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0bticeo · 8 months ago

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lurk | feyd-rautha

part one of five. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary:

feyd-rautha.

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

it is kill or be killed, and you intend to live.

wc: 2k

tw: blood. death. non graphic description of gore (this is a gladiator fight). mentions of eugenics. fighting as foreplay. reader may or may not have a blood kink. knife kink??? reader is more refined than feyd but don't let it fool you she's a freak. uuuh hubris? probable inaccurate handling of dune lore, esp with the voice (forgive me for the creative liberty of assuming the mother of the kwisatz haderach should be a freak. as a treat.)

many, many years ago, the sisterhood deems you ready for the gom jabbar. you enter the room, your mother a looming shadow, hands folded in her sleeves, head bowed before a long figure cloaked in shadows.

it doesn’t sit right with you, this intrusion in your mother’s parlor. how dare that old witch make a servant out of your mother in her own house?

“kneel.”

you do. you fall to your knees. before you, a phalto green box. in it, pain. at your neck, the gom jabbar, its deadly poison whispering into your ear.

it tells you about sweet, sweet little death. it tells you the reverend mother will not put your life in danger. not when you’re the culmination of nineteen generations of careful planning.

you are to be married to a harkonnen and bear the kwisatz haderach.

so you raise your head and put your hand in the box, eyes boring into the old crone’s. you see something flash in her depthless eyes. you think of the calm before mother-storms, the stillness of the air before pounding rain.

it’s rage.

pain shoots through your hand. fire that burns and charrs and eats away at your flesh, consuming one layer of skin after another until you’re sure it reaches the bone below. you almost scream. instead, you bite your lip until metal-blood stains your tongue.

you will endure this pain. you will not let fear consume you — you have nothing to fear, you shall not die, not here. fear is the mind killer. pain is the mind killer. you will let it wash over you and face the eons of bene gesserit knowledge standing before you.

through gritted teeth, you ask:

“am i human enough, oh wise one?”

you were. otherwise you wouldn’t be here, years later, rotting in a harkonnen cell.

(there are things that have been kept a secret from you. you have been raised following your mother’s footsteps in the weirding way. the reverend mother denied you a place under her tutelage with harsh words and a harsher look. you’ve caught wind of her thoughts in shimmering fragments of dreams — what has jessica done?)

it will matter, in the end, that your mother decided to give your father a son. already, you’ve seen it, behind the web of your eyelids, the lone silhouette of your brother, blood of your blood, rising, rising.

he will gather them, the fremen, from the burning sands of arrakis, and rise, blade glinting under scorching sun. lisan al gaib, they already call him, hushed whispers lost in the shifting sands of dunes.

your hand falls to your womb, empty still.

they were scared, the bene gesserit. the atreides line was growing too powerful, too fast. you — the promised daughter, skilled in the way, with tongue and mind sharper than your blade — are to be bred and deliver the one.

but in came paul — beloved little mouse of a younger brother. too smart, too observant, too skilled, too much. your mother’s defiance, your mother’s love for your father led her to commit the unthinkable and defy the order.

it retaliated.

you’ve been betrayed. that, you’ve seen coming. so did your father. so did your mother. even your brother felt it, in his very bones, the low thrum of wrongness. something was bound to happen. something was bound to shake you to your very core.

something happened.

the harkonnens came. house atreides fell. you can still smell it, the stench of death, the bloodied sands beneath your feet as you struck and struck.

all must die, and so they did.

you feel it still, the blood coating your hands, your forearms, dripping from your blade, the old scar on your forearm burning righteous fury.

they caught you, in the end. you, who willingly put a target on your back, allowing your brother and mother’s quiet escape. you, beaten down, bloodied. grinning, voice warping the harkonnen rats’ perception.

“you will not see me as i am.”

the atreides have been set up. offering arrakis has been nothing but a convenient way for the emperor to get rid of your bloodline.

you scoff; in the quiet depths of your cell, your fingers dig crescent moons in your palms.

you’ve been taught to read behind veils upon veils of lies. the truthsayer suggested the eradication of your house. painted you a threat.

being able to breed the kwisatz haderach won’t protect you.

so here you are, eldest daughter of duke leto atreides and lady jessica, older sister to paul atreides. here you are, sitting with your back pressed up against the wall. cold seeps into your marrow, reaching bone. rage simmers low in your gut. you quell it. nurse it until it becomes a living beast eager to feast.

you will need it.

your body fails you. your sight is blurry, your hands tremble. they should not. duncan would have hit the back of your head had he been there. he isn’t. (dead.) breathe in. breathe out. focus what’s left of your attention on the too small bowl of food that’s been given to you, on the glass of water. empty, both of them.

poison isn’t a problem — not with your training, not with the constant shifting and turning of lethal molecules within you. there. prana bindu — precise alteration of the body’s vitals. you will bear your condition for a time, weakened, but alive.

you clench your fist and slam it against the wall. pain surges through you, burning through your joint. good. if fear is the mind killer, pain clears the fog clogging your brain.

here goes: you’re rotting in the cell of your hereditary enemy, malnourished and poisoned. you’ve heard the guards, their off handed comments when they thought you too drugged to understand. your cell is below an arena. you will need to fight. perhaps, they’ll pit you against your men. the atreides house, dying by its own hand. fitting.

you’re neck-deep in trouble.

the door slides open. two guards come in, all dressed in black. harkonnens. harkonnens everywhere, and you cannot do a damned thing as they pull you up, pushing you out of your cell. they’re laughing. those bastards are laughing.

one less atreides scum in the known universe — good riddance!

you will tear into them and rip out their spine with your teeth.

they drag you in a maze of hallways, each darker than the last. you’re ascending, a catabasis of twists and turns and sliding doors. there’s a low thrum in your gut. louder and louder with each step is a pulse. a chant. a name.

the guards press a blade in your hand and push you forward.

the door slides up. shadows part. you blink with a low hiss. light pours down on you, all-consuming, blinding. sands stretch before you, unnaturally white.

the arena.

thousands upon thousands of people gaze down at you. the voice surges forward, eons of your foremother speaking through you.

“you will not perceive me as i am.”

something trickles down your nose. blood. you’ve overdone it. the voice isn’t meant to be used against that many people, not for long.

you wipe it off.

it will have to hold for the time of this fight. the harkonnen won’t rest until the atreides are completely and utterly wiped out. deceit is your only chance at survival.

the thought makes your blood boil.

good thing the crowd is screaming for it. they're all screaming for it. a pulse. a chant. a name.

feyd-rautha.

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

the noise alone has him turning towards you, head tilting to the side. he’s assessing you, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen. he glances up. for a split second, you follow his gaze. above, looking down upon you, is baron vladimir harkonnen, gargantuan mass of flesh.

you want him to collapse. to watch as his bones break under the weight of monstrous grease. you make out the movement of his lips.

happy birthday, nephew.

he’s on you before you can react. your blade raises. steel meets steel. you clench your teeth. his strength surpasses yours. you won’t yield, not to him. but by god is the bastard strong. you’ve got your hands full with just parrying his blows, the force of them echoing in your very bones. your feet slide on the sand below. any more and you’ll lose your footing.

his blades meet yours, again and again, their serrated edge slicing the corrupt air of the arena. they slice through you, too. a vicious cut on your bare forearm has you reeling back, your blade and sheath raising to parry.

this is bad. there’s only so much you can deal with in your decrepit state. fighting to survive isn’t an option — you must kill or be killed.

you draw in a sharp breath.

watchful eyes bore down upon you. bene gesserit. the reverend mother herself has come to geidi prime.

something at your side — you let your guard down. there’s a flash, a metallic clang. feyd-rautha gazes down upon you, apex predator with your death written in the greedy sands of the arena. here, you’re precious prey.

rage grips you by the throat and has you baring your teeth.

there you are, blades intertwined with harkonnen scum, a breath away from his lips. they part in a slow, assessing grin. you feel more than you see his appraising gaze raking over you. you, unyielding, matching him blow for blow, blood drip drip dripping down. under the black sun of geidi prime, it, too, has turned a velvety black.

from above your crossed blades, you raise your head and meet his eyes — twin pools of dark, abysses made to consume you whole. time slows down. you want to drown in the marrow of him and feel the warmth of his flesh beneath yours, lost in rapturous agony. something settles in your gut, low and warm.

you call it fury.

you pivot out of the way and nick him, a thin cut splitting open the skin of his cheek. he laughs. slashes at you with deathly precision. you duck, squatting down, leg springing forth, slamming at the back of his knee. he falls. catches you by the ankle and drags you to him.

you snarl.

“let go.”

how utterly pathetic of you. his grip falters. you hear his blades fall to the ground. you twist, pivot until you’re straddling him, blade pressed against his throat.

there you have it. internal carotid, right below the sculpted edge of his jaw. five minutes until death. five minutes, with his lifeblood coating your hands, soaking your robes, sinking down to your skin beneath.

your hand cramps on the handle of your weapon, in a mockery of rigor mortis. nervous impulse. the tip of the blade pierces tender flesh, drawing a droplet of blood. you follow its path down the column of his flesh, until it reaches the edge of his collarbone.

his hands surges forward, seizing your forearm in a vice grip, yanking you towards him. you feel his breath on your lips with his next words.

