my works may contain 18+ content. all events are fictional; any coincidences are accidental. don't like - don't interact. all characters in my works are adults. i am not responsible for you, so i ask again to treat me with respect and not interact with works you don't like.
all of the dividers i use belong to: @dollywons, @diviniyae, and @anitalerina
anons: 🪼🍒🍬
links: masterlist x wip x december event x horrotober masterlist
note: this is a rewrite of one of my fics from a prev. fandom. enjoy! ♡
m.list
your back is pressed up against his chest, his arm lazily thrown over your abdomen, the heat of his body radiating into yours beneath the rumpled sheets. you can feel his cock against your ass through his boxers, thick through the thin fabric, and as much as you try to fight it, you just can’t help but slowly roll your hips back, seeking that delicious friction.
he doesn’t do anything at first, staying perfectly still, but he knows exactly what you’re doing. he waits it out to see how long you’ll last and how desperate you’ll get, his breath steady and warm against the nape of your neck.
you do it again, and again, grinding back with a little more insistence each time, and even though he’s still not acknowledging it out loud, his cock hardens with each swivel of your hips, swelling fully against you until the rigid length pulses hotly through his boxers.
he’s the first to crack, his mechanical hand coming down to grip your ass tight, fingers sinking into the soft flesh and making you chuckle breathlessly. next thing you know he’s pulling your shorts down to your knees as well as his boxers, the cool air brushing over your bare skin for only a moment before his body presses back in close. he rubs the tip through your already soaked folds, groaning softly in your ear, the sound low and rough with need.
“you're so needy,” he whispers, gently nipping at your pulse point as you mewl. “always wanting my cock inside of you.”
he pushes just the tip in and you moan hotly, the stretch of him making your walls flutter around that thick head as you bring your hand to clasp over his that’s on your hip. he gently ruts against you, enjoying the feeling of your tight, warm cunt lightly spasming around him as you adjust to his size, savoring the slick, velvety heat that grips him so perfectly.
he takes it slow, reveling in the soft, breathy moans you make with each shallow thrust, the lazy drag of his cock building that sweet, aching pleasure deep inside you. he brings his hand to your cunt, spreading the wetness up to your clit before rubbing shapeless patterns against the throbbing bud. you cum without warning, your body shuddering hard against his as the orgasm crashes through you, and he gently coaxes you through it. pressing tender kisses along your neck while his hips keep that same slow rhythm.
“there you go, baby,” he groans, still tracing light circles on your pulsating clit. “you’re so beautiful when you cum for me.”
he brings another orgasm out of you before he finally releases, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum deep within your cunt, filling you completely as his cock throbs inside you. he buries his face in your neck as he comes down from his high, his hands squeezing the soft skin of your hip with tenderness.
“fuck..,” he says through soft pants, gently easing himself out of you with a wet, filthy sound. “i love you. you know that?”
“i love you, too, anakin,” you whisper, turning onto your back to find him staring at you adoringly.
I do apologize for sending so much, but I just really like ur writing… a lot…
but aj( takers) x fem reader, where they are Alr dating and they are at home together after Aj gets home from “ work “ and reader is on the couch, Aj walks over to her and falls to his knees in front of her and plants his face in her thighs with no warning. And he just sits there untill reader stops teasing him and gigging at him. Reader brings him up on the couch and cuddle
thank you!!!!!
Long day
AJ (Takers) x reader
Warnings: none! Pure fluff
An: Hey Babes! Don't apologize for sending in requests i love getting asks! So keep sending them!
You and AJ had been dating for a couple years now. Today AJ comes home exhausted and, so here you both are, him on his knees in front of you his face on your thighs as your sat on the couch, You smile softly and pet his hair gently. "Poor baby..." You tease softly. He lets out a muffled groan against your thighs, his hands gripping your legs weakly. "Long day... so tired..."
"yeah?" You ask gently. "Wanna talk about it?" He shakes his head slightly, nuzzling deeper into your thighs. "Just... need you... don't want to think..." "okay..." You keep running your fingers though his blonde curls. AJ relaxes further at your touch, his breathing slowing as he practically melts against you. "Doll... can we just... stay like this?"
"you wanna go lie in bed and cuddle?" Your suggest gently. He nods weakly, but doesn't move yet, seeming reluctant to break contact. "Carry me?" He mumbles, half joking but also clearly exhausted. You laugh. "I can't carry you love." AJ lets out a dramatic whine against your thighs. "Mean... too tired to walk..." He says, but finally starts to lift his head. You help him stand, he stumbles slightly, immediately leaning heavily against you. "Bed... now..." He mumbles, wrapping his arms around your waist.
You lead him down the hall and to your bedroom. AJ practically collapses onto the bed, reaching for you with grabby hands. "Come here... need cuddles..." His voice is soft and needy. You smile softly and get in bed with him. He immediately wraps himself around you like an octopus, burying his face in your neck. "Mine..." He mumbles possessively, though his voice is drowsy. "you know imma give you so much shit about this when you wake up right?" You joke softly. He lets out a sleepy grumble, tightening his hold. "Don't care... worth it..." His words are already slurring with exhaustion. You chuckle softly and kiss his forehead.
