throat. “You most of all. You were supposed to run away, not into it.”

You roll to your side to spit out pollen-yellow saliva, trying to ignore the bloom of fungal spores and ground cover from the thick wad.

“Don’t even get a ‘thanks’,” Johnny retches a little, coughing up his own lungful of goo. “What in the hell is this stuff–?”

“Spring gas. Jimseung poison,” you say. Of course he’d never encountered these bombs, as far as you knew he’d never made it that far North. “They must have wanted you to fight feral.”

“How are we–”

“We were lucky,” you say, tiredly, testing your leg and crumpling back to the ground. Somehow he’s managed to catch you by the ankle, the both of you wheezing as you succumb to the effects, unable to fight against him as he pulls himself over you.

“It’s old ammo–probably degraded,” you explain to distract yourself from the press of his body. “High enough heat can burn it off–”

“You’re here.” The way he whispers the words tugs on your heart, all dreamy and wistful.

You don’t acknowledge it. “Yes, I’m here. I can keep you out of jimseung, I think. We’d have to stay together–”

“You’re here,” he repeats, forehead pressing yours as he rubs his nose against yours. “My precious little kit.”

You push on his shoulder where the echo of his rosettes are burnt black into his golden skin, muddying his re-emerging tattoos.

“Don’t you get it, you idiot? You’re in danger, they want to kill you–”

“So I should be thanking you,” he says, drowsily, looking down at you with unfiltered affection. “For saving me.”

Johnny is mostly human–eyes dilated so wide only a thin ring of honey-colored iris remains. His ears and hands have remained changed, tail swatting at the air beyond the clean lines of his naked body, fur still visible where his hair grows naturally.

You know he’s struggling against his cat, a feeling like fire racing over his skin as he finds the only therapy available. You’re lifted up bodily with a cry, going limp as his face buries in your neck and rapid breaths douse your shoulder. Claws prick and unprick through your clothing where he’s wrapped completely around you, nuzzling against your racing pulse.

“God, I missed you,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

He folds down with you still at his mercy, heartbeat slowing marginally as your pheromones bring him to a calmer state.

“Stop making that godawful noise,” you protest, wriggling in his grasp.

“You don’t like it?” That only spurs him on more, licking at your neck as you cry out, fists uselessly pressed to his bare chest. Johnny rumbles in contentment as he rubs his cheek over and over again against you protectively. As much as you try to wrest free he holds on to you tighter, unable to get enough. He's warm and tender–all things unwelcome in this place.

“Get off of me, you pig!” you bark. You can’t order him here, can’t reveal anything that might compromise you both, but you can still try to extricate yourself from what feels like a more dangerous situation than the one you’ve just fled. This isn’t the time or place for an intimate moment.

Johnny lets you go. You only make it a few inches, pushed down face-first into the soft leaf litter and further assailed by searching hands over your leg. His touch sparks a new flame through the ache, your fox desperate for him to continue comforting you physically.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Feel like I was hit by a truck,” you groan, inhaling sharp when his tongue traces your oozing wounds again. “Stop, please.”

“You do taste different,” he murmurs, idiot’s grin in his voice. “Sweeter, like candy.”

“If you don’t stop this nonsense I’ll make it so you can’t speak, again,” you say over your shoulder. You can’t let this continue, not with your body’s reaction to this much-longed-for care.

The unspoken threat carries through–he eases off of you, still straddling you. He leans down to nudge the side of your face with his nose. The intimacy has you more dizzy than the contamination, body surging up unwillingly as your tail swats between you.

“Even with everything I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, lips trailing over the side of your face. Your heart is racing, the world blurring beyond as you avoid kissing him back, eyes clenched shut against his attention.

“My beautiful little kit,” he murmurs. “When we get out of here I'll take care of you so good. Make you a nest just right for you to–”

“How much blood did you lose?” you ask, too aware of the hot drip of it from his side.

“‘M fine,” he says, licking at your ear. “Felt like dying not knowing you were alright.”

You are most certainly not alright. You struggle to turn over beneath him, meeting him with your mouth against his jawline.

“Johnny,” you say. “We’re being watched.”

“They know who you belong to.” He’s high as a kite, you realize–probably more on pheromones than the gas. It’s so incredibly stupid considering the circumstances but then so is everything about this trial. He seems to realize it as well as something passes over him, a moment of consciousness.

“Was this part of your plan?”

“No! What plan?!” you put a hand to his mouth as he smirks down at you.

“Someone dumped me here to complicate this knowing you'd be dosed,” you whisper as quietly as you can, shoving at the blanket of his wide shoulders. “But it's good. If I wasn’t . . .”