“do it.”

his voice sends a shiver down your spine. low, gravelly, it calls for blood. if you don’t spill his, yours will be drawn. yet, you do not move, eyes riveted to his face, to the vicious impatience carved in his features. if you kill him, you’ll be hunted and put down like a dog.

he shifts under you, the nervous twitch of a beast untamed. even through the hard edges of his ritual armor, you can feel the raw power of him.

you feel his thumb trace the edge of an old scar, up, up your forearm, a flash of black teeth and then—

pain.

there’s something in your side, serrated, razor-sharp, twisting. your hand raises to your side. warmth trickles down your fingers. his hand wraps over yours, warm, blood a silky black against the porcelain of his skin.

he watches you, twisting the blade until yours fall to the ground, bloodied hand coming up to your cheek. you lean into it. welcome him, as his thumb smears blood across the edge of your parted lips.

“you fought well, atreides.”

he pulls out the blade.

you fall.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

#obticeo writes #dune #dune part two #feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha x you #@space boo you have inspired me i dedicate this to u #and the bald freak #gotta perpetuate the tradition

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 2 days ago

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Full Throttle Heart

Pairing:Eddie Munson x Reader

AU: Mechanic Eddie x reader

Warnings: none

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, I need Eddie so bad rn- especially with the release of Gladiator 2

Word Count: 1.1k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You weren’t surprised to find yourself back at Munson’s Garage, not after how your car had been behaving lately. The thing was a mess—sputtering and groaning like it was on its last legs. Eddie Munson, though? He’d been fixing it up for years now.

Years. You weren’t sure how time had passed so fast, but it had been nearly five years since Eddie had rolled into town, taking over the garage after his uncle retired. You remembered the way Wayne Munson had always been kind to you, fixing up your parents’ cars on the cheap. When he handed the reins to Eddie, you’d been skeptical.

Eddie, who you’d known vaguely from high school, was more known for playing his guitar in the cafeteria and making dramatic speeches about “the conformity machine” than anything resembling responsibility. You weren’t exactly close back then, running in different circles, but you remembered his energy, his loud laughter, and his ability to command attention.

When you walked into the garage that first time and saw Eddie, covered in grease but still rocking his signature chain and bandana combo, it took a moment to recognize him. He grinned, leaning against the workbench like he had all the time in the world.

“Well, well. Look who’s stumbled into my domain,” he’d said.

Your car had needed a new starter then, and Eddie had been surprisingly competent. The snark and flair were still there, but underneath that was someone who really cared about his work. You left the shop that day with a working car and the faint beginnings of a friendship you didn’t expect.

Now, all these years later, you realized just how much Eddie had become a constant in your life. It wasn’t just car trouble anymore. Anytime you had an excuse to swing by the shop—whether to drop off coffee, borrow his tools, or just complain about your day—you did. And Eddie? He always made you feel welcome, even if it was with a teasing smirk and some exaggerated comment about how much trouble you were.

You’d told yourself for years that you didn’t think about him that way. He was Eddie. Loud, messy Eddie who played guitar in his garage band and spent half his weekends fixing up junkers with some of his old high school friends. But the more you showed up, the more you saw him for who he really was: funny, kind, hardworking, and, yeah, ridiculously attractive.

It was in the little things. Like how he remembered how you took your coffee. Or how he never charged you for little fixes, no matter how many times you insisted. Or the way his face lit up when you laughed at one of his jokes.

That autumn evening was no different. You walked into the shop, shivering against the chill, and found Eddie bent over an old Chevelle. The sight was one you were used to—his wild curls tied back, grease smudged on his cheek, his bandana barely holding his hair out of his face.

“Munson, tell me my car isn’t completely dead,” you said as you crossed the room.

He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag before grinning at you. “Sweetheart, your car’s got one foot in the grave, but I’m a miracle worker. You know that.”

Rolling your eyes, you leaned against the workbench. “So, what’s wrong with it this time?”

He launched into an explanation about the alternator, but you weren’t really listening. Instead, you found yourself watching the way his hands moved when he talked, the way his lips quirked into a smile when he teased you, the way his eyes lingered just a little longer than necessary.

“And that’s why you need to stop ignoring the weird noises it’s been making,” he finished, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “What was that last part?”

Eddie’s grin widened. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“Just fix it,” you muttered, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Of course,” he said, stepping closer. “But only if you agree to dinner.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Dinner?”

He shrugged, trying to look casual, though the slight twitch of his fingers gave him away. “Yeah, dinner. Or coffee. Or whatever excuse you need to keep coming back here and making my day.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the admission, but you quickly covered it with a smirk. “Fix the car first, Munson. I’ll think about it.”

The next day, you returned with coffee and takeout, feeling more nervous than you had any right to. Eddie greeted you with his usual teasing grin, but there was a warmth in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Peace offering?” he asked, taking the coffee from you.

“Something like that,” you said, handing him the bag of food.

As he worked on your car, the two of you fell into your usual rhythm—banter, jokes, stories from your day. But beneath it all was something unspoken, something that had been building between you for years.

When he finished, he leaned against the car, crossing his arms as he looked at you. “She’s good to go. But, uh, you know, I meant it. About dinner.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding. “I know.”

“And?”

You bit your lip, trying to fight the smile that was threatening to take over your face. “I’ll pick you up at seven. But only if you clean up first.”

Eddie laughed, the sound warm and full of promise. “Deal.”

Dinner turned into takeout on the hood of your car, parked by the lake where you used to hang out as kids. Somewhere between bites of fries and Eddie’s terrible jokes, he reached for your hand. You let him, the grease-stained calluses on his fingers grounding you in the moment.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now,” he said, a teasing grin tugging at his lips.

“Guess so,” you replied softly, leaning just a little closer.

Eddie Munson, once the loud kid from high school, was now the quiet comfort you didn’t know you needed. And as the stars reflected on the water, you realized you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

#x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie the freak munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson fics #stranger things fluff #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things

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milla-frenchy · 5 hours ago

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3k7 | Marcus Acacius x fem reader | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Acacius returns from Numidia several months after his departure, and comes back to his wife

Warnings: 18+ mdni. fluff, smut, established relationship, Acacius and reader are married and deeply in love, Acacius is devoted to his wife (he’s soft, protective, caring and slightly possessive), oral (m/f), oil massages, size kink, piv, creampie. No age specified

a/n: this fic is just soft and sweet and I hope it will bring comfort to those who need it. This is my love letter to Acacius, basically, after watching Gladiator 2 (no spoilers towards the movie). I love this character so much. I did some research but I'm not an expert on ancient Rome at all.

Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for always holding my hand and for beta-ing, @joelmillerisapunk for cheering me up, @iamasaddie for being a sunshine- 🫶💓 dividers @saradika-graphics 🙏

You felt his presence before he even spoke.

You knew he was here, because all your worries, all the tension in your body, dissipated instantly. All the weight accumulated during those last months was removed from your shoulders, allowing your body to relax and open up.

"My lady..," you heard.

You stood up and faced him, turning away from the fish pond. You murmured his name then hurried towards him to snuggle against his broad, protective chest, where nothing bad could reach you. His arms surrounded you, as his lips kissed your forehead and your hands slid along his waist to his back. The warmth radiated from him, warming your entire being, body and soul.

"You are here, my love," you whispered, feeling tears well up in your eyes. You had been holding them back for so long. Too long. Because you didn't want to seem weak, and because you didn't want to let your brain swallow you up in its darkness.

But now Acacius was here, and you could allow your fragility to consume you for a moment, to be your true self, letting your emotions overwhelm you. Because you knew that he would want to absorb them for you, to protect you. To be your man.

"I'm finally here. I missed you, you have no idea. You were always in my thoughts, my beloved.”

You hugged each other tighter, and you buried your face in his chest, rubbing against him, like a cat that marks its territory with its scent.

"I missed you too, Acacius," you replied, finally raising your face to his, staring into those soft brown eyes that you missed so much. The eyes of your husband who had returned from Numidia. Returned victorious, as always, but the worry never left you when he was gone. The intrusive thoughts that made you fear that he wouldn’t come back to you, that he had perished. Or worse, taken prisoner. The highest representative of the Roman Empire on the battlefield, the general of Rome, gods only knew what they would do to him.

Caressing his cheek with your thumb, you chased away those dark thoughts to let yourself enjoy the present. Your husband, your love was there. You brushed his wrinkles, as you took the time to admire his slightly grayer curls, before running your fingers through them.

"You are even more beautiful than when I left," he said in a low, calm voice. You smiled when you heard him, moved by his love for you that was radiating from him. Love that had never wavered during your marriage. He always came back to you, as soon as he had dealt with the burdens placed upon him by the emperors he hated.

"Let me feed you, my love," you said. "And bathe you."

You walked toward the caldarium, his arm around your shoulder, yours around his waist, your body pressed against his. You were holding each other close as you were walking, it had been so long since he left for Africa nova.

“I cleaned myself before I went to the coliseum. You don’t have to, you know?”

“I know. But I love to do it, even if it’s only symbolic.”

He smiled warmly and saw you melt under his stare, then pressed a kiss on your temple to forget the fast beating of his own heart.

You undressed him slowly, layer by layer. Taking the time to place your hands on his chest before you would remove the last fabric, to feel his torso rise under your fingers. To process the fact that he was really back with you. He watched you roam his chest, shoulders, arms along his body, face lowered towards you. Smiling, patient. Soothed.

Once you managed to stop staring at his skin, his muscles, the way his body reacted to your touch, you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. You both smiled, happy and relieved to finally find each other again. You always marveled at his softness, that side of him only you knew.

Your fingers ran along his skin, and you frowned at each new wound you felt under your digits.