AJ makes a content humming sound at the kiss, already drifting off. "Love you... even when you're mean..." He murmurs before his breathing evens out. "love you too honey." You say back. He's already mostly asleep, but a small smile forms on his face at your words. His grip on you remains firm even in sleep.
hiiiii. based off this request and this request (people apparently love sub stephen glass)
18+mdni. warnings: oral (f receiving) ((two fics in a row ain't that great for women)), face riding, sub stephen x dom reader, soft degrading
STEPHEN GLASS had been irritating you. everytime he came home he complained about his job, his news articles "not being enough", and he constantly needed your reassurance everytime he wrote a new piece that it was sufficient enough. in your opinion, they seemed a bit off, fake, if you wanted to go that far. but to keep him quiet you would nod and tell him it was wonderful- "his best yet". he would wrap his arms around you, telling you how much he loves and appreciates you, how he couldn't do this without you.
sure.
maybe one night was your breaking point, not really of course, because you loved him so deeply, but god, he truly was getting annoying. not only that, he had been so caught up in his work, he hadn't given you anything sexual related in days. you were beginning to get restless. he was pacing around the apartment, a rough draft printed in his hands.
"i just don't think it's good enough." he huffs, pushing his glasses up his nose.
it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on your book as he continued to speak out loud.
"just doesn't...work...maybe..." he's muttering under his breath, leafing through the pages. at the same time, your book hit the peak of slow burn, the hot sex both characters had been pining for.
"stephen." you say, putting your book down.
he looks up at you.
"come here." he obeys, like you knew he would. he stands in front of you, staring at you with his mouth twisted, confusion written across his face.
"you think it's bad." he sighs.
"no. you know you haven't let me fuck you in a days." your voice lowers to a softer tone, more of a coaxing tone.
his cheeks flush. "oh, you know i've been so busy... i must've gotten so wrapped-"
you exhale. "stephen, i need to cum. and you've been quite invested in yourself recently. why don't we make it about me tonight?" you lower your eyes at him, watching his reaction.
he nods eagerly, as always, he loves to please you. "of course!" he bites his lip watching you. "i'm sorry baby. i hope you still love me." you roll your eyes, knowing he'll ask this a million times later too.
you stand, pointing to the couch. he lies down, watching you as you undress fully, moving to hover over his clothed cock. you can feel how hard he is under you, but that's not what you're looking for tonight.
his voice is whiny, but has dropped octaves. "what do you want from me baby? i'll do anything to help you."
"shush." you press a soft kiss to his lips. "you're going to eat me until i decide i'm done. understood?"
he nods, gripping your thighs as you move upwards on top of his face. he's slid his glasses off to make sure the frames don't press too hard against you, so he has full access to you. you put your weight down on him, causing him to whimper as he inhales you, his mouth immediately finding your clit. you don't move at first, feeling him move his mouth around your pussy, letting the feeling explode in your core and throughout your body. you hold in a moan, refusing to let him hear you break that easy.
his hands grip your ass as you start to move, his thumbs moving close to your asshole, putting pressure towards your hole. your breathing becomes choppy, his nose hitting your clit as his tongue moves against your cunt, creating obscene noises.
"good boy stevie... that's it." you hum, your hands finding the side of the couch to stable yourself on. his moans vibrate against you, only pushing you to move against him faster, the movement against your clit rolling you to your first orgasm.
"don't fucking stop baby, i'm gonna finish on those pretty lips until you're covered." you grit out, your knuckles turning white while you grip the couch. as your orgasm hits, you slow your movements. he's making vulgar noises as he continues eating you, the sounds of his mouth mixing with your fluids.
"so good. i love your taste. i love you." he whimpers. you pick up your pace again, the mix of overstimulation and warmth settling back into your core fueling your need. you move your hands into his hair, tugging at his strands, locking your thighs around his head.
"so good for me, pleasing me when i ask." you groan, feeling yourself reaching your peak quicker than you did last time, hearing his breaths become quicker. your hips lift as your orgasm hits stronger, more violent than the first, your head dropping back.
stephen moves to put on his glasses and moves you backwards, laying on your bare chest.
"was i good? did you like it? did i make up for everything?" he rushes out.
"mhm. so good stevie." you say with closed eyes, exhaustion falling over you. your hand caresses his hair.
"you still love me?"
his fucking questions.
"yes. i still love you. now let me sleep." you mutter, ignoring the way he nuzzles closer to your breasts.
based on this request <3 this lowkey hits home for me lol
18+mdni. warnings: brief smut including- oral (m receiving) and piv sex, angst, sam is a dick and uses reader for sex
no one could deny how attractive you were. if they did, it's because they were jealous or a man who couldn't obtain you. which, was quite a lot, because you knew your worth. and you knew what men on campus truly wanted of you.
SAM MONROE didn't like it that way. he wanted to know what it was like to get you in bed, feel your tongue around his cock. see what your cunt felt like around his dick. but you truly wanted nothing to do with him. he's tried to talk to you at one of the dive bars before, but you ended conversation pretty shortly after, some excuse about your friend wanting to leave. he saw you minutes after in a booth.
while he had been used to girls evading him in high school like the plague, college changed that, and he seemed to collect them easily. you were a struggle, but he was determined to get you. to have what other men didn't.
so he did what he had to do. build a connection, talk to you like you mattered.
he started in class. you shared an algebra II class. he started taking his seat next to you, which clearly confused you. the first time he did it, you squinted at him, before ignoring him the rest of class. the second time, he asked you about the homework. stupid. truly beneath him. you had responded and said you could send it to him later.
there, he had obtained your number. you did send it to him, no further text, just an image. he debated responding, not wanting to come off too desperate, for he knew you could become suspicious. so he allowed it to sit. with an eye roll. at this rate, he would fuck you by graduation.
you seemed to take a liking to him after a few more classes and "surprise" run-ins at the gym.
sam doesn't know a singular thing about the gym.
on the way back to his apartment from said "gym workout", where he had bullshitted some routine, you trotted next to him.
"whattya say we hang out later?" he tosses out.
to his surprise, you smile at him. "okay! my place or yours?"
oh if only you knew. "we can do mine."
and you did. he had you in his bed, whimpering in no time. you were just as perfect as he imagined, your lips wrapped around him, sucking him like your life depended on it. his hand pressed against your head, pressing you further against him, groaning.
