The Railway Worker in the Snow by Jean-François Raffaëlli
Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael
Saint Sebastian by Guido Reni
The Virgin Mary (From The Annunciation) by Vladimir Borovikovsky
David decapitates Goliath by Guido Reni
Boy with a Pipe ('The Shepherd') by Titian
Two Monks in Conversation at the Monastery Window with a View of a Mountain by Franz Ludwig Catel
Le moine by Arthur Guéniot
Alan Gordon MacWhirter by Charles Sims
A Beach Near Trouville by Eugène Louis Boudin
Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich
A Monk by Thomas Stuart Smith
Saint John the Baptist by Guercino
After Flodden by William Brassey Hole
Christ on the Mount of Olives by Gyula Benczúr
The Remorse of Judas by Christopher Williams
Saint Joseph and the Christ Child by Adam Elsheimer
Etude pour la mort du moine by Alphonse Osbert
If Thou Had'st Known by William Brassey Hole
The Good Samaritan by Ferdinand Hodler
contents/warnings: smut, minors dni. wlw, fem!reader, cunnilingus, power dynamics, shame/doubt
Typically being summoned to the Duchess's throne room means you're in line with ten other guards, across from five and the fifth in your own row. You feel your shoulders stiff at attention regardless of Satine being the only other person in the room, and she stands from her throne with less of her usual royal confidence.
"I thought you might meet me here." She starts, her voice still regal even if it's timid. It's uncharacteristic for her- she's never been unsure in her life, and if she has, she's never let on.
"You summoned me," You nod once, polite, "Am I to be the only guard?"
"You are not a guard," She sighs wearily, perhaps of her own lack of impulse control as she wraps her silken robe tighter around her slim waist, "Not here, not now."
She's still ashamed.
You don't blame her- she's not ashamed of associating with a lowly guard, she's ashamed that she can't stop herself from wanting what others may so freely take. She's ashamed that she has to order sex, that she can't kiss her way into it beneath rumpled bedsheets.
But if you could lay beside her each night, your nose pressed behind her ear and breathing in the scent of her hair as your bodies entwine, you would.
The Duchess always looks ethereal, but it comes now not from the regality of her dress, but the stray white-blonde hairs that stick out in front of her ears, the worry lines unobscured by foundation, the sheer layer of mesh that separates your skin from hers.
She was clearly restless in bed, thinking of your mouth, and you take great pleasure in ascending the steps to the throne as she sinks into the chair.
The stone is merciless on your knees but you'd forgo legs entirely to be able to press endless kisses into the warm, waiting gap between her legs. She jumps at the forward contact, eyes locked firmly and tearily on the stained glass behind you, so that she doesn't have to admit the fact that she stoops low enough to assign one of her guards to press tender kisses in places her dresses never expose.
The sound that comes out of her throat is something breathless and guileless, a pure, unfiltered reaction to such uncommon stimulation.
Your helmet rests beside you on the stone ground and Satine's thin, pale fingers card gently, shakily through your hair, drawing on the warmth from your scalp to ease her nervous tremors. No matter how many times you indulge in her on her throne, she worries that she will somehow mess up sitting there and letting you.
You'd gone straight for the kill, but with the way she'd reacted even with her thin, plain, royal blue underwear still between you and her sex, you turn to dig your nose into her thigh. She's clean shaven, meticulously so, but her skin is soft and well taken care of, floral lotion barely there over the smell of her needy body. Her skin is heated and warm even if her extremities aren't, and your breath makes them even hotter as you exhale shakily against her flesh.
Her fingernails scrape accidentally against your hair, and you chance a glance up at your Duchess.
Shimmering tears fall from her face, landing on your own cheeks, hot and cold all at once. You surge upwards with the confidence of someone other than one of her royal guards, catching yourself inches away from pressing your lips to hers.
Your eyes are wide and so are hers, but you remember your station even if you get away with breaching it in other ways. You don't dare kiss her, you- you couldn't, but she contains her shame in a single sniffle, and no more tears escape as you meet her head on, an equal.
"Thank you," She breathes, her voice a ghost of its normal self, and you're confident she doesn't mean for what you're about to do.
You sink back to your knees and grab boldly, selfishly at the roundness of her hips through the silken mesh material of her robe. You breathe her in greedily, the musk that her body produces no matter how meticulously she keeps herself primped and groomed.
It's sex, raw, pure sex that you're breathing, and she straightens in her seat, nearly writhing away from the persistent press of your nose against her panties. As if her breach of etiquette wasn't enough, you're chasing after her cunt, inhaling her like she's dripping in sex appeal. Shame fills her white hot and heavy, but she muscles it down as she combs her fingers through your soft hair.
You tease a finger at the elastic waistline of her underwear, waiting to see how she'll react when her skin is closer to yours than ever. She stiffens against her throne, but her thighs part wider, like her sex is begging for you to slot your head between her thighs even if Satine herself won't.
