#implied sex slavery

[madmanwonder]

Prompt

Fusion Slavery: Combat Slave & Gladiator Slave AU

When Weiss and Blake offer Jaune to train in different ways from Pyrrha.he accepts since he does want to learn new things. Problem is that what they plan on doing with him... it is less training and more working together to win him over from the others. To the point that after the three leave the gym hours later... the two girls putting back on their gym clothes definitely implied something happened there. Especially with how they tease their master.

(2-Koma) (Seduction) (Implied Sex)

When he Weiss and Blake told him that they were going to teach him a new combat technique. He was excited about the new technique from the ex-heiress and former White Fang agent who were skilled and experienced in combat which made him eager in learning from them.

But…

“You are going to learn some grappling techniques, Master~” Weiss said with a smile as she eyed him.

“A lesson you are going to need in the future with certain opponents in mind.” Blake said cat-like smile as she placed her hand on her broad hips.

“…”

X-xx-X

“Do you heard that?” Ying asked her younger sister who was walking with her.

“Hear what Sis?” Yang asked looking at her carbon copy with a curious expression.

“The sound of flesh hitting flesh and…moaning?” Ying said with a bewildered expression.

[everthewip]

The Siren - WIP

Something I began a long time ago but would like to continue, so I'm adding it to my tumblr as if this will somehow encourage me to keep writing.

TW// slavery, implied sex slavery, no actual sex or sexual violence in writing though, not sure if described nudity counts as a tw but there's a bit of that i guess, as always lmk if you think there should be a tw i didn't add (im still new to posting things that might need one). Also it should go w/o saying but these are not concepts I condone even if I chose to write about them.

The Sirens were the greatest threat to sailor and pirate alike. Greater even than the untamed waves and the furious storms; greater even than the curse of a witch or the arms of a kraken. With luck and skill, those foes can be evaded and defeated. There are calm seas in wake of a storm; there is hope beyond the grasp of monstrous beasts.

But the Sirens were a foe of a different breed.

Only the deaf were safe from their song, yet even they would be lost with the rest of their crew should the Sirens draw their ship into the depths. There is no escaping a lure that catches your very soul and claims all control; there is no escape from the voice that harkens your death with a haunting melody.

The Sirens and Sea Witches were not allies. Legend says they once called the other Sister, both born from the same womb and seed. Some believe the Witches were Sirens once, now stripped of their song and shunned for some wrong deed or another. The Witches no longer remember and no sailor has lived to carry home the truth from a Siren's lips.

It was the Witches, then, who aided the men of the sea in their fight against those watery demons. In exchange for freedom and safety to walk the port cities without persecution, they offered a gift; a secret, a way to evade the Siren's song. It was a spell that costs a witch a great deal to craft, one that steals a piece of her spirit and life, aging her well beyond her true years. It is a price they are willing to pay to avoid the hangman's noose.

Protected by this piece of a Witch, a hint of their ancient Siren blood, men sailed without fear. When their vessel did drift too close to a Siren's domain, they were not captured in song and spell. They fought, staining the sea with their ancient foe's blood, and declaring the Sirens' reign of terror at an end.

And so the Sirens faded away and ships traversed the seas freely, the only song on the wind their new song of power.

For a time, the story of the Sirens became a legend. The Sea Witches grew in influence, their charms a vital necessity for any ship setting sail, and their presence one of respect in the places they made their domain. At long last they had taken their curse, their punishment, and turned it into a blessing. The Sirens were shunned and the Witches beloved, and the existence of those sea demons no longer mattered.

Until one was captured.

She had not sought to draw the sailors to their deaths beneath the cold and dark sea, no matter what they say. The morning had been kissed by thick fog and the air was silent; her lips remained frozen shut. The lanterns on the ship glowed a dim yellow, piercing the fog like a blade, and they frightened the young Siren who had swam too near… Though even the lights were not as terrifying as the rifle's bang; a warning shot, fired into the water.

Startled, the Siren leaped from her hiding place on a nearby rock and the splash of water on that silent morn drew the sailors' sights upon her.

For the Witch's charm not only protected them from that deadly song, but it betrayed a Siren's presence. Like a beacon in the night, they could see her form, and though no Siren had been seen in countless years, all men of the sea believed in their existence and knew what to do.

The nets caught her before she could swim too deep and she was lifted from her watery home, now a prisoner on a cage of wood, with wardens who hated the very idea of her.

Some wanted to kill her, cut out her heart and trade it to a Witch to earn a higher blessing. Some wanted to use her, to warm their beds and ease their need, for they had been many moons without a woman. But their Captain was no barbarian, though nor was he a saint. He would not kill her nor let her be claimed, but knew her body was worth gold to the right bidder, and many ports still held auctions for slaves of all kind.

And what a rare and exotic slave she would make.

Had his thirst for power been as strong as his thirst for gold, he would have kept her as such for himself.

They kept her below deck with her hands bound. They did not feed her, for none knew what a Siren ate and she would not speak. She barely moved, did not wither, did not grow ill so far away from the depths of the sea. And when the ship reached its next port, they took her into the open sunlight and let the entire harbor watch her, shameful in her nakedness, be led through. Many found it immoral, thinking her only a woman- a sickly one, given the color of her skin. Many more were intrigued and knew the nature of her presence, whether she be Siren or not. There was a slave trader eager to get his hands on her in more ways than one, and by dusk she was sold and found a cage of iron had replaced her prison of wood.

There were other slaves, but not quite like she. There were slaves meant for labor, mostly men young enough to work for many years. There were women, old and young, who would find their place in a home tending to domestic duties and perhaps children. And there were some of both – adult men, women – who were meant for neither, but instead find their place beneath a stranger's sheets, or, perhaps as a trophy to be envied.

It was to this final group that she would belong.

The trader could not touch her in the ways that he craved. He was a vile man who took delight in his profession, and even more-so in tormenting the slaves he bought and sold. But the Siren… even without her song, he could barely fight the way he desired her. Stories, however, claimed they were virgins, hating man enough to drown him and never offer him the pleasure of their flesh. So the trader assumed she was untouched and knew he would get a higher price for such a gem. No matter how he ached at her sight, he would not have her, and instead took out his frustration in other ways.

“They say yer kind are deviants,” he taunted through her cage bars. “Drownin' men, but layin' with yer own kind like a nasty whore… which is all yer gonna be soon.”

The Siren said nothing. She watched him with her dark eyes and was silent, expression numb, and this enraged the trader more than anything at all. He wanted tears or defiance. He wanted a reason to reach into her cage and whip her raw. She gave him nothing and he hated her more than any slave he had ever traded before.

On the day of her auction, the harbor was alive with chatter and anxiety. A new ship had anchored in the night and heard tale of the auction on the morn, but their Captain had been hesitant to accept an invitation. In the end, she did so, if only to keep on good terms with those in charge of this town. It was a good and safe place to stop, and as a cargo ship there were never enough of those between destinations.

She was a large woman, built like a man and every bit as intimidating. Her skin was tanned and body toned, with rough hands and clear muscle to show off her years of hard work. Her hair was black as squid ink and messy, but she kept the shoulder-length strands pulled back by a loose tie. Most thought she had a handsome face with a strong jaw and sharp nose. Her lips, thin and raw from the sea winds, rarely smiled. Her eyes, though, were kind. Golden brown, they watched the auction begin with a touch of empathy for those on display.

The Siren was kept hidden until her moment came. When she was finally revealed, the harbor fell silent. No one whispered. The waves grew still. The wind died down. The gulls refused to call out. It was as if the sea and all who belonged to it had slipped into mourning, offering a hushed moment in respect for their stolen daughter. The Captain, like everyone else, was simply entranced.

She was not a beauty in the common sense. Her body was not slender nor angelic. She was thick in nearly all places, with a belly that moved with every movement. Her breasts were full and heavy, her thighs large enough to hide the naked space between them. Her skin was a pale blue with hints of green, yet almost humanoid enough to be mistaken for a sickly gray. Her hair was long and thick, much like her flesh, hanging down to her lower back in waves of white. Her lips were dark, sea blue up close, and her eyes nearly the same; black as the void, some whispered.

She looked nothing like the depictions of Sirens in books and paintings. Those creatures looked like women, thin and lovely, with human skin and hair of many shades. This Siren looked precisely as she should, with a body built to survive the cold depths, and a gaze to inspire fear in the weak-spirited.

And yet, in some eerie way, she was still beautiful.

It was as if a spell had fallen over the harbor for but a moment, and when it was lifted time seemed to move twice as fast to catch up. The auction continued without relent, a cacophony of voices rising up to place their bids, the price for her growing higher and higher and higher still. Before the Captain could regain herself, the Siren had been sold.

The local prison warden bought her. The Captain knew nothing about him. He was quiet and stern by appearance alone, but little more could be discerned. What she could not determine from him, however, she glimpsed from the Siren.