"that's it sweetheart, keep going. god."
fucking you was even more blissful for him, pounding into you relentlessly, your pussy tight around him, milking his cock like he's never felt. you of course, looked incredible, your ass bouncing against him as he fucked you back against him again and again.
he made an excuse to leave after. school work, whatever. he watched your eyes dim, but you nodded. of course, you understood.
he deleted your number after that. no use in needing it. he saw the texts pop up from it of course, but he simply deleted it. algebra class was a bit awkward, but he would simply take a seat in the back. he didn't miss the way your gaze followed him the first time he sat away from you. and he's sure you figured out he didn't really know what he was doing in the gym. or that he ever really went.
thinking about infantile crybaby!reader being besties w infantile crybaby!stephen again that are definitely the type to be like “my boyfriend says it’s okay for you to come over and play with legos as long as it’s okay with your girlfriend” 🍬💕
i think this was supposed to go to my sec acc but YES!!! infantile cousin!stephen and crybaby!reader are literally just two toddlers left in the playroom while the grown-ups talk about serious things, like aj and cousin!reader are discussing work, uni, current events, and just periodically poke their heads in to make sure they haven't gotten into a fight over roblox lmao
i love logging on, reblogging other people's fics, and then dipping again... i'm seeing "obsession" today btw!! and i really think it might inspire me to write something new · (˶ˆᗜˆ˵) ·
The living room was a war zone of toddler toys and half-eaten rice cakes, but for SAM MONROE, still freshly-baked dad, it was perfect. Today was the rare day where he could have a time off from school (and no, it wasn't because he did something bad) and mainly focus on the marshmallow boy who abducted his life.
Sam Monroe thanked every god people believed in for how vincent turned out to be - especially how easy to entertain he was. So that's a short prestory on how Sam Monroe found himself currently crouched behind the couch with two mismatched socks on his hands like the world depended on it. One had a googly eye stuck to it while the other had a sharpie mustache and a safety pin for a monocle. They both reeked as hell but one thing to know about Sam, is that he will do anything to see a huge smile on his son's face.
"This town ain't big enough for the both of us," growled one sock in a gruff cowboy accent. Vinnie sat cross-legged on a blanket, mouth agape, clutching his sippy cup like it was supposed to help him experience emotions and time to time be the source of his hydration
The second sock sneered dramatically, moving closer to the other's socket 'face' . “You took everything from me, Sheriff. My land. My honor. My mini marshmallows!"
You knew what you did, Tilda. You knew"
“I regret nothing, Scuffy Sheriff. I’d do it again. For the diamonds.”
Vinnie gasped in shock. His round eyes moved from each performing sock, as if trying to understand their conflict, before moving back to sam monroe who really seemed to be more devoted to the story.
In all of this chaos, Sam didn't know how he got here. After all, he was just a teenager. Someone who had plans once, a motorcycle he had bought when he turned 17, notoriously skipped school, smoked weed and listened to blasting music that his mother strongly disliked..and now? Now he was performing melodramatic sock puppet vengeance arcs at 9 AM. Yet Vinnie was giggling, eyes wide, curls bouncing with every laugh. And Sam? Sam would sell his soul to keep that sound going.
“I challenge you to a duel,” the monocled sock replied, wobbling on Sam’s left hand.
"NOOOO!" Vinnie shrieked, throwing his arms up. “NO DUEW! NO DUEW!!”
Sam froze mid-line, sock poised. “What?? They hate each other, kid.”
Vinnie crawled forward, flailing his pudgy hands in front of the sock puppets. “NO! They no hate! They… they…” He paused, thinking so hard you could see it behind those scrunched baby brows. “They fowgive.”
Sam blinked in the biggest confusion of his life. “Forgive?"
“Fwom power of wuv,” Vinnie explained seriously, lisping each word, as if this was obvious and Sam was the one being dumb.
A beat of silence hung in the room
"...Bro. They shot each other last act."
“STILL CAN WUV!” Vinnie insisted, practically bouncing with energy now. He reached over, gently pushing the socks together with his chubby little fingers. “They wuv. Kiss kiss. Now kiss!”
And god help him, because Sam actually made the socks kiss.
He even added a little wedding ceremony, complete with dramatic vows and a torn napkin veil, because Vinnie clapped his hands together and whispered, "Weady now. Puppets get mawwied." Sam watched his baby boy cheer as the sock bride (formerly the villain) wobbled into the groom’s sock arms. And as Vinnie leaned against him with a satisfied sigh, whispering, “I wike them now. They happy,” Sam wrapped an arm around his tiny, poetic, emotionally literate son and muttered:
“I can’t believe you came from me, man..you're so weird”
⬩➤ 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 Mentions of kidnapping, murder, and sexual assault, mutilation, blood, torture, physical and moral violence
You surfaced from unconsciousness the way people crawl out of nightmares in cheap holofilms, slowly and already regretting it. At first there was only brightness.
You opened your eyes and immediately shut them again because the light was so vicious it felt surgical. For one confused second, you thought it was sunlight. That almost made you laugh. Mustafar did not believe in sunlight. Mustafar barely believed in survival.
Still groggy, you tried to roll onto your side, only for something metallic to stop you. A restraint around your wrist. The movement sent a violent ache through your back and legs, tightening every muscle in your body until breathing itself became an unpleasant task. Pain spread through you in long, burning waves, patient and methodical. Your body felt less injured than dismantled. Then, you opened your eyes again.
The ceiling above you flickered in and out of focus before the blur finally settled into the sterile white glare of a medical bay. Not sunlight after all. Just another fluorescent light determined to interrogate your retinas.