You pull them down as best you can, but she's seated firmly on the rear end, and you won't inflict the cold surface of her throne against her already-chilly skin. You keep them lowered with one finger as you tilt your head slightly, lips trembling in anticipation when you part them. Her cunt is clearly in need of stimulation, lips stiffly and slightly parted to showcase the embarrassing amount of slick she's produced from only a few thigh kisses. Or perhaps it was the eye contact- the Duchess is emaciated, starved for intimacy so that her body weeps in pleasure upon receiving it.
You zero in on one spot, your lips finally pressing reverently against where her clit pulses lightning rods of pleasure through her body. She gasps, crying out in pleasure, shame, and all in between. You lose yourself from there, kissing her sex like it may kiss you back, the press of lips and tongue working her up into a writhing, whining mess before you even breach her slit.
"Please," She begs, for more, for her dignity back, for the ability to hike up her underwear and pretend she'd never asked for this, "Oh, oh please."
Once you've started licking her you can't stop, chasing the ooze of slick that her body greets you with as it gushes more upon her arousal. You press into her cunt, tongue slipping easily between her flushed lips and tasting her as purely as anyone ever could. She's not sickly sweet, she's something between salty and sour that screams sex and want and need.
You're feasting on her truly like a woman starved, moans spilling from your lips as you kiss further and further into Satine's cunt. It's as regal as she is, perfect and something you'd lay down your life for, no questions asked. You have a brief vision of being appointed her personal guard- what an honor that would be, to attend to her in her quarters instead of here, in the chilly throne room. What you wouldn't give to undress her each night, to free her sore breasts from their uncomfortable confinements, to unsheathe her hips like twin blades you'd die on.
Satine is peaceful, pacifistic, but you feel a violent urge to make yourself hers entirely.
You're honored to taste her like this, your neck craned slightly, her hands combing shakily through your hair as your tongue strokes deeply through the confines of her trembling pussy. You press it tight to the base of her entrance, nose now slick with discharge as it bumps into her cunt, and she tightens her thighs around your head on instinct. It sounds like drowning and another wave of slick oozes from her that you'd love to surrender yourself to. You eat more desperately now, wishing that she were less sensitive if only to prolong the amount of time you can bury your face inside of her for.
You're ravaging her, letting her thighs pin you in place as you submerge yourself eagerly, willingly into her needy sex. Oxygen is the last thing on your mind and you feel your chin coated with stickiness, surely the same stuff you're spreading on her inner thighs that will soon transfer to your cheeks. You aim to be covered in her essence, shimmering with the way that Duchess wants you.
Your technique is perhaps crude, the way that overeager teens kiss with tongue for the first time that's mostly out of control. But it works on Satine, because she wants nothing more than to be wanted in this moment, and your lack of finesse screams how intensely you want her.
She presses her hips forwards into your face, probably involuntarily, as she's ravaged by her climax, her hands shaking where they grip the armrests of her throne for stability. Her orgasm seems like something that happens to her, something that she gets lost in as she desperately tries retaining some of that royal composure she's famed for. She's lost, though, shaking with some mix of lust and despair as your mouth guides her through her climax.
Her hands never leave your hair, and she has to be coaxed into unclenching her thighs, even though you'd let her crack your skull between them. You lick along the pale expanse of her inner thigh, cleaning her up with a tongue you're sure will leave behind sticky residue anyways. She shivers beneath your catlike ministrations, her eyes falling closed as she grips the throne even harder.
She lets you clean her up but you can sense your time waning, and you part with honor instead of being pried off of her like a leech, always sucking. You leave one last kiss against the crevice of her inner thigh, just before the mouth of her cunt, and she lets her dressing gown fall to cover it; a secret she'll keep pinned between her thighs.
She composes herself well for a woman who'd just trembled upon her own throne, and your knees are considerably weaker as you take hold of your helmet, tucking it beneath your arm. You're standing at attention again, and you don't notice until she sets you at ease.
"Please, not a word." She begs pitifully, and you don't know how to tell her that you'd die before betraying her cunt like an ego booster among the rest of the guards. No, they'll never know her hips fit perfectly in the palms of your hands, they'll never know your tongue slots into her cunt like a puzzle piece.
"Goodnight, Duchess," You bow at the waist, and when you stand again, you swear she has tears in her eyes again.
"Goodnight." She bids you morosely, as if you won't be summoned again only hours from now to stand guard outside of her dining hall. She turns, and you watch her bare feet pad over the cold stone floor as she exits the throne room, as regal as if she'd been decked in full royal attire.
Your hand is between your thighs before you even hit the mattress in your barracks, and when you bury your face in your pillow, you envision it's the pale, milky skin of the Duchess's shoulder you're keening into.