When the man moved to retrieve her, the Siren's calm, emotionless expression shifted. For just a moment, her eyes widened and the Captain fancied she glimpsed fear in those dark eyes. As soon as it was there, it was gone, and the Siren had become her stoic vision once again as she followed her new master somewhere quieter and secluded.

“Poor little fish,” a woman spoke at the Captain's side. She turned to see a small, elderly woman bent over a cane, her gray eyes watching the Siren vanish through the crowd. A shawl was draped over the elder's shoulders and her hair was so thinned that her scalp was exposed to the sun. The Captain instinctively shifted, using the shadow cast by her form to cover the woman's head.

The elder seemed not to notice. “There's a strong spirit still stirring in her, but that man'll break it faster than he breaks her womanhood.”

“How do you know?” the Captain asked, her gaze rising to watch the fading figures leave the harbor. Beside her, the woman was silent, and when she turned to look there was no one there at all.

The Captain did not know what drove her to push through the crowd and follow in the tracks of the Warden and Siren. She knew only that her own heart would never forgive herself if she did nothing at all.

[yinyuedijun]

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is��shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

[oftengruntled]

On a rewatch of the "Kidnapped!" arc, the one featuring this scene, some things stuck out to me:

First off, the Republic knows that this is a peaceful people who do not want weaponry in their community, yet they come in guns blazing.

Second, in the scene described above Anakin says "Zygerrian scum! I'll handle that slaver!" which, as noted above, paints this as a personal crusade and glory thing for Anakin. He reluctantly follows kenobi's orders to look for the missing Togrutas, the enslaved beings.

Later in the same episode, when he goes with Ahsoka to defuse the bombs the Zygerrians laid across the colony, Anakin exercises no caution when defusing bombs that he knows could be near colonists, slashing through them with what he admits is a guess (They don't know for a fact there are colonists nearby, but the Zygerrian Kenobi is negotiating with threatened it may be the case).

In the second episode, they travel to Zygerria disguised as slavers and slaves, respectively. When Ahsoka brings up how she is the only one playing at a slave, Anakin says that he tried it once and wasn't good at it. He then claims "the role of master comes easily to me." He's right. He's very comfortable and convincing as a slaver.

He flirts with the queen of the slavers. He flirts with the Zygerrian queen. I thought he was joking about that.

While he flirts with the slaver queen, he prevents a slave from assassinating her and, when the slave commits suicide, he gifts the queen Ahsoka as a replacement.

Anakin is enslaved as the Queen's bodyguard and freely returned his lightsaber. When he is told his friends are "safe" he does not inquire further. He continues to not ask anything about the enslaved people and refuses an opportunity to free his friends. The queen offers to free Kenobi, Rex, and Ahsoka if Anakin pledges loyalty to her and Anakin stalls for days, despite it being proven how easily he could escape (proven by his easy escape).

Throughout the arc, Anakin makes decisions based on personal bravado and regard for only himself. For instance, he flirts with the Zygerrian queen and offers her Ahsoka, later stalling when given the choice to free Ahsoka, Kenobi, and Rex. He rarely asks about the location of the enslaved Togruta that began this arc or his friends, and very easily and comfortably assumes the identity of a slaver, claiming that "The role of Master comes easily to me" (SWTCW s4e12 "Slaves of the Republic) and shows no signs of disgust towards the Zygerrians besides saying "slaver scum" occasionally when he's around his friends.

Overall it does definitely look like this is a selfish glory thing to Anakin. He only expresses disdain toward slavers when it's his own ass that is threatened with slavery.

When the Republic does free the Jedi and Rex and the captured Togruta, they only free the Togruta colonists, and less than half the number we saw get captured. Instead of freeing the rest of the slaves, they collapse the slave facility, plunging both Zygerrian and slave into a pit.

I'm still consistently befuddled by people who make "crusader against slavery" one of Anakin's defining character traits.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

You're Safe With Me

Poe Dameron x GN!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 6: Sex Work

Summary: Poe gets captured on a mission and you're the closest to his last location.

A/N: Thank you so much @thexsanctuaryx for betaing!

This prompt was super difficult and I have kind of just done something that vaguely relates to it.

Warnings: resistance!reader, bad guy here is VERY gross, imprisonment, slavery, implied future sex slave, kissing, sex pollen, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 2131

When you’d been told that Poe had run into trouble during a supply run on Tel’Ra you’d expected jail, the first order, him hiding up somewhere with a blaster wound. 

You had not been expecting… this. 

You’d been the closest to the planet and had found the traders quickly when you landed. Only to find out that there had been a miscommunication somewhere. They had thought Poe was the payment, not the negotiator. 

Fucking hell.

You’d spend the better part of the last thirteen manic hours tracking him down, going from trader to trader until you got here, a meeting with the quadrant Tsar. 

He was a large Terlion, powerful in his golden armour. He’d greeted you in his native tongue, and you knew enough about the culture of Tel’Ra to reply in basic. If you even said one word in the Tsar’s language then that was all he would speak, and everything would get very messy. 

“This… humanoid,” the Tsar formed the word slowly, “He is yours?” 

You nod and he pauses.

“I paid good coin for him.”

“So you admit he’s here?” You keep your tone even and calm. 

The Tsar smiles and gestures to one of his guards, speaking in Krazel. You understand enough of the language to understand that they’re bringing Poe here. 

Relief floods your veins, that was something at least. 

“The traders had no right to sell him to you.” You repeat. 

“But a trade was made, wasn’t it? You received goods for him?” The Tsar smiles.

“The trade was for Keseun. Not him.” You swallow, the guards in the room make your skin crawl, there were too many. Even if they had been troopers there was no way you could get out of an altercation alive, besides Terlions were large, physically powerful. One alone could snap you in half with two fingers. 

You keep your chin held high, they respected confidence, straightforwardness. They wouldn’t attack unless you made a faux pas. 

The resistance needed them to stay outwardly neutral to the rebellion. The planet was no fan of the first order, but would trade with anyone that showed respect. 

You couldn’t blow this. 

“Keseun.” The Tsar repeats, stroking his chin. 

“I would offer you the same, for this inconvenience.” 

He nods slightly, thinking when the door opens and Poe is pushed into the room.

You try your very best to hide the shock on your face.

You’d assumed that he had been sold as a labourer, or a servant. Not as… not as a… 

Your gaze hinges on his scantily clad form, soft thin fabrics and lace and dripped in gold jewellery. 

Your mouth dries as heat runs along your skin. That’s when you notice his expression, the relief plasters all over his face as he sees you. 

You shake your head ever so slightly, trying to clear your not so pure thoughts, and chastising yourself. 

“This is the humanoid?” The Tsar asks, beckoning with his hand. The guard pushes Poe forward to him. 

He stumbles slightly, and you see the gold chains are not just for decoration. 

“Yes.” You nod. 

Now that he’s closer you can see the thin gold bar across his lips, the chain connecting around the back of his head, keeping his mouth closed.

The Tsar touches Poe’s cheek, grabbing hold of the back of his neck when he struggles and flinches away. He chuckles. “He is a spirited one.” He pulls Poe closer, forcing him into his lap and you stand, anger blazing through your veins. 

The guards around you tense, but you keep your hands open and away from your weapons.

The Tsar laughs again, waving his hand and the guards relax. 

Poe looks at you imploringly, at first you think he is begging for your help. But then you realise he is pleading for you to leave, for you to not get hurt for the sake of him. 

“He has quickly become my favourite.” The Tsar grumbles, holding Poe to him, “I will enjoy taking-”

“He is mine.” You snarl, taking a step forward. Oh, this was risky, far too risky, but you don’t know how else to play this. 

The Tsar raises an eyebrow, amused “Yours?” 

“Mine.” You swallow, you might as well go the whole distance now. “My mate. Mine.” 

Poe gives you a confused look as the Tsar freezes, his fingers digging into Poe’s side. This was a faux in Terlion culture, this had implications for the Tsar. 

“Your mate.” He repeats and you nod. 

“My mate.”

“You did not say this before, why?” There’s anger in his voice. 

“I did not want to cause embarrassment over a mistake, however, you touching him and flaunting,” you shake your head, injecting as much rage into your voice as you can to cover the panic. “I cannot stand for it.” 

The Tsar’s grip loosens on Poe, but there is fury burning in his gaze. “Humanoids… lie.”

“I am not lying about this-”

“I have no way of knowing if you are other than your word. Which is worth little.” 

You clench your jaw to stop it shaking. 

“If he is… yours. Then he would pass the test of Seva. He would resist the touch of anyone but you.”

You swallow. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. You’d heard of Seva, a plant extract that caused extreme arousal that was banned in half of the galaxy and highly regulated in the other. It had been used in the past to prove the loyalty of royalty’s romantic partners. If someone took it and were truly devoted to their spouse then they would only accept the affections of that person while under the influence. But if they weren’t… well, anyone’s touch would do.

You and Poe weren’t together. This was going to end very, very badly. 

“I am insulted that-” You try to argue, but the Tsar cuts you off. 