Somewhere nearby, a machine emitted a slow, regular beep. You stared at the ceiling while your mind struggled to reconnect itself. The shattered glass dome. The collapsing chamber. Dead soldiers twisted across the floor like discarded machinery. The freezing air against your torn skin. Blood running warm down your back.
And him.
Your throat tightened instinctively.
"Subject 248 conscious," a voice announced, small and precise and completely unbothered. "Vital signs stable. Mild anemia. Slight hypotension."
You turned your head with visible effort and spotted the droid beside your bed. Smaller than the one that usually brought your meals to your quarters. This one had thin surgical arms and an irritatingly cheerful posture, which felt inappropriate considering the circumstances.
No guards flanked the bed. No view of the lava fields through a viewport, no ambient sense of being one wrong word away from something irreversible. Just the droid, the monitor, and the sterile quiet of a room that was not, for once, actively threatening you.
"How long," you said, and your voice came out wrong, scraped and unfamiliar.
"Fourteen hours, twenty-two minutes since admission," it replied, already turning back to its instruments with the conversational investment of a particularly indifferent filing cabinet. "No internal hemorrhaging detected," it continued. "Motor function expected to return progressively."
"Wonderful," you muttered hoarsely. "I'll be sure to celebrate."
Fourteen hours. You let that settle. After days of living like something held underwater, lungs burning, fighting the current on pure stubbornness, you had the strange and unfamiliar sensation of breaking the surface. You were still swimming against the tide, that much hadn't changed, but at least you could see the sky from here.
You reached for that, held onto it, and let your eyes fall shut just long enough to believe it. That was when you noticed the datapad.The screen was still active, lines of medical analysis scrolling quietly beneath diagnostic charts. You wouldn't have paid it any attention, except that your name was not on it. A subject number was. 248. And the categories listed beneath it had nothing to do with lacerations, concussion protocols, or blood loss.At first you assumed they were reports related to your injuries, spinal trauma, blood loss, tissue damage. Reasonable things. Sensible things.
Then you actually read them: Complete blood panel. Hormonal mapping. Menstrual cycle analysis. Fertility index. Projected peak conception window.
You read it twice. Then a third time, because the first two hadn't produced a satisfying explanation.
"What..." Your voice cracked. "What the hell is this?"
The droid turned toward you immediately.
"Those files are classified."
"Yes, I gathered that part." Your fingers tightened around the edge of the bed. "Why are they testing my fertility?"
The droid paused for exactly half a second, which was apparently the mechanical equivalent of panic.
"I am not authorized to discuss Lord Vader's medical directives."
The monitor beside you kept its steady rhythm, indifferent to the fact that something in your chest had just gone very quiet and very cold. You stared at the ceiling, the same institutional white it had always been, and understood with a clarity that felt almost insulting in its simplicity that your presence here had never been incidental. The room had not changed. You had.
And then you heard it.
Distant at first, then closer, then filling the corridor outside with a sound so particular it required no introduction. The slow, mechanical cadence of a breathing apparatus, each inhale and exhale measured and deliberate, the sound of something that had long since stopped pretending to be casual. It grew until it was outside the door, and then the door opened, and the room rearranged itself around the fact of him the way rooms always did, shrinking at the edges, the air pressure subtly and immediately wrong.
You felt suddenly, irrationally exposed sitting there with hospital sheets twisted around your legs and classified medical reports glowing beside your hand.
His helmet turned toward the datapad and then toward you. Neither of you spoke at first.
Then finally, in that low mechanical voice that always sounded less spoken than sentenced into existence, he said,
"You survived."
You swallowed hard. "I..."
Your mind moved fast, the way it does when the alternative is dying. You were running scenarios, stress-testing every possible angle, and the odds of him believing you had genuinely tried to save him were not, by any honest accounting, good. But then you saw your own hands in your memory: covered in blood, methodically pressing bacta patches onto ruined skin while his soldiers lay in pieces around you, a monument to what his temper looked like when it had somewhere to go. Whatever your original intentions had been that night, the evidence told a specific story. You just had to hope he was reading the same version.
He was watching you. He was always watching you, even when the mask made it impossible to confirm.
"I am... relieved to see you recovering, my lord."
Lie number one.
Your pulse hammered violently against your ribs and you concentrated on slowing it before he noticed. Or before he decided to notice. You were beginning to suspect those were two entirely different things.The silence that followed was not the comfortable kind. It was the kind that had opinions. He let it stretch until it had made its point, then his helmet tilted downward toward you.
"Certain... malfunctions were identified," he said at last.
That was certainly one way to describe nearly dying on the floor of his meditation chamber like a collapsed engine someone forgot to maintain.You wisely kept that observation to yourself.
"Several paid the price for them."
"That's unfortunate," you said.
The respirator filled the room between each sentence.
"Incompetence," he continued, "has always carried consequences. Particularly for those responsible."
The threat was not subtle. It wasn't meant to be. He was watching to see what you did with it, whether you flinched or deflected or made the mistake of defending yourself too quickly. You did none of those things. You held his gaze, or the approximation of it that the mask allowed, and let the silence absorb what he'd said without giving it back to him in a form he could use.
"Of course," you said. "I wouldn't expect otherwise."
His helmet shifted slightly toward the datapad still sitting beside you and your stomach tightened. You needed answers, although asking too directly felt roughly equivalent to volunteering for dismemberment. Unfortunately, remaining ignorant suddenly felt worse.
"The medical examinations," you began quietly, "seemed... unusually thorough."
The helmet didn't move.
"I was under the impression my injuries were primarily orthopedic."
"Your condition required evaluation."
"That sounds reassuringly vague."