You both know he wouldn’t be here at all–just the jaguar. You think the smallest push would send him reeling back into his true form, without even a sliver of the humanity he’d spent years learning how to keep surfaced while in full shift.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “We'll get you to safety, we can’t risk any harm to–”

“We can’t risk them seeing you feral, or fully shifted,” you deflect. “We just need to find Jae–”

Johnny hisses, not as comical as it should be with the rage you can see twisting his expression. You instinctively snarl back, scratching at his shoulder. It snaps him out of it, retreating in an instant, looking as hurt as if you’d yanked his tail.

“Control yourself,” you say, scuttling back, testing your injured leg. “He’s not your enemy. Who knows how many more of those things are out there. We need to work together.”

“He’s not taking you. Over my dead body,” Johnny says. It’s really a wasted effort to try to speak to him with the Alpha in charge, his body movements whiplike as he listens for a threat, nose twitching against the thick smoke from the embers of the explosion drifting in your direction.

“You’re mine, I told him you were mine–”

You try a different tactic, placing your palm in his wild hair to calm him. It works like a charm, his shoulders rounding as he leans into the touch and butts his head against your chest.

“Of course I’m yours,” you soothe.

He looks up at you warily, tail stilling. At least he’s smart enough to know your words don't match your intent.

You push your luck a little more, bringing his head against your breast and massaging his scalp behind his velvety ears. The Alpha quivers with excitement, making a sound deep in his chest as he rubs his human face into your belly instead.

Though you cringe at the gesture there’s a trace inside of pure peace, especially when he reaches around you to hold you again like his life depends on it. That motor-like attempt at purr is back, loud and vibrating you in a way that makes your resolve melt.

Whatever compulsion he’s feeling, the only thing motivating him is ensuring his mate is safe. It makes him brainless but it’s also endearing–and your fox is no wiser. She’s never been more satisfied with herself–you’d be rolling in the dirt in pleasure if you weren’t fighting to stay alert.

��If you want to protect us you’ll do what I say, won’t you, Youngho?” you ask, feeling him nod as a whine-like noise comes out instead of words.

“I can only trust you if you stay in control. You need to stay in control.”

Only enough to be believable, you think. You can’t forget your audience, after all, as sweet as this might appear to an outside observer, his tendency to submit to you can only be considered a weakness. No, there has to be a limit.

“We’re going to find Yuno,” you begin, carefully enunciating the other’s birth name while pulling away. “He can help us get out of here–”

He manages at least two seconds before he stiffens and breaks, rising up over you. Your fox is submitting immediately, unabashedly aroused by this display of dominance.

“Not. Him.” he says between clenched teeth, fangs pushing into his swollen lips. “You can't trust him in jimseung. He doesn’t care about you the same way I–”

“Snap out of it,” you say, struggling away from him. “None of us are making it out of here if we don't work together.”

“You want him more than me?” He looks just as baleful as before, panting. “You want to make me kill him?”

“I want you to protect us,” you yell. “He’s your pack–”

“No one can take you,” he repeats, nostrils flaring as he crouches over you. “You’re mine.”

You can hear something stalking towards you from the darkness–unnoticed by Johnny in his cresting anger.

“Fine. Prove yourself and kill those things. Kill all of them,” you order, reaching mentally inward and snapping the thin thread of control you can feel keeping you from becoming your animal. His eyes blaze yellow, startled as the change begins.

It's just in time for the Panther drone to attack.

Johnny whips around, instantly more beast than himself, claws raking metal as the scent of fresh blood overtakes the perfumed air. You take the chance to run, hunted down by another of the drones bursting from the brush.

Climb, you think, stumbling towards the nearest tree. It’s only pure instinct and adrenaline that gets you up the first branch, hearing the snap of a metal jaw inches from your ankle. You cling to the limb above you with all your hybrid’s strength, unable to pull yourself higher–

Your perch dips down. For a moment you’re afraid that you’re being pulled by the awful thing snapping at your heels before you recognize the tension is in your clothing, snatched up by the back of your underdress.

It’s just in time as something explodes beneath you, heat searing your skin and nearly shaking you both out of the tree you’re being bodily swung up into.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire, you lament–seized around the middle and dragged upward by clawed hands.

This time, at least, the Alpha who has captured you is still human.

Boom.

The projection in the middle of the arena is scattershot with fireworks, sparks flying and shrieking beneath the opaque grid as the returning audience rushes in to see what’s going on. Mark’s blood goes cold seeing the shadows of trees lit bright by another grenade burst, some deep fear response unlocked by the sound of bombs.

Across the box, Taeyong ducks instinctively, ears pulled back as he fights out of the circle of the other Alphas keeping him separated, his drawn face scanning the room for threats.