I genuinely believe that the new SW trilogy wouldn’t have flopped out into irrelevance like it did if they hadn’t dumped Finn on the side of the freeway like a new pet rabbit the week after easter
Anyway in my heart Finn became a Jedi alongside Rey and inspired a Stormtrooper insurrection and Kyle Ron went back to his mom like he should have day fucking one and that angry redhead dude blew up with the star destroyer and Poe got to make it happen and at the end Rey doesn’t give a shit who her bitch ass non-palpatine parents might have been because she gets her new family like she needed and palpatine stays dead at the bottom of his musty hole like he should have and Finn and Poe give each other approximately 130% the amount of lingering meaningful looks and then one of their run-together-to-reunite moments results in a heat-of-the-moment make out like it should have and Luke and Leia meet in person a minimum of once so she can sibling slap him at least once for being a useless dramatic old hermit for a billion years and tell him to get the Chanel boots back on and stop being a sad hobo and then for no reason at all there is an ewok style moon of Endor forest party at the end like God intended
the most insane thing star wars ever did btw was during the jaina and darth caedus battle jaina keeps thinking that shes a dead woman, shes going to die, she needs to kill jacen before he kills her because shes so sure hes gonna kill her and then finally when she does kill him and she does in fact survive it shes so injured and out of it that she just sits there with jacens head in her lap and waits to die. and then when shes found, and they make moves to help her, her first instict is "they are trying to take jacen from me." so she clings to her brothers dead body and gets angry and force throws her own friend and lover away trying to yell "dont touch him" but literally does not have the strength to speak. so she just sits there and continues to cling and pet his hair until her parents come and find their dead son with his head in his killers lap, and they have to go comfort the killer bcause its their daughter and his sister and they loive her and her brother is dead and their son is dead and jacen is dead but jaina survives it. she never thought she could survive the separation... maybe she didnt.
Christensen opened up on his time in the galaxy far, far away. “It’s been a remarkable experience. And just a very heartwarming one,” he tells Empire. “The journey that I’ve been on with Star Wars over the last 20 plus years... it’s been a wild ride, and where we’re at now is really meaningful to me.” While the backlash against the prequels was difficult to take, he’s pleased to see how beloved all three films are today. “I think that those movies have held up well over time,” he says. “It feels like vindication for the work that we did. Everyone that worked on those movies thought that we were part of something special. We all wanted to do our very best work, and we cared a lot about it. And so to see the response from the fans now, it’s very cool.”
That response includes excitement from younger fans – who are always thrilled to meet the man who… well, murdered all the Jedi younglings in Revenge Of The Sith. “There was a lot of talk about us doing that scene, and I love that George did it. It was a bold move. And it’s shocking,” the actor says. “Kids seem to forget about that scene when they meet me! There’s not any fear or intimidation. They’re just excited to meet Anakin.”
Having ridden out the stormy reception to the prequels – and returned to the Star Wars galaxy in recent years for appearances in Obi-Wan Kenobi and Ahsoka – Christensen reflected on the advice that he would give to his younger self before stepping into Attack Of The Clones. “Even though I was a bit overwhelmed, I was also a confident young man, and I wanted to make my mark. But I guess if I were to have some advice for me during that general time in my life, it would be: ‘Patience’,” he decides. “Because my journey with the character and with Star Wars has at times been a bumpy one... but I’m in a good place with it now. And so that’s why I say patience.” In 2024, there’s undoubtedly balance to the Force.
Excerpt of Hayden Christensen’s interview with Empire Magazine for its Prequels’ 25th Anniversary special issue
I ask myself this question at least twice a day, nonnie.
We could have had it all. Rey would still be Rey from nowhere, proving you don't have to have some super fancy family lineage to be special, to be worthy. Finn would have revealed the fact that he was force sensitive as well, and we would have gotten to really explore that and how that's juxtaposed against his forced conscription as he starts training with Rey and Leia. Poe would not have been a drug smuggler (fuck you jj, that shit is racist as hell and you know it), but the son of famed resistance fighters who were genuinely trying to make the world a better place. Rose would have actually had a fucking role and done her best to avenge the loss of her sister while still fighting for those she loves and upholding her belief in a galaxy that is better than her homeworld. Ben would have lived and, in turn, actually had to atone for his wrongs against the resistance and the galaxy at large while also exploring what it actually means to be half of a dyad - literally the other half of someone's soul. We could have had an exploration of what the Jedi order (potentially a gray Jedi order) would have looked like in the hands of Rey, Ben, and Finn. I think that Hux would have been the Big Villain™️ and it would have been an insane fight against the closest thing to space nazi's we've got. Because let me tell you, that speech Domhnall gave in TFA? Bone chilling. That is the villain we deserved in TROS.
But all in all, it would have been a story about hope, love, and redemption. All the things that star wars stands for that jj abrams hates apparently.
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