The black lenses settled on you again. A dangerous sentence. You heard it the moment it left your mouth.
"You speak too freely."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. so you just lowered your eyes immediately, expecting the worse.
"My apologies, my lord. I only meant that I wish to better understand how I may serve you."
That, at least, appeared to interest him.
"You already serve a purpose."
The wording landed badly. Not a person. A purpose. You tried not to think about the reports on ovarian viability sitting less than two feet from your hand.
"You prepare my bacta solution," he said. "I require a complete understanding of the biological variables present in my immediate environment. It is a precaution."
It was a perfectly reasonable answer. It was also not an answer at all.
"A fertility index," you said, keeping your voice even, "is a thorough precaution."
"I am thorough," he said, and the finality in it was a door closing, "in all things."
You looked at him for a moment, at the mask and the apparatus and the dark that lived behind both of them, and understood that this conversation was going to take a very long time, and that he was going to give you exactly as much as he decided you had earned, and not a syllable more. You also understood, with the slow and nauseating clarity of a puzzle assembling itself against your will, that the question you actually needed answered was one you were not yet ready to ask out loud.
Then Vader spoke again.
"You are observant."
Not a compliment.
"I try to be," you said.
"A necessary quality." A pause, measured and unhurried, the respirator filling it with its usual mechanical patience. Then, "I have plans for you."
There it was again. The same four words he had already used twice, and they still hadn't gotten any better with repetition. Not reassurance. Not explanation. You kept your face where it was. Your mind did not extend the same courtesy.
Your eyes moved to the datapad before you could stop them. The entries were still there, clinical and orderly and completely uninterested in your comfort. Hormonal mapping. Cycle optimization. Fertility projections. The words arranged themselves into a shape you didn't want to look at directly, the way you don't look directly at something that will be worse once it comes into focus.
The pieces were assembling themselves into something monstrous, and the most terrifying part was that he hadn't stopped them. Slowly, carefully, with the deliberate calm of someone walking across ice they aren't sure will hold, you asked,
"Why me?"
The respirator answered first. Then he did.
"You survived exposure that should have killed you."
"That cannot possibly be your entire criteria."
"No."
Your pulse made a note of that and did not move on. He took one step toward you. Just one, but the room reorganized itself around it immediately, the way rooms always did when he decided to close a distance.
"You entered my chamber uninvited," he said. "You witnessed vulnerability and chose preservation over advantage."
You looked at him.
Because that was a remarkable retelling of events. A truly creative reconstruction. What you remembered, with considerable clarity, was your spine being commandeered without your consent, your trachea being treated as a minor inconvenience, and your body being arranged into a configuration that served his survival and not yours. You had been a human shield. An improvised one, requisitioned on the spot, with no input from the human in question.
Apparently Sith Lords reserved the right to edit their own biographies.
"You preserved my life," Vader continued, with the serene confidence of a man who had decided his version of events was the one that would be moving forward. "Even having understood the cost."
The laugh came from nowhere. It startled even you, a short sharp thing that made it as far as your throat before you caught it and held it there by force, strangling it back into silence with everything you had.
"My lord," you said, very carefully, "with respect, I am not certain I was given an abundance of choice in the matter."
Something shifted. Not in his posture, not in his voice, but somewhere in the atmosphere of the room itself, a subtle change in pressure, like a temperature dropping one degree. Not warmth. The total absence of warmth, in fact.
"The illusion of choice," he said, "is frequently overrated."
You went still.
Because it came to you then, quietly and with great certainty, that this had never been an interrogation. Interrogations wanted confessions. It had been watching you the entire time, measuring your answers not for what they revealed but for how you constructed them, how quickly, how well, what you reached for when you were frightened and what you kept back when you thought you were winning.
Slowly, deliberately, you propped yourself up on your elbows. The dress was gaping open up to your chest. Your nipples were hard from the drugs, the cold, the terror. You lowered his gaze, then raised it again, meeting the black mask where his eyes should have been.
Your right shoulder twitched, and the strap of the gown slipped down your arm. The fabric pooled at your elbow, exposing the curve of your breast, the pink peak stiff and visible.You didn't cover herself. Instead, you let her left hand drift to the other strap, tugging it loose so the gown fell to her waist. The air raised goosebumps across your skin, but your held still.
Show submission. Show him that you understand. That you will comply.
You spread your legs, the thin sheet rustling. The dress rode up your thighs, bunching up at your hips. You wanted to close your eyes, look away, but you forced yourself to keep your gaze fixed on the black mask.
"My Lord," you whispered, your voice hoarse from the sedation. "I am… ready. For whatever you require."
The respirator cycled. A long pause. He took a step closer.
You trembled, but didn't move. Your hands rested palms-up on the examination table, a gesture of surrender. You were presenting yourself exposed. A vessel. A womb. The fear choked your throat, but you swallowed it down and let your hips shift, a tiny offering.
"I can serve you," you breathed. "In any way you desire."
The leather of his glove was cool at first, then warm from the heat of his robotic hand beneath. His fingers traced upward along the inside of your thigh, a slow, deliberate exploration that made your skin prickle with goosebumps. You held your breath, your body trembling as his hand moved higher.
The respirator cycled, a steady mechanical heartbeat. His fingers reached the crease where your thigh met your hip, and you let out a shaky exhale, your hips tilting instinctively toward his touch. Then his hand closed around your throat.
The change was instantaneous. The same fingers that had been tracing gentle patterns now dug into the soft flesh of your neck, squeezing with a force that stole the air from your lungs. You gasped, a choked, pathetic sound, your hands flying up to claw at his wrist. The leather was unyielding. The pressure was absolute.