“The test will be taken, and if he goes to you then you may take him from here without payment,” he pauses, “as I will deal with the traders myself, however if he doesn’t crave only your touch, I will keep him and wear your skin as a trophy and nail your tongue to the wall as a warning to other humanoid liars.” 

Somehow you keep his gaze. “Very well.” 

You were going to be sick. There had to be something, some way out of this. You rack your mind, searching for anything, anything.

A servant brings an ornate pot to the Tsar, bowing as they take off the lid and use a golden spoon to measure a serving of the fine seeds. 

The Tsar undoes one of the chains at the back of Poe’s head, finally allowing him to open his mouth. He looks at you, about to say your name. 

“It’s alright.” Your voice is soft, even. Somehow sure of itself even if nothing else about you is. 

He keeps his shining eyes fixed on you as he opens his mouth and swallows the seeds when offered. 

The servant steps back, retreating and the Tsar smiles. 

“It will only take a few moments, Seva is strong on humanoids.” He muses, “If he is not yours as you say, I will claim him now to relieve him of its effects.” 

Poe shivers, blinking hard. Heat starts to run along his skin, first like a gentle breeze, a caress that is not unwanted. 

The Tsar strokes his back amused as Poe shakes his head, trying to clear his quickly clouding vision. 

The touch is… nice. Soothing almost. Poe leans back into it, sighing. He needed to do something, there was something he was trying to remember… but his thoughts just wouldn’t hold. Would slip out of his grasp the second he tries to focus. 

A weight settles in his stomach, his muscles clenching. He wanted…

The Tsar laughs as Poe sighs, pushing back as he runs the tips of his fingers along his skin. Triumph in his eyes. He takes Poe’s chin and turns him towards himself.

Poe goes with the touch, lightheaded and… he freezes, pain spikes into his chest. There’s a pause, a look of horror on his face before he practically throws himself off the Tsar, and scrambles back. He shakes his head rapidly, his eyes wild and glazed. 

The Tsar frowned, about to speak. 

“Poe!” You rush forward, panic gripping your chest. “Are you a-”

The second he sees you, relief rushes into his mind, presses solidly into his bones. He grabs hold of you, his skin hot and sweaty, “Baby, baby, baby,” he slurs, practically sobbing as you help him to his feet. Which is easier said than done.

He presses his body against you, whining the second there is a fraction of space. 

“Poe, it’s okay,” You soothe, trying to keep him upright. 

He buries his face into your neck, shivering and breathing hard. “It hurts.” He whimpers and you hold him tighter. 

The Tsar drops to his knees, “A great insult has been cast to you by myself.” The guards all fall to their knees as well.

“I-” Your own gasp cuts you off as Poe kisses your neck, lightly sucking on your skin as he grinds his very obvious erection against your leg.

“I will sort this disservice with the traders, please, I offer any future trades to go directly through me and my house to ensure its standards.”  

“Thank you,” you manage to get out, as you grip Poe’s wrists to stop him from undressing you then and there. “There is no ill will, please let me leave you with Keseun as a sign of my appreciation.” 

The Tsar nods deeply, “I will accept, and will repay you for your generosity in the future.” 

Poe wriggles one hand free, pushing his fingers under your shirt.

“I, thank you,” you bow your head, “I need to be getting back to my ship and-”

Poe kisses your cheek, nipping lightly at your jaw as he tries to press his lips to yours. 

“Please,” The Tsar gestures to the side, “Let me show you our hospitality, at least while the effects are still strong in your mate.” 

You want to refuse, you want to get the hell out of there. But there’s no way you can get Poe to your ship like this. 

You nod and are quickly guided to a lavishly decorated room. You barely get the chance to thank the servant before Poe’s tongue is in your mouth. 

It’s dizzying, desperate the way he moves against you, how his hands slide and tug at your clothing. He pushes you back, up against the door.

“Poe– Poe,” You manage to pull yourself away, to resist getting caught up in his warmth. You have no idea how this worked out, maybe Poe had gotten himself together for long enough to throw himself away from the Tsar and to you? 

“You okay?” You hold his cheeks, stroking his feverish skin. 

“Need you,” he moans, his eyes soft and dilated. 

“I’m so sorry.” You mutter. God, you had to find something, do something, knock him out for a few hours until his body worked this out of its system. 

“Why? Why? You saved me.” He bites his lip, rubbing his hips against yours. 

“Hey, hey, let’s see if we can-”

“I love you, you know that?” 

You freeze, your mind blanking out for a second.

“Ever since Heiran. Ever since then, I knew it, I love you.”

“Poe, you’re not thinking straight, the, the S-”

“I should have kissed you on Heiran,” he closes his eyes, pressing his face into your hands and sighing. His skin is burning, desperate for the relief of your touch. “I should have kissed you after, I was scared. Scared you’d reject me…” His eyes are shining when they open, “But you can, you can say no. I won’t…”

He lets out the sweetest sob when you lightly kiss him, moaning into your mouth as you wrap your arms around him and pull him close.  

“I should have kissed you on Heiran,” you whisper, “I wanted to.”

He groans, rocking lightly against your legs to take the edge off the deep ache in his stomach. “I…” He bites his lip, it hurts. The weight is so much, too much. All consuming now that he knows you want him to. 

“Here, it’s okay,” you turn him around so that his back is flush with your chest. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” You kiss his temple, his skin feverish and sweaty as you slide your hand under the fabric around his waist.

He moans, grabbing hold of you desperately as your fingers touch his velvety length. 

“It’s okay.” You soothe as you start to stroke him in earnest. “You’re safe with me.”

Thank you for reading!

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[quarterlifekitty]

Out of the frying pan, into the flames

cw: dark themes, kidnapping, conditioning, implied sex slavery

Lately I’ve been thinking about Price finding you during a covert op. Deep in the interior rooms of a compound once belonging to a man deemed an enemy by whoever is currently signing the 141’s paychecks.

Killing the hawk, only to find the chick in its nest. Something left behind that will die if abandoned.

You’ve been conditioned well, curtesy of the man who laid on the pavement outside with one of Price’s bullets between his eyes. Perfectly well behaved, hadn’t made a single sound even when he’d burst into the room.

There’s a collar on your neck. A loose fitting dress. A small, but cozy enough room, though it has no windows and locks from the outside.

In the records of the man’s office, evidence suggests that you’ve been in the game a long time. Enough to have disappeared as far as anyone who might’ve known you is concerned.

And Price was just thinking— there’s an elegant solution to all of this. He’s a quietly selfish man. He tries to suffocate that painful, roiling tempest inside that tells him he’s owed something. That he’s sacrificed too much for one lifetime and gotten too little in return.

Pawning you off onto some government officials, trying to find a place for you to be awkwardly shoved into society— that wouldn’t be good for you, John tells himself.

It would be better for everyone if he did what he always did. If he took care of things.

He lets you hold his hand while his other delicately rends the microchip from under the skin at the base of your skull with a knife. Removes the chafing nylon collar. He has something much nicer in mind for you.

John’s always thought that if he were home more, he’d have a damned good garden. That’s just how he is— nurturing. Bringing things to their best.

You know how to be good. You know how to be seen and not heard. You know how to suck cock so well it could bring a man to tears. And for lesser men, that might’ve been enough. But to Price, you’re still a block of unchiseled marble. There is a beautiful thing in you, and he will free it.

You haven’t heard a lick of praise in years. Why be praised for what you should be doing? For serving your purpose? You tense in a way that’s— quite frankly— adorable the first time he calls you a good girl. He’ll soften you to it in time.

He tells you how much it hurt to see you the way he found you…. Being wasted. Pearls before swine. No such thing as bad dogs, only bad owners. When you smile, the pit inside him grows. Deeper, hungrier.

He needs to be your sun, moon, and stars. To have a beautiful creature that would wither and die without his touch. A doll needs someone to dress it.

Your new collar is fine, beautiful leather. Embossed with a winding filigree, art noveau motifs. The little metal tag has his name. He likes the bell on it— so he can hear it grow louder so quickly whenever he comes through the door.

Your wide eyes when he comes home with a gift… they kill him every time. How you keen when he starts to fuss over you. How you’re hanging on his every word. How he hears the bell following him as he takes care of every little mundane task around the country home.

In a perverse irony, it calms him when he has to go away. Knowing that if he was killed, if he never came home— your life would end too. You’d be shattered beyond repair. He had fixed you once, and no one would ever be able to go over his work. The threads of your fate had become tangled to his in a way that couldn’t be undone. You shed no tears for the man before him. But there would be no man after him.

You’re damned lucky he happens to be good at his job.

[absolutehomosexuals]

Whenever people claim "[origin characters] show attraction to all genders", they often point to Astarion's party banter.

Which leaves us pretty confused because, if anything, it shows he has no clue what he's doing with women.

He's known to be this skilled seducer – the fantasy equivalent of a prostitute and, canonically, his pimp's favourite – yet his advances towards female companions come off as clumsy.