“You have so many new scars,” you said with a trembling voice. “I thank the gods for bringing you back to me.”

“Thank the soldiers, my love, they kept me alive,” he replied, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He had great respect for his men, treated them well, and had their complete trust. Tears appeared in your eyes again, and he gently took your chin between his fingers to lift your face up to him.

“I’m here now,” he said, his voice still low and calm. He knew you needed to be reassured, that meeting again always made his next departures more difficult, for both of you. He knew you were already anticipating them.

“I know,” you stammered. “I know. I just missed you a lot.” You tried to push aside the worries that were already trying to infiltrate your mind.

“I know, and I’m sorry about that, I wish I never had to leave. But I have great news: I won't have to go for now. I told the emperors that I wanted to rest and spend time with my wife. Darius will lead the next battle, he's ready.”

“This is such great news, Acacius!” you said, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and nestling your face in his neck. “I'm so relieved.”

He held you against him, before cupping your cheeks in his hands and resting his forehead against yours.

You moved slightly aside to pull off the last layer of clothing, freeing his half-hard cock. You thought about it so often when he was away as your fingers were buried inside you.

You covered him in oil and massaged his shoulders to relieve his physical tension. Then his chest, arms, palms and belly, taking your time. Gently, your fingers worked his skin, finding their favorite spots and his. Lingering there.

Finally, you faced him and took his shaft in hand, before jerking him off gently under the pretext of applying the oil, but you both felt the need grow.

You then asked him to sit in the warm water, and got undressed. The expression in his eyes changed from softness to eagerness and desire while he was watching you.

Fully hard, he stood up when you approached the bath, holding out his hand to accompany you down the steps.

“Sit on me,” he murmured in your ear, his beard brushing your skin. You straddled him, placing your hands on his cheeks before playing with his curls. You leaned down and finally kissed him, tasting his warm, soft, luscious lips. You both moaned and it made you smile, as you felt yourself mesmerized by him being finally there, with you.

He caressed your lips with his tongue, then slid it between them. Your tongues found each other, for the first time in months, and you felt dizzy, savoring him again. His hands roamed your back, squeezed your skin sometimes, while your kiss was only growing more feral and needy. Unable to wait any longer, you grabbed his cock and nestled it at your entrance, making him growl from the depth of his chest.

“Slowly,” he stammered. “No foreplay… don’t hurt yourself.”

“Can’t promise it,” you smiled. It was almost a lie, both of you knew it, you couldn’t take him slowly, your need to feel him being too strong. You sank onto his shaft with your arms resting on his broad shoulders, and you had to bite him slightly when the fat head of his cock began spreading you wide open, until you welcomed him fully, leaving both of you breathless for a second.

“That wasn’t exactly slow,” he laughed once he caught his breath, his hand against the back of your neck as you peppered his collarbone with kisses, your cunt full of him.

“Couldn’t wait,” you breathed and kept kissing him, slowly moving up and down his shaft, mixing your moans with his, your forehead against his. Your breaths mingled, similar in their urgency.

“I missed you. I missed you,” you repeated, while one of his hands was caressing your back, the other resting on your hip to accompany your movements, but sometimes pushing you slightly more down his cock.

“Me too, my love. Finally feeling you like that, wrapped around my cock, is almost unreal after all that time. But I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he said in a breathless voice. “It’s been too long since I felt the warmth of your cunt. Only my hand could give me a release when thoughts about you invaded my mind.”

“Now I’m here. Use me. Come,” you added, rubbing yourself against his lower stomach, knowing you would come soon too.

He held you tight in his arms, setting his pace, fast, powerful, to the point that the water overflowed from the bath with every move. He chased his orgasm, growling in your ear, his body surrounding yours, and you let him use you willingly until his grunts turned into moans and he froze, coming inside you. You pulsed on his shaft just after, milking his cock, feeling him shudder inside you.

You let him catch his breath and his wits before facing him, your hands on his cheeks, and covered his lips, cheeks, forehead with kisses. Already thinking about the moment you would go to your bedroom, and finally take the time to rediscover each other.

Washed, you had dinner, and you told him what happened during his absence. Life in Rome, the dream of Marcus Aurelius long forgotten. The emperors were hated by the subjects, and the cruel games were still allowed.

His worry was growing as he was listening to you. Each time he left, he was afraid a revolt would take place and he wouldn’t be there to protect you.

He asked you the question that had been burning his lips since his return, but that he was holding back, afraid of your answer.

“Did… did anyone hurt you while I was away?” he asked, eyes lowered to the ground, your hands in his. Then finally forcing himself to look at you and hear your answer.

“No, Acacius,” you answered quickly, eager to remove that weight from his shoulders and his heart. “Nothing happened to me, don’t worry.” You knew that he would lose his mind if someone hurt you, just like those who had hurt you would lose their heads.

He kissed your hands when he heard you, keeping them between his, brushing them with his thumbs.

“I couldn't stand it if that happened,” he added, voice shaking.

“I know, my love. But the guards protect me. The ones you chose, and trust completely. I am safe.”

He nodded, even though both of you knew he would never be calm during his absences.

Once fed, he told you about the new conquests. You felt the weariness on his shoulders and in his eyes. His anger. The emperors were making him lose patience, every day a little more.

“Enough about this,” he said finally. “I don't want my return to be full of sadness and bitterness. I saw how tense your body is, I will help you relax with some oil, like you did to me.”

“Acacius… you need to rest after these last few months. Not to take care of me,” you replied softly.

“I am your husband,” he said gently but firmly, moving closer to you until he took your hand in his and kissed it. “Your man. There’s nothing else that I want to do more.” You looked at him and smiled.

Once in the bedroom, he asked you to undress and lie down naked on your stomach. He poured some oil in his hands, and rubbed them together. He didn't take his eyes off you until you were on the bed. "You're so beautiful," he said. “I’m gonna take care of you. I missed it.”

He started by massaging your neck, with perfect pressure. Hands flat, he pressed his thumbs against each tense spot, helping to release the tension step by step. You felt your muscles relax at his touch, from your neck to your shoulders. Once satisfied with the way your body responded to his movements, he coated his hands with oil again, then he took care of your lower back. Your pelvis had been stuck for weeks, and you knew that he would do wonders, as always. That the next day, when you woke up, it would be free of its tensions.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, kissing your shoulder, his moustache brushing your skin.

“Better than ever. Thank you, my love.”

“Perfect. Turn around now, please." You rolled onto your back, and you saw his eyes linger on your breasts for a few seconds, nipples hard after his hands on you.

“Well, General?” you chuckled.

“Mmm. I was staring, wasn’t I? I missed them too,” he confessed, blushing slightly, which was cute, coming from him.

He massaged your arms then your thighs, one by one, down to your ankles and feet, careful not to touch your breasts or even look at them, as if that would end the session prematurely. You didn't take your eyes off him, watching his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his tongue brushing his lip, his teeth nibbling on it.

Finally, you saw his gaze fixed on your pussy, something he had also avoided until then. The candlelight certainly didn’t allow him to see, but he probably knew you were flowing down to the bed. His hand slid from your ankle to your thigh, then brushed your folds before slipping between them, making you whine, as you heard the grunt of approval when his finger got lost in your wetness.

He took a deep breath and said “I’m too eager to taste you, now. But tomorrow I will touch, lick, worship your whole body. I want to kiss you, from your forehead to your toes. Take back what’s mine.”

“I’m yours, always, Acacius. Whether you are here or not.”

“I know, my sweet girl, I know. As I’m yours. Ad vitam aeternam. (forever)”

He got undressed and you loved that he took his time doing it, with a soft smile on his lips. You loved knowing that he would be there with you for several weeks. Every day and every night.

You were never tired of looking at him. His body was a gift from the gods. His strong neck, with veins bulging every time he thrust into you. His broad shoulders, his belly slightly softer as the years passed. His large hands, next to which yours seemed tiny.

His cock.

So massive that on your wedding night you had been so afraid that you had thought of running away. But he had assured you that he would be gentle and go slowly, that he would take care of you. After another hesitation you had chosen to trust him, his tone, his gaze, and two nights later it had seemed that you had been physically made for each other.

But more than his body, his personality, his loyalty, the way he cared about you, made him a loving, reliable, protective husband. You thanked the gods every day for making him yours.

Once naked, he knelt on the bed between your thighs, gently spreading them, finally revealing your pussy. Again, he took a deep breath. His thumb ran over your wet folds.

“You’re drooling for me.”

He lay down, bringing his face closer to your pussy and breathing it in. “Gods, I missed it.”

His tongue traced a stripe between your folds, up to your clit, making you whine. He looked up at you, adding “now, you’re gonna feed me.”

He dove between your thighs, eyes closed, your folds spread by his thumbs, burying his tongue in your core. Feasting, like he did each time he came back, but not only. From the wedding night, and all the others that followed, he had shown you how much he loved eating you out, pulling orgasm after orgasm, sometimes two in a row because he didn’t want to or couldn't stop.

“Acacius,” you whimpered while his nose was rubbing perfectly against your clit. As he had learned during all those years the way your body responded to him.

Back arched, hands lost in his curls, you moved in harmony with his mouth and his tongue, reaching for him, rolling your hips towards him. He pulled back for a few seconds to look at you, and smiled when you cried for his loss. His beard and mustache glistened with your slick and his pupils were dilated as if he had consumed opium to heal a wound. He leaned towards you again, pushing one thick finger between your folds and then sucking your clit. He quickly added a second digit when he heard your needy moans, and licked at your clit. Your hands moved from his curls to your breasts, then to the sheets, your fists clenching on them.