"Please—" You wheezed, the word barely a whisper. Your vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. "Please, my Lord—I'll—I'll do anything—"
But his other hand slid down between your legs.
You felt the cold leather of his glove against yourswollen lips, and then two fingers pushed inside you without warning. A scream caught in your crushed throat. The intrusion was sudden, deep, violent, his fingers drove into you with the same force he used to choke you. The leather of his gloves rubbed mercilessly against your skin, warming, burning, leaving red traces in his wake.
The table shook beneath you. The metal frame groaned against the floor as his strength drove his fingers deeper, harder, a brutal rhythm that had no tenderness, no care. But your body reacted even if you didn't want it: your hips bucked against his hand, your cunt clenching around the leather, your nipples hardening even as tears streamed down your cheeks.
"Pl-please—" You tried again, but the word dissolved into a sob. Your throat was on fire, lungs were burning. The pressure in your head was immense, and still his fingers kept driving into you, relentless. Perhaps that was his way of punishing you.
The pain and the pleasure blurred together, impossible to separate. Slowly, your body started to responding on its own, your hips grinding against his hand, your cunt milking his fingers with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the sterile room.
The world narrowed to the pressure on your throat, the invasion between your legs, the sound of his respirator hissing above you. Your vision went gray at the edges. You were dying, cause he was going to kill you and yet your body was climbing toward a peak you couldn't stop, the orgasm building like a wave you couldn't escape.
"Please," You mouthed, no sound left. "Let me live—let me—"
But suddenly, you changed everything. Guided by instinct, or rather by a final surge of life, you grabbed his wrists not to try to pull them away, but to force him to press harder. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, he stopped.
The hand on your throat loosened, letting air rush back into your lungs in a ragged, heaving gasp. You coughed, choked, gulped oxygen like you've been drowning.
The mask stared down at you, unreadable.Without seeing his face, you understood that he was surprised and interested.
Slowly, he looked at his fingers, now damp and marked by the smell between your legs, and simply wiped the back of his hand against the inside of your thighs as if to get rid of this inconvenience.
"Better," he said, his voice a low, mechanical rasp. "But you will learn to beg more prettily."
Before you can answer, his grip shifts. He doesn't pull away from your heat; instead, he seizes your right leg, his fingers locking around your calf. With a slow movement, he contorts your leg, you think at first it's a new position, a way to make you lose your mind forever, but no, the pain emanates from your pelvis and goes down your leg to cause tingling sensations in your toes.
A sickening *crack* echoes through the chamber, followed by the wet sound of tearing muscle and snapping bone. A scream of pure, unadulterated agony rips from your throat as the Force shears through your limb. You feel the sudden, jarring absence of your right leg just below the knee, the pain an explosion of white heat that dwarfs the fires of the palace. You collapse to the floor immediately, your blood splattering onto the pristine white floor of the sterile room.
You sob, your body convulsing in shock, looking up at him through blurred vision. Darth vader stands over you, his helmet looking down at the severed limb and then at your broken, weeping form. He doesn't shout, he doesn't threaten you, no insults are thrown at you. Just this heavy silence of a monster has the appearance of a machine.
The world is a blur of searing white pain and the metallic tang of blood. You lie shattered on the cold, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps that rattle in your chest. Beneath you, the stone is no longer black; it is stained with a widening pool of steaming crimson, the lifeblood of Nauru leaking out of the jagged stump where your right leg once ended. The shock is a freezing wave that clashes with the oppressive heat of the palace, leaving you shivering violently, your naked body twitching in the gore.
He stands over you, watching the way your muscles spasm, the way your fingers claw uselessly at the smooth stone, seeking a purchase that doesn't exist. The silence of the room is broken only by your guttural, animalistic sobbing and the rhythmic *drip, drip, drip* of blood hitting the floor.
Slowly, he sinks down, his heavy cloak pooling around him like a spill of ink. He leans close, his face inches from yours. You can smell the ozone and the scent of ancient, dead things clinging to him. His armor does not hinder his fluid movements, like an animal approaching slowly to ease the suffering of its prey.
"You attempted to bind me," he whispers, his voice devoid of warmth.
"I saw every movement. I felt every desperate pulse of your pathetic magic. You didn't just try to trap me, little princess. You tried to erase me."
A sob racks your frame, but he doesn't offer comfort. Instead, his cybernetic fingers reach out. He doesn't touch your face or your breasts; instead, he reaches down to the site of the trauma. His fingertips trace the raw, mangled edge of the wound, grazing the exposed bone and torn sinew with a mocking lightness.
You shriek, your back arching off the floor, a sound of pure agony that echoes off the vaulted ceilings. He doesn't flinch. He presses deeper, his leather finger digging into the sensitive, bleeding flesh, reminding you with every touch that your body is no longer your own. He is mapping your pain, savoring the way you tremble under his hand.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic satisfaction. "Reduced to a broken thing. A piece of meat. You believed that I suffered the same desires as men in the flesh and you wanted to use it against me... it's pathetic."
He shifts his weight, his hand sliding from your wound to grip the remaining part of your leg, his fingers bruising your skin. For a moment, you think he might lift you, might show a shred of mercy. Instead, he applies a sudden, vicious pressure, a twisting motion that sends a fresh spike of agony through your nervous system. You feel the phantom sensation of the limb you lost, combined with the crushing reality of the one you still have.*
"Your brother failed his revolt, your father lost his kingdom and you...You are a failure as a royal, and a failure as an assassin," he sneers, his voice dropping to a low, predatory growl. "But you will find a use yet. You do not need legs to crawl to me. You do not need a whole body to bear my heir and serve as the vessel for my darkness."
The horror of his words hits you harder than the physical pain. You try to speak, to beg, to scream a denial, but all that emerges is a broken, wet whimper.