We've always chalked it up to him being a snarky little shit, with a touch of stereotypical gay man attitude¹, but the implications of it being genuine are terrifying.

As far as we know, Astarion gathered prey for at least two centuries, and he only ever talks about his male victims: Sebastian and the so-called darling boy were his only sincere relationships. 

If you romance him, he justifies his initial manipulation by saying he only ever seduces people he's genuinely attracted to.

Couple that with the fact we never hear about any women, can it really be a coincidence on his writer’s part?

All we’re saying is, he probably didn't pick up his victims by calling them "a pretty flower", which unironically sounds like someone's first attempt at flirting in a lifetime.

We're even more appalled when people claim he flirted with Lae'zel (who he briefly teased and later implied he wasn't actually interested in, when she asked him why he hasn't tried to "bed" her yet) or Karlach (he seems to sympathize with her quite a bit due to their shared slavery trauma, offering to show her the Upper City when she implies she's never been – didn't come off as sexual at all, honestly).

If anything, his comments towards Wyll sound way more sexually-charged, going as far as to say he was the man Astarion dreamed to marry when he was younger.

And we know Wyll is the furthest thing from his current type, given his approval options.

A history of successfully, and famously, hitting on men coupled with overly-friendly, borderline exuberant interactions with women... wonder what subculture that reminds us of!

Hint: it's gay male subculture.

We also tend to forget Astarion's perception  of his own sexuality is extremely screwed, because centuries of repeated sexual abuse will do that to you.

He's canonically riding that post-escape wave of mania and engaging in sexually risky behaviour (e.g the foursome with the drow twins at Sharess' Caress) + putting on an "open minded, experienced lover" façade (e.g justifying the MC upon being cheated on with Mizora and allowing them to sleep with Halsin to make up for the lack of sex in their relationship).

To put it gracefully: he fucks his way in and out of situations, exchanging sex with favours/protection is second nature to him at this point.

He's forcefully trying to reclaim his sexuality, biting off more than he can chew and re-traumatizing himself in the attempt: what's a little flirting with women to make sure his new allies are on his good side, after all? He surely can't be violated more than he already has been.

What's the damage in agreeing to sleep with a heart-broken Lae'zel at the tiefling party, at this point? It's the perfect manipulation, laid out for him on a silver plate. Also, we know from his confession scene that Astarion's first sexual proposal to Tav was indeed a form of manipulation: he admits that the initial reason why he pursued the player was to seek the protection of someone stronger and to make sure that the party won't kick him out. So, in the instance of Tav refusing him (the only option that triggers the scene between him and Lae'zel), it's only logical that he'd run in the arms of the next best thing, which in this case is Lae'zel, a great warrior that's eager to find a partner for the night.

And when she claims he performed flawlessly? That's the same thing the narrator tells you during the Sharess' Caress scene, only to reveal he's dissociated into oblivion.

Of course Larian didn't want to restrict players' options by locking certain romances, but we’re sorry to announce… he's still not beating the allegations.

¹ Being visibly gay = not being perceived as a threat by women, thus taking liberties such as sarcastic "flirting" towards female acquaintances.

Karlach refers to him as "fancy-boy" if she's in your party while recruiting him, so he is perceived that way in canon.

We can also see Gale being uncomfortable around him at first, especially when Astarion tries to strike up a conversation through party banter, for seemingly no reason – which seems like a pretty clear hint to us.

[marble-anime]

Consume

Pairing: Ken Kaneki x Reader, mentions of Ayato Kirishima and Tatara x Reader

Summary: After being captured by the Aogiri Tree, Kaneki learns just how cruel ghouls can be. When whispers of what the higher ups kept you around for reach his ears, he offers you a moment of release in an attempt to ease your pain.

Disclaimer: Minors DNI, This follows the plot in the manga

Warnings: mentions of violence, slavery, use of aphrodisiacs, implied noncon, dubcon, unprotected sex, gentle sex, creampie, emotions

Word Count: 2.6k

Kaneki fought the urge to tear his eyes away from the ungodly sight of his blood-soaked hands tangled in a fresh corpse’s organs. He should’ve expected something like this when members of the Aogiri Tree broke into Anteiku and beat him to a pulp. But even after he’d been captured, he was still naive enough to think that he’d be able to find some type of common ground with them. Or at least be given a little mercy, considering one of his captures was none other than his best friend's brother.

It was all just wishful thinking. Touka’s brother was just as deranged as every other Aogiri member despite the fact that he considered himself to be ‘soft’ in comparison. Of course, Kaneki knew that whatever they had planned for him wouldn’t be pleasant, but he didn’t think it would be this bad. Grime built under his nails as he tore apart flesh and muscle, staining his own skin burgundy in the process. The unfortunate victim’s insides turning to sludge between his fingers with the slightest squeeze.

He felt like he was going to vomit. Although the horribly gory sight was enough to make anyone faint, the worst part was the hunger stirring inside him. He’d spent so much time starving himself, trying not to feast on human flesh, that the smell was almost inviting. He clutched onto his morals tightly, the endless string of bodies that he and his fellow captives were expected to pick apart did a good job of reminding him that this was no blessing in disguise but instead the worst imaginable torture for a prisoner of the Aogiri Tree. Unbeknownst to him, the worst was yet to come.

He pulled his gaze away to stop his head from spinning and caught a glimpse of you outside the doorway. You were following closely behind Ayato. Just the sight of you filled him with an immense amount of pity as he recalled his previous conversation with Banjou. When the anti-Aogiri group welcomed him with open arms, Banjou had filled him in on what they knew about each of the higher ups and their schedules. They were planning an escape and Kaneki was in on it from the moment they revealed their strategy.

But you had plagued his mind. You often brought him food just as you did for the other prisoners. A tiny slab of meat was all the Aogiri would allow each of them, it was just enough to keep them alive. You had always been kind to him but it was obvious to anyone that you were miserable. You never spoke unless you were spoken to and even then it seemed as if you were devoid of any personality. There were dark bags under your eyes and you were always shaking, Kaneki couldn’t tell if it was from the weather or malnourishment. Honestly, it might’ve been both. Even in the winter, all you wore was a thin night dress that stopped not even halfway down your thighs. And he doubted that you were being fed any more than the other captives.

He brought you up during one of the meetings thinking that you’d love nothing more than to escape. He hadn’t even known your name at the time but the others knew exactly who he was talking about. Even though he’d truly had the best intentions in mind, the grim expressions on his fellow prisoners’ faces made him think that he’d said something wrong. Banjou told him that even if you did want to escape, it would be almost impossible.

And from there on he explained everything. Your name was Y/N and the reason it would cause so much trouble to try and include you in their escape was because you were nearly always being watched by one of the higher ups. Kaneki remembered Banjou’s exact words, “When Ayato caught Tatara’s eye he was reluctant to join the Aogiri and the chaos he caused among the wards was too much for Tatara to contain so he offered up Y/N as a welcoming gift. He uses her as a pawn to keep Ayato in check.” The implications of what role you played in this organization made his stomach drop, his worries were only confirmed when Banjou added, “They give her regular aphrodisiacs so she can’t resist him. It’s sick.”

Allegedly, you were originally Tatara’s personal plaything before he’d given you to Ayato. Rumors said that even now whenever Ayato left the Aogiri’s base, Tatara would take the time to relieve the needs that the drugs caused you. If anyone was caught gossiping about your connection to Tatara, they would be killed faster than they could even say your name, which confirmed two things. One, that the rumors were more than likely true. And two, that Ayato probably had no idea.

Kaneki sat on the floor by himself as he waited for you to bring him his rations for the day. The manual labor from earlier that day left his arms sore and his stomach hollow. Your footsteps echoed down the hall until you entered the empty room to find Kaneki sitting with his back against the wall. You kneeled beside him and handed him the small chunk of meat wrapped in a cloth.

When he unwrapped his food he felt sick to his stomach. Flashes of how he’d been forced to tear apart lifeless bodies plagued his brain as he wondered which one of the corpses the meat belonged to. For all he knew it could’ve been from one of the bodies that he stripped down to the bone. No matter how hungry he was he couldn’t bring himself to eat something that came from an innocent civilian that was murdered in cold blood.

He looked at you as you were still kneeling beside him. He took in your appearance, your whole body was quivering, your hands were planted on the ground with your thighs tightly pressing themselves together around your forearms, shaky breaths escaped your lips and your pupils were blown wide. You were clearly under the influence of the aphrodisiac but you seemed worse than he had ever seen you before.

Today had been Ayato’s day to leave the stronghold but he was almost sure that the rumors of Tatara having you in Ayato’s absence were true. Perhaps Tatara was too busy to pay you any mind or maybe he was simply denying your needs as a punishment. The thought sent shivers down Kaneki’s spine. What they were doing to you was cruel, scratch that, it was so much worse than cruel. Out of all the prisoners of the Aogiri Tree, you were the one who was suffering the most. They were pumping you full of drugs so they could bend you to their will but when you were left with desires that weren’t even your own to begin with, they didn’t feel like they owed you any type of relief.