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” you whimpered, pelvis tilted towards him as far as possible, as if he wasn't already so close to you. The pleasure that was growing in your core finally exploded, hands and thighs holding his head against your cunt, not wanting him to stop. Docile, he kept licking and pumping you with his fingers, until you stopped clenching on them and released him.

He straightened up, crawling between your thighs, taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking on it like his life depended on it before moving on to the other, leaving them glistening with his saliva. Finally, lying between your thighs, he kissed you, his mouth and lips tasting like you.

“I want to taste you too, please,” you begged.

“Of course, my sweet girl. You don’t have to ask. I’m all yours.”

You kissed him before he rolled onto his back, and you straddled him. Covering his cheeks, lips, neck with kisses, then moving down to his torso, hands roaming over his skin. You took one of his nipples in your mouth, sucking, nibbling, licking, then the other, without taking your eyes off him. Admiring his beautiful face. You continued to move down, kissing his belly and hips, your breasts brushing his hard, oozing cock. You took his shaft in hand, and licked his balls, eyes still fixed on him, to see him drop his head back on the bed. “Gods..,” you heard him breathe.

You smiled and left his balls to suck on his tip, lingering on it, giving you some time to get used to its width, to savor him in your mouth again. His precum flowed in your throat. He had been gone for so long that you were afraid you had forgotten the taste, but it was so familiar again now. Your head bobbing on his shaft, you wanted to make him feel good, wetness dripping from your cunt, moaning on his shaft, and you closed your eyes until you heard him growl louder. Then opened them to see his head raised towards you. One of his hands was placed on the back of your neck.

“You like it, General?” you asked playfully, then licked his shaft tongue flat.

“It’s divine.”

You crawled towards him, arousal dripping from your core after sucking him, you kissed his body again and then his lips, before murmuring “take me.”

His eyes darkened and in one movement he laid you down on the bed, under him. Pressing his cock to your entrance, this time he didn't wait, hands tight on your hips, he pushed his whole lenght into your cunt. His massive cock, so hard that you lost your breath. He never took his eyes off you, dark gaze lowered towards you, soft eyes forgotten in favor of a feral stare. He was possessive, claiming your body as he claimed cities during battles, like his body and mind needed it. Like you needed it too.

You tried to keep your eyes open, to look at him, leaning towards you, eyebrows furrowed, veins throbbing. But the relentless rhythm of his shaft spreading your walls made you forget where you were, leaving you moaning and repeating his name. You clung to his shoulders, telling him how much you loved to feel him again, how much you needed it.

“Always taking me so well”, he growled, and you hummed with approval.

He slid his hand to the back of your neck, holding you close, his nose against your ear. He breathed you in, focused on your moans, eager to have all his senses filled with you, after months of being surrounded by dirt, screams and blood.

He was home now, you were his home.

“Acacius,” you whined, his crotch rubbing perfectly where you needed it.

“Come for me. Soak me.”

“Oh gods… Acacius… Acacius,” you whimpered, your orgasm rushing over you, making you pulse on his shaft, your clit throbbing against his skin.

“Just like that, squeezing me so hard… you were made for me,” he murmured, his breathing now ragged as his own pleasure rose.

“I’m… oh gods,” he said, just before cumming inside you, long spurts of cum painting your walls in white. You held him tighter against you, as he moaned in your ear. Your general of Rome, now the most vulnerable man in your arms.

His jolts finally stopped and he straightened up slightly, careful not to crush you under his weight. He covered your skin with kisses, from your neck to your lips, before rolling onto his side and welcoming you against his chest, arms wrapped around your bare body. Both of you waited for your breathings to calm down.

“I cherish it, you know,” you said, curled up against his chest.

“What do you cherish?” he asked, caressing your skin with his large, loving hands.

“Having you like this, in these moments. It always seems unreal to me, your softness and protectiveness towards me, knowing that you lead battles for Rome. Everyone who fought near you evokes your cold blood.”

He hugged you closer and kissed your forehead, brushing it for a moment with his moustache.

“I love you. I’m only myself when I’m home, with you.”

Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

@pascalsanctuary @littlemisspascal @survivingandenduring

npt ❤️ tagging those who showed interest in the wip post, love you ❤️

@jessthebaker @schnarfer @sawymredfox @itwasntimethatdidit40 @mothandpidgeon

@pascalssbabyy @iknowisoundcrazy @thundermartini @604to647 @baronessvonglitter

#marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #pedro pascal #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x female reader #pedro pascal characters #general acacius

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dragonridernoobie · 5 months ago

Note

Hey I've been stalking your page for a while because the transformers and undertale stuff you do are immaculate and very pleasing and I've been thinking quite a lot about Megatron so I'm here to request some Megatron (and possibly some soundwave and shockwave)with a male Predacon reader the kind of similar to perking (if that's how I say his name right) but they're like very old and they somehow survived the great cataclysm that extinguished all the Sparks of Predacons and basically they became a gladiator and met Megatron and stuff like that thank you hope you have a great day and make sure to eat and drink as much water and food and hope you have some good sleep =]

Will do, also welcome to the page, you are always welcomed! Thank you for liking my work to, it makes me worried people don't like it when people don't reqest. So don't hesitate to request or ask anything! So I will try my best for you're reqest! Have fun reading!!!

TFP Decpticons X Prediction Reader

(Not my art)

^^^YOU^^^^

Megatron

Megatron met reader when was still in the pits of Kaon

When he was a gladiator, Reader would have challenged him when he kept beating everyone that challenged him.

Megatron would have been cock but realized real fast how strong a pute predicon was.

In this, though, he wouldn't know reader is a predicon since reader would be in her cybertronian form.

Once he got his aft handed to him, reader would spare him, since they felt petty for him.

Years later, I think megatron would find reader again when reader has a cybertronian artifact and my god. Thus dude would be pissed.

He would remmber how reader kicked his aft and hurt his pride.

For once, he would forget about the autobots and attack reader..............he got his aft beaten again.

After his pride was hurt again, he would do 2 things. Depends on his moods.

1. He would ask reader to join him only if he realized reader was a predicon.

2. He would a little bit better if he finds reader was a prediction but wouldn't even dare to invite them to the decpticons. Dosent want somone on the team that could beat him.

Soundwave

I think Soundwave would meet you when he went to go fetch an artifact.

He would go to a frozen lake and brake the lake to go underneth the ice.

When he finds the artifact, he also finds a predicon wrapped around the artifact.

Soundwave would do his mission first and try to take the artifact but when he tries, the predicon would wake up.

I can see him being hit and thrown around for the first time by the predicon.

Once he is above the water, he tries to open groundbridges to get rid of the predicon.

When all else fails, he tries to fight the predicon but when it's too much, he would flee.

He would show megatron the recording he got of the predicon to show he had a good reason why he failed.

Megatron would understand, and tell his old friend to get some rest.

Rip you. The whole decpticon army is after you.

If you get cought and taken by the decpticons. Soundwave would actually try to get you free.

You earned his respect.

Shockwave

Shockwave would have met you while on cybertron.

While he was stuck on cybertron, he would start the process to collect fossilized predicon parts.

That's when he met you. You cought him stealing some of you're brother and sisters dead remains and attacked him.

He was surpised a predicon was still alive but it won't stop him from his mission.

For once, Shockwave met somone more stronger then him and Megatron.

I can see you and Shockwave forever in a battle. You attack him on sight and he keeps trying to come and steal parts.

I think this would go on for a while intel he asked for a truce and told you that he can bring back you're species.

You're choice but if you accept that and let him take you're family remains, you where with him every step of the way when he made predaking.

If you don't, you try to kill him, which is very understandable.

I can see him somehow getting away with a peice and finally starts to work on predaking.

Once predaking was made and the story continues, you would take predaking underneth you're wings when he comes to cyberton.

Teatch him you're species ways and how predicons survived.

#headcanon #transformers tfp #x reader #tfp megatron #megatron x you #megatron #tfp megatron x reader #megatron x reader #soundwave tfp x reader #soundwave x reader #tfp soundwave #soundwave #shockwave tfp x reader #shockwave x reader #tfp shockwave #shockwave #tfp predaking

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i2rizz · 8 days ago

Text

Fast and Furious! Pt.2

Fandom: Blue lock

Characters: street racer!Kaiser x reader

I noticed yall liked the street racer au soo i made more content for it:>

----------------------------------------------------

The streets were alive with the electric hum of engines, headlights piercing through the thick night air. Neon lights glowed faintly in the distance, reflecting off rows of sleek, modified cars lined up like gladiators waiting for battle. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, punctuated by the occasional roar of a revving engine.

You leaned against a cobalt-blue Porsche, its glossy paint reflecting the crowd’s energy. The car’s owner, Michael Kaiser, was perched in the driver’s seat, adjusting his gloves with a level of nonchalance that only he could pull off.

“You ready for this?” you asked, stepping closer.

He glanced up, a smug grin playing on his lips. “When am I not?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. That confidence—borderline arrogance—was part of what made Kaiser so irresistible.

“Just don’t get too cocky,” you teased, leaning through the open window to ruffle his perfectly styled blonde hair.

“Please,” he scoffed, gently swatting your hand away. “This guy doesn’t stand a chance. But I’ll make it interesting for the crowd.”