He stands abruptly, the sudden movement pulling his hand away and leaving you feeling cold and abandoned. He doesn't look back. As he turns to leave, the heavy fabric of his long black cloak drags through the pool of your blood, painting a crimson trail across the obsidian floor.
"Scream," he commands softly, his voice echoing from the doorway. "Let the palace hear the sound of your submission."
you blush. you always told hayden not to watch your performances live, not that you underestimated yourself, but something about him watching your choreo and... oh god forbid you messed up on stage. you respond quickly, asking if he's coming to your place. sure, you just finished a set, but you couldn't help it.
the two of you had met filming for a star wars spinoff, you weren't really sure what to expect from hayden christensen, but he ended up being more than what you ever could've thought. clearly. and your relationship was so easy, you couldn't have asked for anything better. well- easy in the way that hayden doesn't cause problems between you two. there's the real issue that's been nagging you, one you haven't brought up because you don't want to cause a rift. but he mentioned that you two should keep the relationship private. to keep prying eyes out, make sure none of what you two do is really in the public.
you didn't mind at first, it made sense. the longer it went though, the less you liked it. the thrill of the secrecy wore off and you wanted more- for people to know he was yours and vice versa. you weren't a posessive person, but you didn't like how touchy some women were on hayden. nevermind the fact they didn't know he was in a relationship and he made no effort to say so. there's also the age gap that makes you wonder if he's embarassed to come out about it. you start to rile yourself up, with thoughts you're making up, so instead you ignore it. hayden had answered, letting you know he'd be there soon.
a knock on your hotel door confirms that and upon opening, your face relaxes into a grin looking at his touseled hair and bag of chinese food in one hand.
"brought your favorite. thought it might be a good treat after that sellout show tonight." he leans into give you a kiss on the lips before you allow him into the room, following closely behind as he sets the food down on the table.
"thank you!" your cheeks feel flush as you look between his gesture and him. "i didn't think you'd come tonight since you have to be up early for your convention tomorrow." you pull your lo mein and egg rolls out of the bag.
"i sleep better when i'm with you." a wink.
you busy yourself dipping your egg roll in sweet and sour sauce. "hay... what if we went public with our relationship?" you don't want to look up because there's a pause.
"is this a what if or a 'can we'?"
"'can we' would be desireable."
he puffs out an exhale. "just let me think on it." not the best answer, but you let it go. no use in pushing him.
you lay against him that night, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you. you're sure he's asleep until he mumbles softly against your hair.
"they would come at us for the age gap, you know."
you know. "if i wasn't successful, they would call me a gold digger or say i'm trying to climb ranks. i'm sure they'll get creative. i don't mind."
he doesn't say anything, but he wraps his arms tighter around you.
your manager is sending you new venues to look at for performances when hayden leaves the next day from your hotel for the convention. he kisses you goodbye, telling you he'll come back later. fine with you.
you busy yourself with meetings and calls throughout the late afternoon and evening, when another call interrupts the current call you're on. too many calls to keep track of, you've already paused one to answer another, and now someone else is calling? you make a slight exception for your manager.
"hello?"
"why wouldn't you brief me before you made your raunchy relationship public!" there's a teasing edge to her voice, but entirely serious.
"i'm sorry?" you sit on the chair on the balcony of the hotel, furrowing your eyebrows.
"hayden. your boyfriend. he made it abundantly clear at his con tonight that he has a girlfriend... who he adores, and proceeded to name drop you."
your jaw drops.
"i... i mean, i asked him. to go public. but, i didn't, he didn't agree when i asked. or rather, told me he needs to think." you stammer, searching for some explanation.
"he's got some disgruntled fangirls, that's for sure. but this will be great for your reach for music. oh i gotta go." a click and she's gone.
you immediately scour the internet, searching for something, a video, clip, whatever, of hayden talking about this. and you find it immediately, it's trending under his name. it's exactly how your manager described, in his deep voice, he claims you, says how much he adores you. your heart flutters.
when he finally comes back to your hotel, you swung open the door to wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him roughly.
"you saw it huh." he murmurs, his hands finding the small of your back.
"yes. thank you."
"why don't i get your thanks in other forms of appreciation." he starts to kiss your neck and you have to drag him inside before anyone sees.
based on this request, deviated a little but tried to keep it similar
sam didn't like you. he didn't like your friends, he didn't like the football players you hung out with, but he especially didn't like you. you were always smiling, surrounded by these people, who just adored you. and for what? for being pretty? for being dumb? he couldn't put his finger on it.
he did watch you though. sometimes before classes began, he would watch you do your makeup outside your car, leaning into the window to make sure your blush was blending properly. or during lunch, when you were laughing, he loved hated your laugh, he would watch you talk amongst your friends.
it was beyond him when you approached him one day, while he was half in-half out of his car, about to shut the door to drive home.
"sam!" your voice felt like it could have glitter drop from it. sing songy. you peered down at him in the car, resting against the open door. "y'know, what i've recently learned?"
"what?" he asks gruffly, trying not to pay you any attention. too much, anyways.
"you're my new neighbor! my parents divorced (sam would've never thought that would've came out of your mouth) and i'm living with my mom. right next to you."
"well isn't that swell." he lights a cigarette, casting the smoke towards you. it doesn't seem to faze you, as you continue grinning.
"wanna carpool? i mean, not today. i drove," you toss a thumb in the direction of that hideous pink beetle. "but tomorrow we can."
"you know, i might have to pass. but i really appreciate the offer."
"i can pay you for gas if that's the issue. or we can do every other day!"
the thought of him arriving to school in that horrendous car made him shudder.