He held the meat out to you as he offered, “You can have it if you’re hungry.”

You frantically shook your head and pushed it back toward him, looking almost fearful. He set it on the ground and reached a hand out once again. This time he tucked your hair behind your ear, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb, trying to offer you some type of comfort. You closed your eyes and nuzzled into his hand. The words had stumbled out of his mouth before he had the chance to actually think about what he was saying, “I can help you.”

Your eyes quickly reopened, you were probably shocked by his offer. You stared at him as you thought about what he said. Your unsure gaze was making Kaneki believe that he’d crossed the line. But before he could apologize you leaned in close and softly pressed your lips against his. The kiss was as light as a feather as if the both of you were hesitant and timid.

You pulled away first and laid on your back, flinching at the feeling of the cold floor below you. The end of your nightgown pooled at your waist as you spread your legs, exposing your soaked panties. Kaneki blushed at the sight before he noticed you shivering. He pulled off his shirt and laid it over top of you, it wasn’t much but at least it was something. You were unfamiliar with being shown this kind of genuine consideration but you welcomed it nonetheless, tucking your arms under the shirt and pulling it up to your chin in an attempt to keep yourself warm.

He hooked his fingers along the sides of your panties and pulled them down your legs, your slick sticking to the fabric. You watched as he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. To your surprise, he was still soft. Usually, your partners, if you could even call them that, were always painfully hard and raring to go. He pumped his cock until he was fully erect and climbed on top of you. He balanced himself on his forearm, his face now inches away from yours. You could tell that he wasn’t sure what to do next so you reached between your bodies and grasped his cock, lining it up with your entrance.

He hesitated, “Are you sure?”

The look of concern on his face made your stomach flutter accompanied by a pleasant feeling you’d long forgotten since being dragged into the Aogiri. You nodded and he pushed into you carefully, although he wasn’t experienced himself he at least knew that the woman usually needed a moment to adjust. What he didn’t know was that with your day-to-day activities, the pain upon entry no longer bothered you. He filled you up perfectly. Your pussy clenched around him as you finally spoke to him for the first time that night, “You can move now.”

However, Kaneki kept his hips still as he was buried balls deep inside you. His cock felt so snug inside you, he had to resist the urge to cum right then. This was supposed to be all about helping you but he hadn’t expected it to feel so good. When he began thrusting into you, he took his time to ensure that he wouldn’t finish before he was able to relieve you. He hid his face in your neck, guilt consuming him for enjoying this so much. Banjou’s words echoed in his head, ‘It’s sick’. He knew it was fucking sick but he couldn’t help it. The overwhelming pleasure he felt rutting into you caused his mind to construe his own good intentions as being aligned with that of the perverted Aogiri that had taken advantage of you. When he let out a strangled moan you ran your fingers through his hair, sweetly shushing him to keep you two from being caught.

Goosebumps littered Kaneki’s arms from the cold air but between the friction of your bodies and Kaneki’s baggy shirt, you were nice and warm. Ironically, you felt more comfortable being fucked by a stranger on the cold floor than you had in either of your captor's beds. He was so much more gentle and caring than Ayato and Tatara had been. The only sound in the room was the quiet whimpers and hushed pants shared between the two of you.

Suddenly, it felt as if you were having some kind of out of body experience. You saw yourself laying on the ground with Kaneki on top of you, his hips moving in a slow broken rhythm. Your face was clouded with pleasure, you wondered if you always wore that fucked out expression when you had sex. You doubted it. Especially since half the time your face was being shoved into the pillow and the other half your features were scrunched up in pain. The soft stroke of Kaneki’s cock against your walls was such a nice change from the rough pounding you were usually given.

Watching him pleasure you with care and kindness left you mesmerized. This was what it was like to truly enjoy intimacy with another person. To relish in every touch, squeeze, thrust, kiss, and stroke. It wasn’t just meaningless sex to reach your orgasm, you were honestly loving every minute of this. You wouldn’t mind it if this was what you did every day. As you watched Kaneki tend to your needs you wondered if you’d ever be able to do this again, to decide what you wanted to do with your body and when you wanted to do it. You wondered if you’d ever be free.

You were brought back into your own body as a wave of euphoria crashed into you, leaving your body quivering just as it had before but this time in release rather than need. Your shaky legs wrapped around Kaneki’s waist, trapping his hips against you. He picked up on what your reaction meant and finally let himself go, your pussy milked his cock dry of all his warm cum.

As Kaneki tried to catch his breath, you held his shirt out to him, “Thank you.”

From then on whenever you brought Kaneki his rations for the day, he would tell you about the escape plan he and the others had. And when he met with the anti-Aogiri group he’d relay any messages you had for them. You had been able to open up to him and he felt responsible for your wellbeing. It was only a matter of time before you two would be able to escape, he’d take you back to Anteiku where you would make friends and be protected. If only the escape had gone down the way you’d all hoped

It started out pretty smoothly, you had been able to make it out of the stronghold with the anti-Aogiri. What no one had expected was the Bin brothers’ ambush. You should’ve seen it coming. Tatara was able to read you like a book, of course, he would suspect something was up when he began to see a glimmer of hope in your eyes. You were thrown into a cell with the rest of the escapees, except for Kaneki who’d been taken by Yamori.

Although your suffering was at the hands of Ayato and Tatara, you knew that whatever would happen to Kaneki would be far worse than anything any of you had experienced. It didn’t take a genius to know that Yamori was a sadist. He’d put Kaneki through the worst kind of torture imaginable and there was a pretty big chance that he’d die in the process. Your stomach turned and you were riddled with guilt. He’d been so kind to you, you should’ve just left him be. Maybe then he wouldn’t be in this position.

Suddenly, the cell wall was kicked in. Through the smoke, all you could see was the outline of a person with white hair. Tatara. You curled up in a ball and tears ran down your cheeks, he was surely here to punish you. When the smoke cleared you were met with the sight of the last person you expected. It was Kaneki, not Tatara. His hair was white instead of black. Your heart dropped at the overly cheerful expression on his face as he greeted you all.

“How-?” you began.

Your words were cut off when he wrapped his arms around you. “It’s okay.” Fear coursed through you as his hold tightened. His sense of responsibility for you twisting and contorting into something sinister. “No one will ever hurt you again.”

Of course. You’d been able to escape the arms of your captors and were thrust into the arms of a newfound monster that they’d created. There really was no escape from the Aogiri.

[sterekbigbang]

Rewrite The Stars (63,625 words) by Winchesterek (@sterekbros) Art by @kelestialart For @sterekbigbang 2023-2024, Round 6 Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Danny Māhealani/Jackson Whittemore, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Additional Tags: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Are Siblings, Roman Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Derek Hale, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Gladiator Derek Hale, Slavery, Arranged Marriage, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fisting, People As Property, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Holy Roman Empire, Knotting, Good Pack Alpha Derek Hale, Full Shift Werewolf Derek Hale, Semi-Public Sex, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Adoption, Breeding Kink, Surprise Knotting, Mating Bites, Birth, compulsory hetero sex, Sex Toys, Gay Sex, Slave Derek Hale, POV Derek Hale, POV Stiles Stilinski

Summary: When Stiles receives his first gladiators as a gift from his father and becomes a Lanista, there is one who captures his attention above the others…one whose eyes gleam with hate, pride, and desire. Sold into slavery to avenge his family, Derek can barely conceal his contempt toward his new Dominus. Derek has a plan: kill Stiles and end the lineage of the Roman family that burned his family. For his plan to succeed, he must make a show of respect and obedience—even when called on to service his master’s desires. Derek is shocked to learn that in the confines of his quarters, Stiles doesn’t want to dominate his slave but to be taken by him. Even when Stiles learns of Derek’s plans for revenge, he knows he can’t live without him.

[vole-mon-amour]

is it just me or the way Wyll blushes and hides the pic of Mizora in that xbox ad doesn't sit well with you as well?

so Mizora traps him in a contract, owns him via contract, can boss him around, yank his invisible leash, and, if he disobeyed or if she dies, he either dies as well or immediately goes to hell for an eternity. I'm a way, he's her slave. as far as he knows, he can get out out of the contract by sacrificing himself (or he can sacrifice himself to save his dad).

sure, you can go behind Mizora's back and save Ravengard, buy we'll go with Wyll Doesn't Know That for the sake of my point.

and canonically Wyll dislikes Mizora and her company. he wants to get rid of her. he hates that she turns him into a devil. he hates how he looks. he hates everything about that.

and what Larian say in that xbox ad? oh, Wyll actually blushes and keeps the implied sexy pic of Mizora and it's implied that he has a crush on her/would have sex with her.