The “guy” in question was a cocky up-and-comer with a custom black Dodge Charger who had challenged Kaiser earlier that week. The prize? Bragging rights and a hefty wad of cash.

“Five minutes!” someone called, the crowd beginning to gather at the starting line.

Kaiser opened the door and stepped out, his tall frame commanding attention. He sauntered over to you, casually draping an arm around your shoulders. “Stay close,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the show~”

------------‐---------------------------------------

Engines roared as the racers lined up, their cars growling like beasts ready to pounce. You stood at the sidelines, your heart pounding in sync with the vibrations beneath your feet.

Kaiser’s Porsche was a thing of beauty, its custom mods practically glowing under the streetlights. He threw you a wink from the driver’s seat, his confidence palpable even from a distance.

The starter—a woman in a leather jacket with a checkered flag—raised her hand, the signal for silence. The world seemed to hold its breath as the racers revved their engines one last time.

“Three… two… one… GO!”

The flag dropped, and the cars shot forward, tires screeching against the pavement. The crowd erupted in cheers as the racers tore down the street, their taillights streaking like comets.

Kaiser was a maestro behind the wheel, his movements fluid and calculated. He drifted around corners with surgical precision, leaving his opponent scrambling to keep up.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he muttered to himself, glancing in the rearview mirror.

The Charger was gaining on him, its roaring engine a testament to raw power. But Kaiser wasn’t fazed. With a flick of his wrist, he shifted gears, the Porsche surging forward with a burst of speed.

The course wound through the city, weaving between towering skyscrapers and narrow alleyways. You watched anxiously from the sidelines, your hands clenched into fists as Kaiser executed each maneuver with maddening ease.

“He’s gonna win,” someone said behind you, their voice tinged with awe.

“Of course he is,” you muttered, a proud smile tugging at your lips.

Just as the finish line came into view, a distant wail cut through the night—a sound that made your stomach drop.

Police sirens.

The crowd scattered like leaves in the wind, the once-buzzing street now a flurry of panic and motion.

“Cops!” someone shouted, confirming your worst fear.

Kaiser was already in action, his Porsche swerving sharply as he abandoned the race and headed for an alternate route. You barely had time to react before he pulled up beside you, the passenger door swinging open.

“Get in!” he barked.

Without hesitation, you dove into the car, the door slamming shut behind you. The Porsche roared to life once more, tearing down the street as red and blue lights lit up the night.

Kaiser’s hands gripped the wheel tightly, his usual smugness replaced by a laser-sharp focus. You held onto the seat, your heart pounding as the Porsche sped through the city at breakneck speed.

“Are you seriously smiling right now?” you shouted, glancing at him in disbelief.

“Admit it, this is thrilling!” he replied, his grin unmistakable despite the chaos.

“You’re insane!”

“Only a little,” he quipped, cutting through an alleyway so narrow you swore the mirrors would scrape the walls.

The police weren’t far behind, their sirens growing louder with each passing second. But Kaiser was relentless, weaving through traffic and taking turns so sharp they left your stomach in knots.

Finally, he pulled into an underground parking garage, the sudden silence almost deafening. He killed the engine and motioned for you to follow him out of the car.

“Quick,” he whispered, leading you through a side door that opened into yet another alley.

The two of you emerged into the cool night air, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you listened for any sign of pursuit. When none came, you turned to him, your anger finally bubbling to the surface.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you hissed, shoving him lightly.

He caught your wrists, his grip firm but gentle. “Relax, liebe.(love) We’re fine.”

“Fine? We were almost arrested!”

“But we weren’t,” he said, his smirk returning. “Because I’m just that good.”

You wanted to stay mad, but the sheer audacity of his words—and the way he was looking at you, like you were the only person in the world—made it impossible.

“Next time,” you said, trying to sound stern, “give me a heads-up before dragging me into a police chase.”

“Noted,” he replied, pulling you closer. “But admit it, you had fun.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small laugh escaped you. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, his voice softer now.

You didn’t reply, instead letting him wrap his arms around you as the adrenaline began to fade. The night had been chaotic, dangerous, and utterly unforgettable—just like Kaiser himself.

------------‐---------------------------------------

I love him (i say this to every fictional man i see)

#blue lock x y/n #blue lock #bllk x y/n #bllk #bllk kaiser #blue lock kaiser #bllk michael kaiser #kaiser x reader #I LOVE MICHAEL KAISER #anime and manga #anime #manga #x reader #x y/n

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trustinsighters · 8 months ago

Text

Aymeric's Actions & Battle Quotes

GENERAL INFOS

Support NPC Name: Aymeric

Expansion: 3.X (Heavensward)

Job/Class Name: Lord Commander

Roles: Tank and DPS (both listed as Gladiator)

Duty Support: Yes (Patch 3.3 Lv.60 Sohr Khai)

Trust: No

ACTION LIST

Tank & Dps

Fast Blade: deals single target damage.

Riot Blade: deals single target damage; Combo action: Fast Blade.

Rage of Halone: deals single target damage; Combo action: Riot Blade.

Glory of Halone: deals single target damage; uses Royal Authority animation.

Circle of Scorn: deals split AoE damage (circle); Executed after: Glory of Halone.

Dull Blade: deals single target damage; uses Goring Blade animation.

Spirits Without: deals single target damage; uses Spirits Within animation; Executed after: Dull Blade.

Phoenix Down: revives the support NPC healer if they have been incapacitated; out of combat use only.

TANK Only

Iron Will: tank stance.

Feral Charge: rushes to target; increases enmity.

Provoke: increases enmity.

Noble Blade: deals split AoE damage (circle); increases enmity; uses Total Eclipse animation.

Wrath of Halone: deals split AoE damage (circle); increases enmity; Combo action: Noble Blade.

Sentinel: reduces damage taken; Duration: 15s.

Rampart: reduces damage taken; Duration: 20s.

Reprisal: reduces damage dealt by nearby enemies; seems to use it only during boss fights; Duration: 10s.

Noble Spirit: deals single target damage; uses Holy Spirit animation.

Excellence: invuln; uses Hallowed Ground animation.

DPS Only

LB1 Braver: deals single target damage.

LB2 Bladedance: deals single target damage.

Battle Quotes

Feral Charge

[EN] There! [JP] 隙ありッ！ [DE] Hinfort aus Ishgard! [FR] Encaisse donc ça !

Excellence / Low Health (1)

[EN] We must stand together! [JP] 押されている！？ [DE] Langsam wird es eng .../ Nichts aufgeben! (2) [FR] Nous perdons du terrain!/ Aide-moi, Halone. (3)

Rage of Halone

[EN] You underestimate me! [JP] 甘く見るなよッ！ [DE] Seht euch vor! [FR] Tu me sous-estimes !

Glory of Halone

[EN] It ends here! [JP] 受けてもらおうッ！ [DE] Noch nicht genug? [FR] C'en est fini !

Spirits Without

[EN] Down with you! [JP] 仕留めるッ！ [DE] Nun ist Schluss! [FR] Venez vous battre, pleutres ! (4)

LB1: Braver

[EN] This knight does not yield! [JP] これが騎士の意地だッ！ [DE] Nun ist Schluss! [FR] Tu l'auras voulu !

LB2: Bladedance

[EN] For Ishgard! [JP] 我が友のためにッ！ [DE] Für einen wahren Freund! [FR] Pour Ishgard !

Battle Sounds

[DE] Nimm das! [FR] Prends ça !

Pain Sounds

[JP] チィッ… [DE] Verflucht!

Defeated

[EN] Damn it all... [JP] 腕が落ちていた…か… [DE] Ich habe versagt. [FR] J'ai failli...

Revived (5)

[EN] It isn't over yet! [JP] まだ、終わりにはさせない…！ [DE] Ich werde es nicht hier enden lassen ... [FR] Je ne tomberai pas aussi facilement !

Notes:

Aymeric hasn't any Character Selection quote.

(1) Low Health line is the same as Excellence line with the exception that the voice doesn't play. Speech balloon only.

(2) Audio and speech balloon text don't match. Audio: "Nichts aufgeben!"; Balloon: "Langsam wird es eng ...".

(3) Audio and speech balloon text don't match. Audio: "Aide-moi, Halone."; Balloon: "Nous perdons du terrain!".

(4) Audio doesn't play.

(5) Revived quote isn't dubbed. Speech balloon only.

#FFXIV #Heavensward #Aymeric #Duty Support #Battle Quotes

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corazondebeskar-reads · 10 months ago

Text

live to rise - chapter one

live to rise series

one: they'll find you, burn you

series masterlist | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: The Last of the Mandalorians have fallen; their Mand'alor captured. Stripped of his armor, his weapons, his people. Din rises to fight another day, grasping onto the hope that his son still lives.

No fighter has won their freedom from the Empire's arena before. With the help of a servant girl, can he hope to break free?

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, prisoner of war, indentured servitude, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide, discussions of war, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, mand'alor!Din Djarin, major character deaths, many minor character deaths, Din has hearing loss, angst by the bucket, Din Djarin takes the helmet off (kind of)

Please heed the warnings. There will be major & minor character deaths in almost every chapter. This is not a happy story, but I hope you find it worthwhile anyway.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

It’s morning when the news breaks.

By lunch, datapads are discarded in favor of gossip. It’s as useless as the Imperial rags parading as official broadcasts—all speculation and slander.

While the details of the Mandalorians’ final stand for their homeworld circulate above, the stiff air of the lower complex is thick with the question: to whose barracks will the fallen king be assigned?