"sweetheart, don't you have friends you can do this with?" he sees your face falter, just for a split second, but it's fixed as quickly as it fell apart.
"none as convenient as you."
he thinks about it, for a fraction of a second. then reality hits him.
"i'd stick to your own ride."
you roll your eyes.
sam likes the rain. he likes watching the darker storm clouds roll in, making it close up the light in the sky. what he doesn't like is the sound of you... slapping? beating? doing something to your car, then repeatedly yelling at it afterwards.
he looks out his window, your hood is popped open, and you're drenched, despite being in a rain jacket. although, it seems you gave up with the hood a while ago. he watches you struggle with the car before sitting on the pavement in exasperation. he sighs, feeling somewhat bad for you. somewhat.
he throws on his own jacket and walks across the yard to your driveway.
"if you wanted a shower, i'm sure you have one inside." he stares down at you, your gaze snapping up to him. the water droplets fall from your lashes and he doesn't miss the way a smirk ghosts over your face before disappearing again.
"no shit monroe. my precious car. she shut down on me." your face twists, staring at it.
"why don't you just take it in?"
"money."
"don't you have plenty of that?" sure it was slightly rude. something you shouldn't say if you have social cues. but it came out before he could stop it.
"my dad put most of our money in a separate account for his mistress." you say so matter-of-fact, it shocks him. "no worries." you say, as if you can see his face without even looking back at him. "moms doing fine. grandma spots her time to time. but i just try and do my own thing. to help her, y'know? oh sam your makeup is running."
he tries to regain his composure after all of that. he swipes a hand under his eye, finding, yes, it is. "oh."
"can i help fix?" you ask, getting up from your spot on the pavement. he hesitates, but for some reason, shrugs. he doesn't know why. you follow him into his home. he feels odd. he doesn't bring people over, especially girls. you don't seem to mind his disorganized bedroom. or bathroom. he hands you the eyeliner.
"sit." you motion to his bed. he does. he still doesn't know why. your hand cups his cheek, tracing the eyeliner along his waterline. he's watching your eyes follow the pen, the way you're biting your lower lip as you concentrate. you settle with the right eye and move to his left, catching his gaze in between. he flushes. the way you're bent over him can't be comfortable. when you lift up the eyeliner to adjust on his lid, sam places his hands on your hips to lower you on his lap.
"well, here i was thinking you didn't like me." your voice rasps out.
"i don't."
"well you're letting me sit in your lap all soaked from the rain and do your makeup... i'd say that's putting someone on a high likeability scale sammy."
he shrugs. "we can watch a movie if you change out of those disgusting clothes." he wants to keep up this hard persona around you but he simply can't. you tear down the walls without even trying. and you're so easy to like. which reminds him he still doesn't like you.
SAM MONROE's room looks exactly like the room of a grumpy teenager who very much wants the world to know he listens to loud music. Walls turned into dark colors of posters, slowly peeling off after years of performance, showing the true essence of the room he tried so hard to burn down. Yet, nonetheless of how much cleaning Sam had done, there were still remains of a teenage ugly life - a messy desk with notebooks and headphones, black hoodies tossed over the chair. The whole room smells faintly like laundry detergent, old paper, and that weird metal-band incense Sam swears he doesn’t use.
It is, objectively, the least baby-friendly room in the house, which makes the scene on Sam’s bed even more ridiculous. Because right on the soft mattress next to the very grumpy teenager, is a little human who easily curled his way into Sam's side. Wearing his little pajamas in dinosaurs, he occupied his father's entire pillow with such earnestness. Time to time his short legs kept moving under the duvet, as if silently coaxing Sam how he is still alive and much fine.
But one thing about Vincent Jude Monroe, is that he looks so proud to be here. Because tonight…he gets to sleep next to the best person on earth. The one who keeps hugging him, the one that feeds him, plays with him, just being his superhero..
Yet, every twenty seconds Sam can feel the toddler beside him staring. “…What,” Sam muttered without looking up from his book
At the sound of this gruff voice, Vincent's lips immediately curled into a smile. But it was nothing like a little smile. No, this one was huge, satisfied one. The kind toddlers get when their life plan has gone perfectly. “Nuffin.”
Sam glanced over to be met with the image of vinnie laying there with his Bunny tucked under his chin, looking so unbelievably pleased with himself it’s almost suspicious.
“…Why are you looking at me like that.”
Vinnie scoot half an inch closer on the pillow.“Cuz.”
Sam raised an eyebrow in confusion “Cuz what.”
Vinnie lifts one tiny hand and pats the pillow proudly. “Sleep wif Thammy.”
Sam exhales through his nose. “…Yeah. I noticed.”
Vinnie beamed again. His little legs kicked happily against the mattress for a second before he settles down, clearly very comfortable in his achievement. From the doorway you can see the whole ridiculous picture: Sam’s dark, edgy teenage room, filled with black band posters, nothing but dim lamp. And in the middle of the bed, a very content toddler glowing with happiness. Vinnie wiggled again until his shoulder bumped Sam’s arm.
Then he tilted his head. “Thammy?”
Sam flipped a page in his book. “What.”
Vinnie whispered like he was sharing a secret. “I wub dis.”
Sam pauses for a second before turning back to the sentence he was just reading over and over again “…Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”
Vinnie doesn’t even react to the grumpy tone because he knows he had already won. He rolled onto his side so he would face Sam completely; one hand resting lightly on Sam’s sleeve like he needed physical proof that Sam is still there. His eyes slowly started to grow heavy under the pressure of growing need to sleep. “Thammy my bes’ frien.”
Sam stares at the book for a long moment..Then he sighed quietly and pulled the blanket up a little higher over the tiny body beside him. “…Go to sleep, dude.”