AND Karlach, who was also a slave with no means to get out, who was sold to slavery by a person she trusted and protected, elbows Wyll and goes, "what, you don't want it?" Karlach who KNOWS how it feels and who wants to kill Gortash for what he did to her, and Mizora is Wyll's Gortash in a way.

so first we have Halsin being a sex slave for three entire years and he feared for his life every single day. yet, that info is hidden very deeply and is easily misseable, and its written in the manner of him victim blaming himself with "i was a young druid" and he chuckles as he says that and it's presented in a way way as if he had fun? as if he was there willingly? as if it's all a big joke and not a big deal?

like, i know it's a big topic, but why is only Astarion's trauma taken seriously? why is Astarion's story written and loudly told in a way that we know that Cazador tortured him in every way, including rape, and not once it's treated like a joke? but when it comes to other's slavery, abuse, and trauma, it's suddenly treated like a joke?

Halsin's story is generally badly written/portrayed & he deserves way better, and maybe I'm reaching with this because neither Shadowheart's or Gale's stories show their captors as something good (still not as detailed as Astarion's though), but somehow that slips/gets dismissed when it comes to others.

I think Larian should stop with memes and hehe haha teeheee and be serious when it comes to others' trauma, not just Astarion's.

[pathetic-tboy]

tw for extreme noncon, implied murder (not of the narrator) , sex slavery, kidnapping serial killer erotica

you went into the woods feeling prepared. you had a gun on you. people kept disappearing in the woods and youre sooo brave.

the dead bodies freaked you out. you decided to leave, but there she was. taller than you, with long hair and a knife. you reached for your gun as she strided towards you, you could see her clearly in the moonlight. there was blood all over her. her face, her clothes, everywhere.

you pulled the trigger. click click click. you had forgotten bullets. but she giggled, grabbing your face.

"oh, you're so cute to be out here looking for trouble, are you trans, too?" of course she had clocked you. before you could say anything, you were pushed down on your knees. you wanted to move, to scream, but you felt frozen in place. she fished her cock out from her jeans, rubbing it on your face. "be a good boy for me and take care of this, wont you?"

she talked so sweetly for a murderer. your heart was pounding out of your chest. you stared at her with a stupefied expression.

"aw, come on, sweetie, you dont want me to use this on you, do you?" she pressed the flat of the bloody blade against your face. you were shaking. everything in you told you to run, to fight back, but you took her cock into your mouth anyway, hoping that she'd let you go after.

you bobbed up and down, the woods silent besides her hums and your slurping. you looked up at her with tears in your eyes, wondering how you had gotten into this mess. but you knew, it was all your fault. you could die out here. you slowed down, lost in heart-chilling terror, but you couldnt deny the heat in your core.

"need help?" she grabbed the back of your head with one hand and shoved you down on her girlcock, fucking your face. you sputtered and choked around it, crying even more now, feeling helpless as she violated you. if only you hadnt come. if only you hadnt come. it was different when you were the one controlling the pace. she went hard and fast, you didnt even know if she cared if you could breathe. she might choke you on her dick until you drown in your own saliva, you could barely think as she used your mouth like a pussy. was this the first time she had had sex in a while? and it had to be you?

she pulled out of your mouth, leaving you gasping and panting, and threw you down onto your hands and knees. you tried to crawl away, but she dragged you back by your ankles, and flipped you over.

"you dont want me to get mean, do you?" she growled, staring you in the eyes. you avoided her gaze, shaking your head, but she grabbed your jaw and forced you to look at her.

"n-no ma'am....." you whispered defeatedly.

she didnt bother taking off your shirt, instead cutting it up and off you. she traced your scars, seemingly interested in them. "ill have to cut you up a little..... you make such pretty scars... ill need a fresh knife." she whispered morbidly. you could only choke out a sob as she unbuttoned your jeans, yanking them down and off.

"look at that pretty little cunt...." she dipped her fingers in, and you cringed at how wet you were. "youre so wet.... you must be loving the attention, dont you? youll love being my little boytoy, wont you?" you didnt answer. you were paralyzed with fear, tears streaming down your cheeks. but she touched you well, and you were moaning aloud at her expert playing of your pussy and tdick, thrusting your hips into her hands. the fear and her touching you were rocking your senses, you were terrified but you wanted more, but you didnt want more at the same time.

until she stopped, spreading your legs across her clothed thighs, brushing her girldick along the edge of your hole. you gave a couple of half hearted wriggles to get away, but you knew you were powerless. she held the knife against your throat then.

"you cut that out, slut, i know you want this. listen to your fucking moans." she rubbed her cock against your tdick. and you involuntarily moaned, thrusting your hips and proving her point. "yeah, i fucking thought so. now. take. it." she thrusted into you, drawing out a gasp, then all the way, pounding into you. she gave you no time to acclimate, raping your pussy as hard and fast as she could. you cried and screamed but kept still as she violated you, the knife scaring you into compliance.

but even still, your pussy made embarrassingly wet sounds around her thrusting, and you were moaning and whining. you felt your orgasm fast approaching, and tried to will it away. you cant cum from this. you CANT cum from this! shes KILLED people! but you let out a defeated wail as you clenched down around her thrusting cock, cumming on her despite your useless internal struggle.

"yeaaah, good fucking slut." she slapped your ass with the hand she was using to hold your hip, but she didnt stop. she didnt give you any time to breathe, or come down from your powerful orgasm, she continued to take you until you were cumming again.

"fuck- please!- uhhm- no more!" you cried out, but she either didnt hear you or didnt care. she bent down, bending your legs behind your head, and kissed you hard. she tasted like blood. she smelled like blood. all you could think about was how good it felt and how you probably shouldve been dead by now, and how you dont know if this is better.

"im gonna cum in you, you better be ready." she hissed against your mouth, bitng down on your lower lip hard. she fucked you hard and deep, making you sob despite your moans and guilty pleasures. you didnt have a uterus, but you didnt want her to cum in you. the first time was supposed to be special! but she made you cum one more time with her, spilling into you as you wailed. it felt so good.

"fuck..... good fucktoy." she sighed, twitching inside you as she dumped her load inside your aching pussy. "can you still get pregnant?" she asked, zipping up her jeans.

you didnt say anything for a second too long, she slapped you in the face. "n-no ma'am...." you whispered, holding your arms across your chest.

"so i can keep you? great."

"fuck- no- please let me go!" you cried, but she picked you up anyway, throwing you over her shoulder and carrying you deeper into the woods. you beat against her back weakly, but she didnt seem to notice. you screamed until you couldnt scream anymore, but at some point on her walk back to her isolated cabin in the woods, you quietly accepted your fate as a serial killers sex slave.

[yinyuedijun]

end notes for zero-sum game (tw: slavery, sexual abuse)

hi if you're here it means you read my deranged aventurine smut. thank you for reading that abomination lmao I hope you enjoyed it 😭 once again I've touched on really sensitive topics and don't want to be misread so I'm writing some disclaimers/explanations below:

In the act of gambling with human stakes, as well as doing business with human traffickers, Aventurine is essentially himself engaging in human trafficking. This is not something he particularly enjoys doing or wishes to exploit (which I did try to indicate in the narrative); he only does this for his role with the IPC. 

The reason I made this a narrative about human trafficking is not because I wish to glamorize this crime. I framed the narrative this way because I wanted to point out how Aventurine actively perpetuates the kind of capitalistic violence that ruined his life by being a Stoneheart. This is something that is implicit in the game but not openly explored, hence I expanded on it here.

Somewhat thematically related: the reader actively engages in self-objectification—using it neutrally as a tool for their espionage work at times, but also positively in order to eroticize their one-sided and exploitative relationship with Aventurine. This was not intended to condone the objectification of human beings; rather, I wanted to show how a lifetime of sexual objectification and extreme dehumanization as a slave has led them to objectify and dehumanize themselves, sometimes even in the capacity of enjoying it. 

Aventurine in canon similarly engages in self-objectification and dehumanization as a trauma response  (i.e. he refers to himself as a chip in a positive manner, clearly as a reaction to how his owner referred to him callously as a chip when he was a slave), though in my opinion he's not really implied to derive any real joy from the idea.

Related to the point of objectification: Aventurine and the reader clearly do not engage in particularly safe, sane or consensual sexual dynamics (specifically referring to how he started undressing them before they fully consented to public sex and just kind of decided what to do with them without prior discussion). This is not because I think this is acceptable behaviour; it is a reflection of their unequal power dynamic that the reader actively encourages and Aventurine is fine with perpetuating. It is also implied to be the result of his own distorted relationship with sex—he has literally been coerced into doing exactly the same thing in the very same establishment, and assumed that the reader would be fine with doing it too because they generally enjoy it when he exercises "ownership" over them, which they both associate with sexual control for traumatic reasons.