You know the answer. Your datapad had pinged early, much before your day should have begun. Much before the news went live across the galaxy.

Cell C-5 had been scrubbed clean on your perennially bruised knees the day before when Dup, a young Gungan whose face was bruised as if he’d already gone a round, had failed to return from the arena.

He had been brought in late the previous night, shaking and weeping and not speaking a lick of Basic. Those were the hardest. There was no comfort, no preparation, no honor you could give them.

He didn’t return after his first battle.

It was the way of things. Many never saw a second sunrise.

As caretaker for Barrack Cresh, whether your fighters eat, drink, bathe, get medical attention and fresh clothing, or, well, anything, falls on you.

So you stocked C-5 with the basics, but the Mandalorian King’s file is barren when your clearance arrives. You bristle at the lack of biodata. How are you supposed to provide proper clothing or order his dinner?

It becomes obvious when he arrives that evening.

You’re not.

It’s past curfew when they bring him in, and normally, you’d be in bed. But one of yours had come back a few minutes earlier from the medbay and you know the state they usually return in, so you’re in C-2 with the door shut.

The ex-Rebel pilot, Gino, doesn’t argue as you dab the shallow cuts on his face with an alcohol swab, but he does flinch when you tug the split skin on his calf together like a stubborn bedsheet to apply suture tape. They had used just enough bacta for his serious injuries and left the rest to bleed.

“Sorry,” you hiss, but it’s lost in the pneumatics of the door.

Gino is on his feet immediately, shushing you with a finger to his lips. You can’t risk being seen through the little window, so he minds your space as you flatten to the ground and peek through the delivery slot.

At first, all you can see are boots. So many boots. And among the shiny black rubber is the oddest pair of worn brown leather. It’s been so long since you saw anyone in shoes but the guards; your stomach churns with fear.

Gino taps at your head, and you let him help you up to peek once they’re past the cell.

It’s the Mandalorian. There are five of the Moff’s personal guards in their black kits restraining him, and they still have to jab him with an electrostave in order to shut the cell door fast enough.

He’s snarling, the modulator of his helmet warping and crackling the terrible cacophony. He’s also huge, and the strip of lights shines off his dark armor like someone took a handful of the night sky and smudged it across the wall of the cell.

You brush away the errant question of how much of his bulk is the armor and how much he comes by naturally. You’ll find out tomorrow, like everyone else.

The hype alone ensures a sold-out arena. The officers and their simpering spouses and sycophants are salivating for the battle—or at least for the profits.

The headlines fill seats to a swarming mass, everyone vying to see the latest and shiniest trophy.

He won’t be shiny for long.

Not after they strip away the beskar that protects one of—if not the last of—the “galaxy’s greatest warriors” and see if he’s worth anything underneath.

They don’t expect him to survive. They don’t want him to, really. They want to crush the will of any who would still defy the Empire. A very public, humiliating execution is the Moff’s wet dream.

The Mandalorian is gone before your morning rounds, dragged up to the arena’s cage to watch his fate play out on the faces of others. Either end is the same, really.

And if he survives, it won’t matter. Sure, prisoners can earn their freedom through a percentage of the money they bring in from wagers, or they can die trying.

But no fighter has made it out alive. Not even close.

You’re close, though. Not that you’re in an arena contract. But you’re nearing the end of the third year in a five-year indentured servitude sentence, and it carries a lower fatality rate.

Which isn’t saying much, really. It would be hard to have a higher fatality rate than the fighters.

There are twelve of you and ten barracks, not counting the fluctuating number of sponsored champions who have private accommodations.

Sixty standard fighters, never more or less as the sun rises.

Sometimes, you return to six empty cells.

Only once have you found your flock all home. You fell to your knees and cried right then, bringing acrid dread to a boil as you knew it would never, ever happen again.

Just three days ago, Din Djarin had stood in the grand hall at Keldabe, knowing it would be the last time.

It was still. Silent. Not yet in the chaos of war, but just on the edge, as when rainfall is a distant specter and the uneasiness cloisters in your lungs.

He takes in the art behind the throne with quiet reverence, eyes following the sharp lines and bold colors, the stories of their ancestors dutifully and beautifully eternalized.

The shame creeps up his neck again, but he shrugs it off. It will work. He’s known for his tight and effective strategy, and his advisors had agreed to the plan.

He only hoped the Ka’ra would accept his soul into the Manda all the same. That the blood of his brethren wouldn’t deny him the peace that he ached for.

He thinks once more of Grogu, breathes through the pain, and then clears his mind.

Turning from the throne, he strides to the grand windows—to Paz. With hands clasped behind his back, he follows his general’s focus to the TIE fighters breaking through the atmosphere.

Troopers are within the walls. The Destroyers won’t be long, now.

“Vod,” Din begins, angling toward Paz.

“Do not deal me the insult of an out,” Paz snaps.

“I would never,” Din says, throat cinching around the words. “It’s an honor to have you at my side.”

Paz dips his head. “It’s been an honor to serve with you, ner Mand’alor.”

Din knows he speaks true. Though they may not have always gotten along, they were still vod. Still loyal, until death.

Death they now stood on the brink of.

Outside, the fleet falls fast. Din grimaces as their ships careen to the surface and crush the city into crumbs. Fire spreads, and he has to pretend the homes are empty. That everyone got out in time.

The Empire assumes each Kom’rk-class fighter is full of Mandalorians waiting to drop into battle. They target them with glee, thinking they’ve devastated the sky and ground teams in one fell swoop.

But each ship has only a pilot. A pilot who climbed into the cockpit knowing they would certainly die. Willing to take the place of their vod.

Mando’ad draar digu. They will live on in him until he draws his last. More importantly, they will live on in their families, who—if he’s done anything right—will live far beyond him.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Din says.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Paz echoes.

They are to be the last words spoken to one another.

Inside the palace, the fight leaves no breath for such things. Not that they need it; their movements are fluid and equal.

It takes half the platoon to take Paz down and the other to take Din.

Unlike his vod, they do not grant him a warrior’s death.

In the arena, they’ve left him in the armor as he paces the cage. Every moment with it spurns the barb deeper in his gut, the terror turning terrifying as his rage becomes a tsunami.

The fights are nothing. The Imps who thought he’d be intimidated by them have clearly never seen an average Mandalorian brawl. These ended with a little more finality and a little less bickering over the winner, but the actual fighting? Mostly pathetic.

He doesn’t look upon them with scorn, though. These are beings stripped of all dignity, underfed, and devoid of hope. The Empire has ground them into the dirt beneath their glossy boots, and he expects that for many, death is a kindness.

In the end, he lets them take the beskar’gam from his bound body. They hold him, scanners at the ready, the whole of the galaxy waiting to witness his final defeat in real time. The giddy grins tell him what he already knows—they are certain this will break him.

He holds eye contact with Gideon just to see the shock that strikes him at Din’s defiance. He aches to smirk or snarl or sink his teeth into the man, but he won’t give him the satisfaction.

They don’t give them weapons for this fight. At least they’re being honest about their intentions.

Hand-to-hand combat with a Wookie should be a death sentence. Should be, for a lesser being. But the Mand’alor is far sharper than their blades could ever hope to be, and he wields his mind and body as expertly as he would a blaster.

Din doesn’t speak Shyriiwook. He wishes he did, for when he asks his opponent for their name, he fails to capture the response. It slips from his grasp, slick as his hands are from the Wookie’s blood.

Bare hands that have rarely dealt such tangible death. Dust stirred up from the struggle sticks to the thick, hot carnage. He’ll feel the give of the Wookie’s eyeballs under his thumbnails for days. The crack of his skull under Din’s knee, driven like a wedge into the soft cartilage, is at least slightly more familiar.

It’s not a long fight. After all, Din has something of which his opponent has long been deprived: something to live for.

The Mandalorian isn’t back by dinner drop-off, but your captain sent the cart loaded with a tray for him, so you dutifully set it on his cot atop the folded blanket.

There’s been no clean-up call, and the roster is empty. But you don’t have to wonder over his whereabouts for long.

In the servants' barracks—which are actually barracks and not a soft word for cellblocks—the reports are already underway.

Some of the attendants get to watch the fights. Or, rather, they have to, bound as they are to a single combatant. The mandated proximity is unforgiving, and no one likes to watch.

After all, there’s very little difference between you and the fighters. Instead, the attendants take on the solemn duty of letting the rest of you know how your residents fared or fell.

“He was a berserker,” Hali says in hushed whispers. “They took all that armor off, and he just looked like a man. A pretty man, but… just a man. But when it started, he moved so fast. It was over in, like, two minutes.”

“Shut up,” says Eli, your bunkmate. “He did not take down a Wookie in two minutes.”

“No, he really kriffing did,” hissed one of the new attendants whose name you hadn’t caught. “It was brutal. The whole arena went quiet. And he just stood there, covered in blood, looking at the crowd.”

“Okay, whose block is he in?” Eli demands. “Someone needs to spill now.”

“Mine,” you say quietly.

“You haven’t said a kriffing word this whole time? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know,” you confess. “I only saw when they brought him in last night. He was still armored. And terrifying.”

“I saw him,” Hali says. “He was in the lounge.”

“They took him to the lounge after his first fight?” you say, jaw hanging open. The after-party was a grotesque performance, with sponsored fighters forced to smile pretty and play nice with their benefactors after a victory.

“No,” Hali’s face is grave. “They displayed him. They’ve chained him up next to his armor.”