“They haven’t announced the match start yet, I haven’t finished my calls–” Bang stands up, only one of many whose attention is turned to the screens above the open interior of the stadium as they flash to black from displaying the usual wash of corporate advertisements.

A series of bright green digits and flashes preface the hacked signal, cohesing into one principal symbol: a circle with an unbroken horizontal line beneath it.

He knows it well–too well. The unbroken omega.

[Respected members of the Syndicate,] a modulated voice invades the speakers, stilling the room. [Your attempts to set the terms of this tribunal have revealed your greed, stupidity, and most of all–your hand.]

Footage plays of a fight he never expected to see. You and what looks to be Johnny struggling against a pair of Savannah Panthers, no weapons or resources except your claws and teeth. He’s most surprised by the sight of you rushing head-first into the fray, as if you could do anything against those nightmare creations.

Somehow, you both gain the upper hand–at least until the grenades are fired. The fight ends with a flash of green, dead and broken Zhirafa drones swallowed up by a nightmare explosion of plant-life bursting forth from the radius of the strike point.

“What the fuck is that?” Choi barks. “We didn’t clear using–”

“Kill the feed,” Duke Kim hisses, order ignored as the attache beside him struggles with his agent.

“We don’t have a way–production says they lost communication with the control crew entirely–”

[Let’s make a wager without the house having advantage. Your greatest prize is contained within the field before you, trapped with your entire illegal stockpile of biological weaponry and the Alphas you’ve consigned to die by it.]

Bang’s tablet slips from his fingers, clattering against bottles of imported liquor. Shrieks and shouts follow, as those witnessing the show realize this isn’t just entertainment.

[You have one, simple step to fulfill, to regain your investment. Proceed with the trials and execution of the son and heir of Lee Taeri, one Lee Taeyong, for his father's crimes against our kind and for the millions of innocent souls whose blood stains your Council's hands.]

[Then, and only then, will we release your so-called prize.]

Mark looks up at Taeyong, seeing genuine shock on his elder’s bruised face. The Vulpine turns to him, instinctively, shaking his head with his lips parted.

He didn’t know. It makes Mark even more angry at being left in the dark on whatever Taeyong had planned, all of it blown open with their blindness to this unanticipated weak point.

[Open the field and die with them. Alter the rules of the game and you will be subjected to the same carnage inflicted upon you as handed down in your judgment. May your punishment match the crime.]

The feed goes dark, projection still flashing with burning trees and the reports of gunfire before the hologram disappears. The arena floor is blank but for a simple reminder of the message: a taegeuk rotating on the field, under the watchful eyes of that monstrous xiezhi statue over the royal box.

A royal box, he sees, is now completely vacated.

In the strangled silence that follows the end of the message, chaos erupts. Half of the audience is fleeing, turned back at the door by security guards waiting for an order. Mark forgets himself to move towards his cousin, crowded back by the hulking guards that had been assigned to keep him seated as the clan Elders dealt with the ongoing crisis.

“The entire control suite is offline,” Kim stutters. “No in or out, we’re working on retaking the signal but–”

“Sokolov wants the demonstration canceled or they pull sponsorship,” Park says. “We need to make sure nothing happens to the . . .”

He drifts off as he realizes what’s happening beside him, Taeyong moving across the crowded space to close on Mark with the same aggression they’d been separated from earlier.

“Did you know they’d take her?” he accuses, tail bristling behind him.

“What, no?!” Mark yells.

“It was your recruits who last had her. And this–”

One small gesture at the screen burnt with a symbol of a movement his father hadn’t started but had been responsible for in the end–the very same reason Fourth Prince had faced execution when the Exodus forces were brought to heel.

North and south, all over again, he realizes, far too late. This time he’s tight in the clutches of the enemy, no ally in sight with Haechan and Taeil taking care of the wounded and Yuta investigating the crime.

“This is a set-up,” he argues. “We have to find them first, make sure they can get out without being kill–”

“We finish this,” Taeyong says, rounding on the other members of the Syndicate Council. “Tell Key we can expedite the final match.”

He doesn’t understand this game Taeyong is playing, and doesn't even think he’s in control of it with how shaken the Vulpine looks before he turns his back on him.

“Where did you take our enforcers?” Mark’s words are for Duke Kim, who’s leaving the box as if he doesn’t want to see the outcome, scurrying away from his responsibilities as always. “We need to get down there before they try to get out–”

“No. You come with us,” Choi says, raising a flashy chrome pistol at Mark’s face. Park and the others don’t move to stop him, Taeyong regarding him over his shoulder with a dismissive look.

“We proceed with the trials, cousin,” Taeyong says, expression grim, and resigned. “We’ll let the heavens decide which of us deserves to walk out of here alive.”

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