I've seen discourse around the fandom where people interpret the act of kissing Aventurine’s commodity code as a purely sexual or fetishizing action. I thus feel compelled to explain that the act of Aventurine and reader kissing each other’s codes in this story served a specific purpose within the wider narrative about dehumanization. I wrote a lot of things in this fic purely because I was ungodly levels of horny for Aventurine (lol), but those particular actions actually had narrative weight lol 

With all this being said, I hope it is clear that the reason I chose to focus on themes of slavery and dehumanization is not because I intend to promote or glamorize them, but because I wanted to explore specific points of Aventurine’s characterization that exist in canon. The theme of sexual abuse (and its psychological fallout) is also something that is a natural extension of his story arc in canon. I have no wish to perpetuate any of these things, and I have faith that my audience can distinguish fiction from reality and thus will not have their perspectives on real life issues be seriously influenced by my dumb horny fic on tumblr dot com. 

Also I should hope this is obvious but do not use your regular everyday gloves to finger someone! I like to imagine that Aventurine’s expensive science fiction gloves has the incredible ability to remain sterile in everyday circumstances 👍

[esotericdescent]

   Inej said absolutely nothing, terror filling her to the brim despite how desperately she wanted it to dissipate now that Mister Shelby had noticed it. She doubted anyone missed the way in which some of them were so terrified, but if they ever did, they never dared speak the words aloud. It was like a kept secret; if anyone breathed a word of it, it would shatter the fantasy in which they’d conjured and … no one wanted that, now, did they?

   In their fantasies, Inej was a beautiful, foreign girl who’d taken interest in them, who desired them, and she’d lead them to her room so that they could do as they liked to her and, whatever things they liked to do, she was supposed to enjoy it. Whether she actually did or not didn’t matter in the slightest. What mattered most was maintaining the illusion — even if it ended up being at the cost of her own life.

   She watched him closely, warily, behind the mask that adorned her face as he spoke. The longer he went on, the more Inej began to worry that the mere idea of her terror, of the concept of him being frightening would inspire him to be just that. She’d experienced one or two people who’d behaved that way; any perceived notion that they were dangerous or cruel upset them enough to where they would say I’ll show you something to be afraid of.  Those clients had been some of her worst and the thoughts she had that lead back to them only made her heart hammer more wildly against her rib-cage, made the tremble in her breath more audible.

   Inej sat still, her spine as straight as a rod as he grabbed a chair to sit down in rather than take the bed and … that was certainly something unexpected. He stared at her then — or, he stared at the mask she wore and it was immediately clear that he did not like it. She had the script memorized in her head, ready to say for those who disliked the masks; shall I remove the mask and get more comfortable?  She would practically purr the words, coyly reaching up to graze her fingers along it before slowly sliding it off over her head, letting her long, silky hair fall, attractively messy. Now, though, she was frozen, struggling to move, despite how she desperately tried to will herself to speak, to do something.

   She did finally manage to move, but it was only to flinch slightly when he reached to take the mask off of her himself. She managed to stop herself from flinching when he threw it against the wall, but her breath caught in her throat all the same. Dark eyes snapped up to look at him, however, when she heard him speak Suli. Know-nothings. Inej let her eyes sweep over him — he didn’t look Suli, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have Suli blood. Or he was just someone who had learned the language for some reason or another. But then his attention was trained on her so closely and his words … they had their terrifying echoes of past horrors and she lowered her gaze.

   ❝Please,❞ Inej breathed—there was a slight hint of something pained and shaky in her voice. ❝ I didn’t mean any offense.❞ She paused, hesitating, as she considered being at least somewhat truthful, but … it was an incredibly dangerous gamble. If she wrongly believed Shelby wouldn’t actually hurt her, didn’t want to hurt her, then what she said could leave her with another night where she would come to, bloodied and in pain, filled with anguish and rage and desperation. She swallowed thickly, weighing her options before she glanced up at him, her face now fully visible where she couldn’t hide what she was feeling anywhere near as easily. ❝I’m … not afraid of you personally, Mister Shelby.❞ But I am afraid. Inej didn’t say it, terrified to admit that she was. She knew the price for such an admission could be paid in blood.

   Strangely, she felt a hint of rage ignite in her as she looked into his blue eyes; the way he’d asked her, the words he used so lightly … or is it because of the things I might do to you?  Did he think everything Inej had endured so easy to ask about, as if she hadn’t experienced being beaten within an inch of her life more than once by a stranger who walked through that door? Of course she was afraid of what he might do to her. Something in her expression hardened, just the slightest bit, and she slowly lifted her chin high, despite the warning bells that blared. For once, her rage was louder.

   ❝If you truly understood the gravity of why someone like me could be terrified of someone like you in this situation … perhaps you wouldn’t ask me so lightly,❞ It was a stupid thing to say, perhaps a brave thing, too, Inej didn’t know — but if she were to die this night, at least she would die having said something meaningful. ❝ … but no one likes to talk about that, do they? ❞

 Tommy stood where he’d entered for a brief moment, scrutinizing the girl sitting on the bed. The men hadn’t been lying; she was incredibly beautiful from what he could see. Between her glowing bronze skin, and her long, deep black hair, he couldn’t find anything he disliked at first glance. Besides the way she seemed to cower in fear, clearly terrified of him. Question was... Was it a general fear of the men walking through that door, or was it him specifically?

 “So you know me name. Am I right in assuming they’ve briefed you on me before I entered the room?” Taking off his cap and making it disappear in the pocket of his coat first, he then took off the coat as well and hung it up at the back of the door. Straightening out his clothes, he then turned back around to face her, and took another moment to study her.

 “What did they tell you, eh? That I’m a wealthy criminal? That you are to do whatever I tell you to do, without complaints and questions asked? That I’d hurt you otherwise, perhaps even kill you, if you’re not careful?” If she had been told any of those things, Tommy had to admit he felt inclined to feel offended. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was a frequent visitor, and while he was most certainly not the most attentive client, he had yet to hurt any of the girls he’d seen.

 Finally making his way over to her, he grabbed the nearby chair and placed it in front of her. Instead of sitting down on the bed, he sat down in the chair opposite her. Leaning forward, he stared at the mask with disgust, then reached out to take it off of her face. “Is this really what they make you wear here?” Holding it in his hand, he turned it around once, then again, before chucking it against the wall with a quietly growled ‘shevrati’.

 Leaning back in the chair, Tommy pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pockets and put one between his lips. “You’re terrified.” A statement, not a question. He lit a match, and then his cigarette. His eyes, meanwhile, remained on the Suli girl, studying her closely. “Is it of me—” He inhaled deeply, and kept the smoke in his lungs for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly, but made sure to turn his head away. “Or is it because of the things you think I might do to you?”

[lesinquietes]

Imagine being a hero working with the HPSC and being assigned to target Dabi, but then hero society goes down the drain and you’re captured by the PLF 💀

Tw; burning, death (minor), noncon (implied), sex slavery

You slowly become his arch nemesis (after endeavour ofc you can’t compete with familial hatred), showing up at damn near every large event he’s involved in, making sure he feels the weight of your presence. And he does. You can tell by the way his lips twitch into a devious smirk as he engages his quirk and tries to fry you. Your persistence frustrates him; you just don’t give up. Bonus points if you have an ice quirk because we all know what that’ll do to his poor, traumatized brain.

But then, when the Paranormal Liberation Front turns the land into a dystopian paradise, you fall as their prisoner. You fight as hard as you can. You think it’s over when you lose consciousness. Unfortunately, you wake up on a makeshift stage, instead, with others of your ilk, bound and vulnerable. There’s a sea of villains spectating around you, jeering, booing, and cackling at your state. It’s then that you realize you’re either going to be killed or auctioned off.

When Dabi steps forward, cracking his knuckles and grinning at you with steam billowing from his sickly grafts, you know you’re fucked. You witness a different side of his persona. It’s darker — eviler, perhaps. The way his eyes trace up and down your form unnerves you. There’s something haunting about his gaze, and you only find out what it is when he takes your chin in his warm hand and forces you to stare at him. The noise in the room rests as everyone observes what the tyrannical Todoroki plans to do with you. Only you register the lust in his azure irises.

“You have no fucking clue how long I’ve been waiting for this moment, you bitch.”

And for a second, you think it’s bloodlust; you think he’s going to fucking kill you. You think, in this room full of rancid spectators — in this lineup of other heroes who are slated to be auctioned off or executed — he’s going to make an example of you. You flinch when he ignites his blue flames and incinerates everyone. You bite your tongue to stay yourself from screaming as the heat licks your flesh, causing a thick sweat to coat your skin. You taste blood. Suddenly, all your comrades are dead, and you’re the only one left. Opening your eyes and coming into your new reality takes several moments.

Dabi doesn’t cremate you alive; he spares you. And he makes sure you understand your new purpose.

He declares, to the witnesses, that you are to be his concubine. He encourages them to find their own nemeses and repeat the process, as there’s no greater joy than breaking your enemy in all possible ways. You feel yourself shrink as he speaks, your heart plummeting from towering heights with his cryptic ideologies.

When he’s done, and the space is filled with roaring and cheering, he twists his head to drink in your figure once more. You’re covered in bruises, scratches, and gashes. Your clothes are ripped and you look like a fucking mess. Not to him, though; not when he’s been dying to get his scarred hands on your perfect body, all for the purpose of absolutely soiling you. To think, he actually wanted you dead at one point, when this type of revenge is far more satisfying.