You cover your mouth to stem the nausea. “No,” you hiss through your fingers. The disrespect hurts, raking through like a nexu claw to the chest, and you don’t even know the man.

Eli sets a hand on your knee from where he sits cross-legged beside you on the bottom bunk. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I know,” you say. But he knows you, sees it written between your brows, and hears it in the crack of your voice.

It’s a weakness; you know it. It had been a strength back home. Every single being that passes through your barrack doesn’t have long. The small hall of cells is a port, and you are the ferryman. Knowing each of them for the last scant moments has only made you love harder and faster.

To try and ease a soul’s journey is a burden you have always chosen to bear.

Come morning, sure as the stars, your cells are full. The Mandalorian is not the only new face—there’s a humanoid woman in C-1, too. The Klatoonian had been gone before the noon bell prior, and his cell cleaned by your hands within the hour after. Ovesu had survived four battles over ten days, but no trace of him remains now.

You start with her, Reen Sala of Drall. She’s on the roster for early afternoon, and you want to make sure she’s got food in her.

You tell her as much.

“Today? Already?” She wraps her fingers around the window bars, peering at you.

“Yes,” you say solemnly, sliding the tray through the slit at the bottom of the door. “Eat quickly. They’ll be coming to get you any minute. They’re going to take you up and prepare you and make you watch the day’s first battles.”

She has a steadiness to her eyes and stock to her build, just enough to have a chance. When she begins to eat, her hands only shake slightly.

“Are you a farmer?” you ask, watching her broken, stubby fingernails wrap around the metal cup of water.

She nods, gulping down quickly to add, “Mostly grains. Eggs. Basics.”

You give her a wan smile, the image of her in a sun-soaked field behind your eyes. It would have to be enough. If she held on, maybe she could fill in the picture.

“Thought so. Me too. My parents have a grove on Hetzal,” you say.

You chat for a few minutes, exchanging tales of her chasing tipyip and you sneaking honeyfruit and shuula during harvest.

“Good luck,” you murmur when you finally step away.

You don’t linger with Disdraa, the Twi’lek in C-3. She took a nasty blow to the head yesterday, so you slide her tray in as quietly as possible, hoping she’ll steal some extra rest.

Which brings you to the Mandalorian. He has no other name in your database. A mistake, you wonder, or an erasure?

When you knock on his door, you keep your eyes downcast. The decision you made in the lift was impulsive, but clear. He will have this respect here, if nowhere else.

“Good morning,” you say.

It’s silent.

You slide the tray under the door. “Do you need anything?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I’ll be back this evening if you think of something.”

Din rolls his eyes in the dark room. Does the quiet, simpering little act really work on the other prisoners? He vaguely considers rejecting the tray just to irritate you.

But he’s a Mandalorian. He doesn’t give in to petty spite when survival is on the line. He has battles to win and to do so, he must eat.

The food is bland but nutritionally complex, so if he keeps up a routine, he should be able to maintain his strength. He’s already run through and decided the optimal calisthenics and body weight routines he can do in the confines of his quarters.

He’s not stupid enough to think all the fights will be so quick or easy. The only benefit, and he’s unwilling to call it that, of not having his armor is that he’s so much faster.

He’ll get out.

He has a promise to keep.

When the Death Star fell three years ago, it took nearly the entire Rebel Alliance with it. The rest were scattered in the ash. And when the Empire barely flinched, the Mandalorians knew their time was running out.

With one loss notched on their belt already, they would have to strike swift and sure.

And so Din’s life as the rebel liaison began.

When he went to Gideon’s cruiser, he had no backup. Technically, no one even knew where he was. But espionage and false diplomacy took too long, purged time they did not have. And he wasn’t going to get another chance to try.

He lost the intel in the skirmish but gained a sword he knew not how to wield, a title he knew not how to bear, and a son he knew not how to raise.

The guards come for Reen, forcing you to finish your deliveries in a tense, silent two minutes.

She doesn’t come back. You paint her picture that night while her soft face and sun-streaked sangria widow’s peak are still fresh in your mind. It, as with most of your books, is stained with errant tears.

Eli had convinced you to keep the ones you ruined with grief, when you first began, desperate not to forget.

“It’s just more proof they were alive if they were also mourned,” he said, flipping reverently through the pages.

It goes against the practice, but it’s not even the most egregious way you’ve had to compromise, so you let it go. This is not the Hall. You have no easels, no canvas, no priestess.

You wonder who’s taken over your space, who they plucked from the apprentices to take over the memorials.

The pictures are small, stacked across the page like a quilt. Most of them have a name, maybe an age, maybe a planet, inked into the corners.

It's certainly not the scale you’re accustomed to, and your colors are limited to the pigments you can press from your dinner, unblessed and unpurified, but you make do.

You never paint them while they still live, not wanting to tether their souls to the pages while they have a chance. But they are yours, and so you will take the burden of remembering from their souls.

“Tray, please,” you say after knocking on the Mandalorian’s door that evening. He’s slow to respond, but you don’t mind. It’ll be a bit before he gets accustomed to the routine, if he makes it that long.

Most don’t.

It grates against the floor when he kicks it out, and you exchange it for the full tray of dinner.

“Do you need anything?”

Silence.

“Okay, have a good night.”

You don’t have hurt feelings. It’s the way of things. Some of the beings who come through never speak a word to you. It doesn’t change your loyalty or your duties.

Din is determined to puzzle you out. Why the farce? Everyone else he’s encountered is open in their disgust and amusement. He’s a novelty, a prize, a disgrace. What purpose does your feigned care serve?

“—dining with us tonight?” calls the inmate to his right in C-3.

You make a show of rolling your eyes, taking the last two trays from the cart. You slide one to the Twi’lek who had spoken.

“Depends. Are you going to behave?” you say.

“I always behave,” the fighter lies.

You seem to laugh, just a silent huff of amusement, and sit down with your back against the wall between the two cells.

He can’t see you from here, but he can hear snippets of you making light conversation between bites.

Something you say gets a lighthearted rise from the Devaronian in C-4 across the hall.

“Old? You want to talk about being old?” he booms.

C-3 groans. “Don’t get him started, come on.”

You laugh. “—else to bitch about. I’m saving— trouble.”

“…that I should suffer your disrespect,” C-4 is trying to say over you.

“Yeah, yeah, Vrar, you’re a terrifying grumpy—,” you tease.

A pause. A murky mumble from C-2.

“—you, Mandalorian? How old—?” You ask, tearing a chunk off your bread roll and popping it in your mouth.

He doesn’t answer.

After you leave, it grows quiet. A few moments pass, as if he was just waiting for you to get out of hearing range, before Vrar speaks up.

“Mando. You holding up? Any injuries?”

Din sits silently on his cot, leaning against the wall.

“Alright, I get it. You don’t have to talk to me. But can you be more respectful to the girl?”

If it’s bait, it works. “I don’t make a habit of being respectful to my captors.”

To his surprise, Vrar barks a hearty laugh. “Is that what you think? She’s a slave, Mando, same as the rest of us.”

Din feels hot guilt rise in his throat. “My mistake. I’ll do better.”

Vrar grunts his approval, and that’s that.

The next morning, when you ask if he needs anything, he tells you, “No, thank you,” in a soft but sure tone.

You straighten a little abruptly and try not to look shocked. “Okay. Good luck today,” you say, and move on. You’re pretty sure if you draw attention to it, he’ll never speak again.

You aren’t privy to the way things operate up top. All you know is that they take your fighters randomly, with at least one day between as a rest. Sometimes, it’s longer between fights.

But not for Mando. For the next two weeks, it’s every other day like clockwork. They’re capitalizing on his novelty, you think, but also hoping to wear him down.

Rumors tell you he’s become a quick crowd favorite. It should mean he has a shot at earning his freedom, but rumors also tell you he has the highest price on record.

They don’t want him free, and they don’t want someone to buy him.

No, they want him to die in the arena.

next chapter

thank you so much for reading! i live for your feedback, and i'm not above begging so if you have any thoughts pls let me know

*title from "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fic #gladiator!din #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #din djarin x you #fic: live to rise

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ohburrryoureabsolutelyridiculous · 5 days ago

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GLADIATOR II

My official review (that absolutely no one asked for):

👑👑👑👑 - I claim this film for the glory of Rome

🗡️🗡️PLEASE NOTE THIS REVIEW WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS. PLEASE DO NOT READ UNDER THE CUT OR THE COMMENTS IF YOU HAVEN’T YET SEEN THE FILM & DO NOT WANT SPOILERS.🗡️🗡️

Words I think best describe what you see: A whirlwind of action packed thrill ride that left me either on the edge of my seat or literally leaping out of it (don’t worry I was in the back row & only my friend to the right of me) whenever you might think this film is going to go, its probably not what you thing. I went in with one idea & while a few things did happen, there were a lot of moments that left me gasping for air, throwing my hands on my hand, leaping out of my seat, & at one point during one particular scene, my heart was beating so fast it reached 136 BPM - don’t worry we’ll get to that.

Denzel Washington & Paul Mescal command attention & they get it.