“You’re gonna regret being an annoyance these last few months.” He promises you, tone saccharine to match the grin on his sparse lips. “Can’t wait to make you feel every grain of fucking stress you caused me.”

He could have lied to you, and that would have been enough to strike a fear of God through you. He could have deceived you and the audience about his reason for claiming you; after all, he would be praised for doing away with one of your kind. But as he takes you away from your dead, incinerated comrades, the scent of death sticking to you like cigarette smoke, you come to understand that he doesn’t make false vows; he does precisely as he says he’s going to do, re: getting revenge on his dad.

He keeps you locked in his private room, away from everyone else. He secures a new quirk-canceling collar around your neck and leashes you to the bed. Your wrists are pinned behind you and your curious eyes are concealed to disorient you. Of course, after rendering you useless, the next thing he does is incinerate your clothes. When you scream at the sensation of fire scorching your skin, living in horror for only a split second as your garments turn to ash, he cackles. He rationalizes that sex slaves don’t need garments, and that if he’s feeling kind, he might use his quirk to keep you warm. You’ll have to beg, though.

Fat chance, you think. Begging is weakness. Begging is forfeiting your status as a hero. Begging is fucking pathetic. You may have been defeated, but you resolve that he won’t vanquish your spirit. Much to your chagrin, that’s Dabi’s entire mission. He wants to break you. He wants to crumple you into something shapeable, so he can comfort your essence into what he wants it to be. The problem with Todorokis is that cruelty seems to come naturally to the most powerful of them. The moment you started causing him grief is the moment to knew he wanted to dominate you.

He snatches you by the hair and reels you in. Then, his face is mere centimetres from yours. The subtle scent of rotting, burning flesh is putrid. The only thing that stops you from gagging is the cologne he uses — that makes him smell like a dewy forest. He grins, steam wafting from his mouth, as though he’s going to explode into flames at any second.

“Should I start with branding you, or teaching your body who it belongs to?” He asks rhetorically, both of you knowing damn well he won’t give you a say in the matter.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Silas and Wren 2.0 #1

Masterpost

Next

Warnings: implied past non-con, blood

Silas strolled through the markets. He didn’t venture out into human areas often, except to hunt, and these streets were largely unfamiliar to him.

The market was flooded with smells and scents foreign to him. There was all sorts of human food stalls, and some of them intrigued him. But there was no point in wasting money on things he could only taste and would make him nauseous later. Besides, that wasn’t what he was here for.

Silas went deeper into the crowds, breathing in deep. The scent of human despair grew strong with every step, and at the end of the trail would be his goal.

Vampires did not keep slaves. It was a point of pride that they hunted every night; a valued skill to be able to rule the streets and feed a nest without a single death.

But Silas lived by himself, and in the shadow of a much bigger nest of vampires, ever since his father had exiled him.

His territory was tiny, as to not offend their generosity, and he was tired of being so utterly alone. A companion that could talk and think would be welcome; almost like he had a home den again.

Regular meals would also be nice. A single human could supply him easily without putting him in the sights of the ruling nest.

And he’d be rescuing the human from slavery, treating them well like their masters didn’t. Surely that would be a handsome enough reward for their blood. Merciful, even.

Three birds, one stone.

He pinpointed the slavehouse by scent before he saw it. Despair and dread filtered towards him, as strong as any rancid perfume. It was a disturbing smell, one that made his stomach flip with anxiety.

The building was large, and sounded busy. Chatter and the sound of iron against stone reached his ears. 

A salesperson met him at the door, smiling at first, and then his face fell when he saw Silas’s eyes.

No human had slit pupils.

“Hello, sir! What can I help you with today?” Silas smiled at him, as was polite, and the salesman shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m looking for a companion,” he said quietly, trying to make up for frightening him.

“Certainly, any gender preferences?” Silas hadn’t thought of that. In all his research about caring for a human, he didn’t consider gender. Maybe he’d relate more to a man?

“A man, please.”

“Right this way, sir.” The salesman led him through the warehouse, passing by rows of chained slaves. They seemed organized by category of work, then sex. Interesting.

“Forgive me,” said the man, “but I wasn’t aware vampires had slaves. I don’t mean to imply anything untoward of course.”

“We don’t.”

“I see. Well, here is our lovely collection of bedfellows. I’m sure one will be to your taste- er, preference.” 

Silas’s stomach turned icy. He hadn’t meant sexual companionship. He scanned the row of slaves, all of them chained to the floor by the ankle. They looked miserable. The smell of fear was at its peak here in this awful section.

Now that he thought about it, maybe this was for the best. One less person stuck in sexual slavery. 

Now who would he buy?

Slowly, he made his way down the line of men. They all had different appearances, clearly meant to “appeal” to different people. But it didn’t matter how they looked, Silas was interested in the scent of their blood. It was only fair, he couldn’t buy all of them. 

Even if he still had access to his father’s money, he couldn’t afford it.

___________________

This buyer looked different. Strange. He couldn’t place it until he saw the flash of the man’s fangs. A vampire. 

He’d never heard of a vampire owning anybody. It was usually catch-and-release, right?

The vampire wasn’t looking at them quite like a regular buyer. It was a good moment before he realized the vampire was smelling them.

He shuddered, and the vampire’s gaze turned on him.

___________________

None of them smelled particularly appealing, until he came to the end of the row. This one was small and looked tired. 

Poor thing.

But he smelled delightful, and Silas was interested. However, there was only one way to be sure he tasted as good as he smelled.

He bent down and murmured to the slave. “Just relax. This won’t hurt, I promise.”

The slave looked up at him, his honey-brown eyes wide.

“Would you mind if I took a sample?” The salesperson looked nervous at the request. “Just a taste,” he reassured him. “Not even an ounce.”

The salesman nodded, too terrified to refuse.

___________________

Oh god. The vampire was going to drink from him. 

Please don’t let it hurt. Please, god. 

The vampire cupped his cheek and gently but firmly tilted his head to expose his neck. He screwed his eyes shut.

“Relax,” said the vampire, and he tried his best to obey him. The vampire kissed his neck, a mere brush of his soft lips, and he felt a strange tingling sensation on the little patch of skin. Venom, probably.

He felt the vampire’s cool breath, and then a slight scrape of what was surely the tips of his fangs.

But instead of a stabbing pain, he only felt a mild pressure. A slight tug and some trickling warmth told him he had, in fact, been bitten. 

He gasped as the blood left him, his heart pounding as the vampire swallowed it down.

The vampire pulled away after a moment, licking his lips, and he tried not to flinch at the sight of red on the man’s mouth.

___________________

His blood was even better than Silas could have guessed. Deep and rich, with a hint of sweetness. Utterly delicious.

And if this was how good he was mistreated, how amazing would he be healthy?

He wiped away the excess drops from the slave’s neck, licking them off his thumb. He stood.

“I’ll take this one.”

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[vaperarmand]

any female!armand backstory headcanons/crumbs to share with the class?

i think she would be an expert at Performing Gender and, probably due to the fact that she would have been expected to be very feminine while younger/mortal, when she's attempting to manipulate or w/e through her wits alone she presents as hyperfeminine. and she does serve cunt while doing this

i imagine though that armand at her most comfortable is a very similar style to the dubai wardrobe which is fairly androgynous. she does also serve cunt this way

the existence of femme and androgynous armand implies the existence of butch armand which like. yeah i mean. can we all hold hands for a minute and imagine her in a leather jacket (maybe even DANIEL'S leather jacket? and some beat up jeans. a cigarette dangling from her lips. sorry what was the question?

i think all of the above and also 500+ years means that armand is as comfortable with gender as she's going to get which is like. she knows how it fits her and knows when to "use" it to get what she wants and otherwise feels pretty emotionally removed from it

(as opposed to daniel who wants to be butch SO BAD but can't due to her issues. but that's another story)

(quick cw here for armand's backstory re: forced prostitution/slavery, though not discussed in great detail)

i think her thing with pregnancy would arise from the fact that she for whatever reason was never able to have a kid. she would have been at the age where she was expected to marry/have children and that she wasn't able to was one of the things that contributed to her "brokenness." i don't even want to get into the marius of it all because i don't have a fully developed enough thought to make it compelling but trust that being a young girl who wasn't able to have kids + living with marius + losing the possibility for children forever by becoming a vampire + 500 years gave her a pregnancy complex you could see from jupiter.

this of course results in a fascination with daniel who has, as far as they know, a fully functioning womb. (she does in fact have a fully functioning womb. but watch out!)

this plays into the personal armandaniel sex dynamics a great deal but i think it alters the purpose of the cuck chair encounters even more. armand would be so obsessed with getting men to fuck daniel and kind of tempting fate with getting her pregnant

re: tracking daniel's fertility cycles she IS doing shots of daniel's period blood out of her diva cup

lastly, she SHOULD be the first lesbian ever to get her gf pregnant through strap