Denzel’s Macrinus had me despising him not once did I find myself rooting for him & as a LONGTIME Denzel fan this is a first. The fact that he was so quick to manipulate & found it so easy to put everyone especially Caracalla against Geta & even assisted with his murder was CRAZY. I’ve never wanted to punch Denzel Washington in the face before, then he helped slit my boys throat & literally saw his head off. I will be genuinely shocked if he is not nominated for best supporting actor for this role & I will be shocked if he does not win (depending on his competition)

Paul’s Lucius is powerful & breathtaking. You can feel his pain of losing his wife at the hands of his soon to be found out stepfather, remembering who he is, then collectively watching his stepfather & mother murdered in front of him. His mother dying the same way his wife had previously. You not only mourn with him but push for him to fight to avenge the fallen. Paul still an up & comer I think has a great career ahead of him & will now identify myself as a fellow Paul Mescal fan.

Pedro’s Acasius is tired & heart broken of all the wrong he’s had to do and continue to do in his life for the vanity & glory of his emperors. Pedro is Pedro so of course he’s eye catching but his character & portrayal left me wanting more. His action scenes are great. He commands the scenes he’s fighting in but in all other aspects of his character I just wanted more & it felt pretty lack luster. His interactions with Joseph, kissing his hands & talking shit about them had me laughing because no wonder he calls you such a shit head Joseph, your Geta ordered him dead & your boys shot him full of fucking arrows. (I’d hold a grudge too we’re Aries!) I was on the fence about Acasius dying I wasn’t sure if he would die or wouldn’t. I was convinced if he did it would’ve been an act of sacrifice, but I did not expect him to be murdered by a mirage of arrows nor did I expect him to be the first one out. I literally gasped, cupped my hand over my mouth & grabbed my Pedro besties shoulder for about 2 minutes just in utter shock.

Stand outs besides Denzel, Paul, Pedro & Joseph: Fred Hechinger. He needs more recognition, in general as an actor but also for this role.

He played Caracalla so beautifully deranged & sick that near his end I really felt sad for him. The way that the issues in his brain made him so fragile, afraid, & easy manipulated by Macrinus that he was driven to madness to murder & dismember his brother made me sad to think what would have become of him had Macrinus kept him alive.

Fred is one of those people I think is just starting out but someone we can potentially see big things from. I think he’s got a great future ahead of him & hope that this role helps land him some more supporting & even lead roles.

Yeah yeah yeah blah blah blah Burr what did you think about Joseph’s performance: Of course you’re going to say I’d biasedly only praise him because it’s him & im 😍 for’em & maybe you’re right. But if you asked me on a deeper level I’d say I thought he played this role wonderfully well.

He was deliciously devious but I could’ve used a bit more character development (while acknowledging he is NOT A LEAD in this film) I acknowledge why we got what we got. Opposite what you know (or might not know from Roman History) about Geta & Caracalla these two almost seem codependent on each other. They’re constantly with each other every time we see them.

When Caracalla flies into a rage when Acasius’ plan is revealed & he laughs it’s Geta who goes after him to stop him, screams for everyone to get out & talks him down. When Macrinus puts in Caracalla’s head that Geta is the one who is blaming him for the downfall of Rome & what would happen to Dondas, it’s Geta who is begging & pleaded for his brother to return from his madness not to spare his life. I think there’s a bit of a soft spot for Caracalla to make him appear more levelheaded & human than Caracalla.

His death scene; I went into this knowing he was going to die. If they were follow Roman History I was fine with it. I DID NOT THINK HE WAS GOING TO GET THIS THROAT SLIT / HACKED AT & I DID NOT THINK THAT THEY WOULD CUT HIS HEAD OFF!! I LEAPT OUT OF MY SEAT(don’t worry no one was behind me or to my left) MY HEART WAS RACING. SERIOUSLY IT WAS BEATING 136 BEATS PER MINUTE after this. Insane. I do think they also cut away too soon I would’ve liked to have watched him actually die 🥴🫠

Also… that prosthetic head… Ridley ALL that money you spent to make this movie as beautiful as you did, you couldn’t find someone to make that fake head look more like Joseph/Geta? Very disappointed in that.

HERE COMES THE BIAS: Joseph Quinn is just such a treat to watch. I love seeing him in these different roles. Each movie he’s done has been something different from the last. He pours his heart & soul into his characters & it’s reflected on film. He’s a beautiful actor.

Denzel said it best: “what the difference between evil & wicked? They were just awful but they did it with a smile.” Which is why my main tag for Geta is you’re awful I love you. I just love him.

So in conclusion: when you have a chance go check it out & circle back to me & we can scream about it if you want. I think 9/10 problems in this movie could have been solved if:

1. Someone got rid of Macrinus immediately

2. Geta & Caracalla agreed to step down & got adopted by Lucilla & Acasius & got to spend life with Lucius telling them how they were all “big brave strong boys” got hugged a whole lot & went to therapy - they need all these things

3. Everybody kissed each other 🤷🏼‍♀️

10/10 would recommend

I can’t wait to see it again on Saturday

#THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS #GLADIATOR II SPOILERS #joseph quinn #gladiator ii #emperor geta #My official review (that absolutely no one asked for)

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seyaryminamoto · 7 months ago

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Fic-to-Art #40: Chibis!

As I was going to have a rather busy month, and I did indeed, this time around the prompt in Patreon was for chibi art! I don't do this style nearly as often as I would like to, but it tends to be a bit easier to make art fast this way. Even so, it was a little bit challenging for the typical reasons: XIN LONG! That dragon always kicks my ass, as is known :') but it was a fun piece to work on for sure. It's always wonderful to revisit old times.

So we've got Sokka and Azula on a happy flight with Xin Long, well above the clouds... so that Ozai can't really see what's going on. This would reasonably be set around Part 2, ergo, Zhao can see what's happening and Ozai cannot because he's willfully blind to everything that isn't convenient for him x'D

At any rate! Hope you guys like this one. If you'd like to be part of the creation of these pieces, a $1 Patreon pledge is enough to make you eligible for prompt voting and suggestions, as well as reading Gladiator snippets 6 days before the next chapter is released!

#gladiator #sokkla #sokka #azula #xin long #zhao #ozai #It's a cute one I think #I should chibi more often for sure #I could've made it flatter but I like going the extra mile when I don't need to clearly (?)#I don't draw those two riding Xin as often as I could #it's nice to do it once in a while #but damn is he a challenge every time #may it become easier so I can do it more often #he is part of this team always <3

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heartlaboratory · 11 months ago

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A crude story:

It is belived that gladiatrices (female gladiators) actually existed, even if informations about them are scarce.

Flavia is a quite well known gladiatrix, specialised in using a long 2 handed sword. Usually, to have a proper defence while not having a shield, she wears a complete armour for her entire body or at least something to protect her most vulnerable part like the chest or the head but this time it won't be necessary. Matches are almost always a secret to participants but sometimes a gladiator can use their influence or money to corrupt officials and gain some knowledge on what is going to happen. She will face a criminal sentenced to the capital punishment in the arena, something not to worry about. In order to save energies for the next fight she decides to not wear her armour, not even the chest piece and utilize just a simple steal pauldron for her left guard.

Sadly for her the official manager this time made a mistake.

You are an experienced gladiatrix pikeman with years of fighting in the arena behind you. As soon as you entere the fighting area you notice something curious: your opponent, Flavia, that famous gladiatrix, is wearing just a water green coloured tunic (with her left breast exposed) and nothing more than a pauldron as an armour. Everybody knows that a swordsman is already in a disadvantage against a pikeman; to join the fight almost naked is simply stupid.

You're standing in front of her, the countdown is running and even if she looks quite calm on the outside there's a strange rhythmic and fast sound echoing almost inaudible nearby... is it her hammering heartbeat?

The fight starts with the public screaming of excitement. You start striking your strongest blows and just after a few blocks, fighting completely passive, she's already exhausted, gasping for air. You relize that inside she's in panic and you know that in few rounds she'll be completely out of stamina so you restart striking.

Each time you suspend your attack she looks more and more drained with the simple act of breathing becoming a burden.

Suddenly you change tactic: instead of keep going on with the attack till total exhaustion, you decide to break her guard with a flat attack using the rod of your pike. The blow is so strong dhe immediately lose her sword violently opening her arm, exposing her full chest.

Your "hunter instinct" immediately identify the target you have to hit to rapidly put an end to the fight: there, few inches above the line that connects her nipples, a little on her left, Flavia's heart is struggling to keep her alive. Her most vital organ is protected only by a thin layer of skin and bones and it's beating so fast it's almost visible on the surface.

Rapidly you direct your weapon to the point you identified. The point of the pike almost ignores the defences nature gaves to her body that obviously didnìt evolved to protect her from steel and sticks right in the center of her heart. She immediately throw open her eyes, her scream completely covered by the public's ovation.

For an instant you seem to feel her pulse propagating through the pike... you rotate the rod to infict more damage and then retract the weapon.

Even if being very strong and well trained, basically cut in half, her heart stops beating almost immediately with just few fibers trying desperately to keep her alive.

In total despair she alternatively looks at you and at the wound on her chest, totally aware of what has happened. She brings her right hand in between her breasts, where her chest should be vibrating like an earthquake over her hammering heart, without feeling any pulse she whispers: "my heart... you hit it" and collapses on the ground.

Each time you suspend your attack she looks more and more drained with the simple act of breathing becoming a burden.

For an instant you seem to feel her pulse propagating through the pike... you rotate the rod to infict more damage and then retract the weapon.

Even if being very strong and well trained, basically cut in half, her heart stops beating almost immediately with just few fibers trying desperately to keep her alive.

The public is in ecstasy, another champion has fallen on the arena.

#cardiophile #cardiophilia #female heartbeat #heartbeat #dark cardiophilia

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