#was it really necessary to hand her blade back like this?! Pulling her close and looking at her like this?!

[loweryourriskofheartdisease]

(The first thing came to mind about this scene that she was literally heavy breathing at the end 👀 ...)

[nomie-11]

Liam Mairi x Reader - Not Just a Flirt

masterlist!

The clash of swords reverberated through the training gym as Y/n expertly dodged another one of Liam’s swings, a smile on her face as she dipped out of the way before his sword could make contact with hers. 

“Nice swing,” She grinned, sweat glistening on her skin as she lunged forward, swinging her sword down to his right where he met it with a parry. “But not enough to hit me.” 

“Don’t get too cocky, Y/n,” Liam warned with a mischievous grin, easily sidestepping her attack. “You know, I’ve been holding back just to see how long it takes for you to start talking more than swinging.” 

Y/n laughed, her breath quickening as she spun, bringing her sword up to block his next attack. “I’d say you’ve been holding back since the first time we spared. What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll outclass you?” 

Liam’s grin widened, his blue eyes gleaming. “I don’t think you’re ready for that yet.” 

“Oh really?” she teased, her eyes flashing with challenge. She squng again, this time aiming for his midsection, but he parried and countered with a swipe that just barely grazed her side. 

“Close,” he said, voice low, as his blade hovered near her, but not quite touching. “But still not enough to take me down.” 

Y/n’s heart beat faster than she’d expected, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. They’d been sparring like this for weeks now—lighthearted, playful, filled with banter—but lately, the tension had been building between them, crackling in the air like electricity. 

She stepped back, wiping sweat from her brow, a knowing smirk crossing her face. “I don’t know, Liam. It’s like you’re getting slower with each round. Maybe I’m just that good.” 

Liam raised an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. “Are you sure it’s me slowing down, or are you just catching up?” 

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “Could be both, but I’m willing to bet I’m getting the better of you.” 

His grin softened, and for a moment, Y/n caught a glimpse of something else in his gaze. There was admiration in the way he watched her, a depth to his attention that made her stomach flutter unexpectedly. 

“Maybe you are,” he said, his voice quieter now, as if the teasing had dropped away entirely. “Maybe you’ve always been better than me, but I wasn’t willing to admit it.”

Y/n blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the shift in tone. She tried to play it off with a laugh, but there was an underlying current now—something real. Something that had grown between them over time, hiding behind their banter, beneath their playful rivalry. 

She raised her sword again, a grin tugging at her lips. “Is that so? Well, guess I’ll just have to keep proving it, won’t I?” 

Before she could strike, Liam stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a single fluid movement. His hand shot out to catch her wrist mid-swing, stopping her cold. His chest was so close to hers, and she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek, and for a second, neither of them moved. 

“Liam—” she started, but his hand gently but firmly pulled hers down, his touch lingering longer than necessary. 

He looked down at her hand, then back up into her eyes. “I think we both know what’s going on here, Y/n.” 

Her heart pounded in her chest. “And what exactly is that?’ 

Liam’s gaze softened, his expression unusually serious as his thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles. “This—us—this flirting, this… banter… it’s not just that anymore, is it?” 

Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He stepped even closer—if that was even possible—his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I think you do.” 

For a long, lingering moment, she couldn’t speak, his words echoing in her mind. Was it really just playful teasing anymore? Or was it somehting else? Something… deeper?

She swallowed hard, her heart thundering as she slowly realized what had been building between them. She didn’t have to say it out loud; the understanding passed between them in a single, undeniable glance. 

“I think… maybe you’re right,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a breath. 

A slow smile spread across Liam’s face—the same stupid, cocky smile she was used to— and he leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost over her lips. “Aren’t I always right?”

Before she could even retort, he closed the space between them, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was gentle at first, tentative, like testing the waters. But as soon as Y/n kissed him back, it deepend, the weight of everything they hadn’t said falling into the kiss. 

The sword in her hand dropped to the floor with a quiet clang, forgotten in the heat of the moment as she wrapped her arms around his neck and his hands came to rest on the small of her back, the playful flirting they’d shared over the weeks finally transforming into something real. 

When they pulled apart, breathless, Y/n smiled up at him, her voice teasing again. “I guess I’ll let you off easy for being right this time.” 

Liam laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Only because I’ve been waiting long enough to hear you admit it.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” she grinned, stepping out of his embrace, but her hand dropped to linger on his broad chest for just a moment longer than necessary. “But I’m still better than you, Liam.” 

He raised an eyebrow, a spark of challenge in his eyes again. “Are you sure about that?” 

Y/n giggled, feeling the warmth of his presence still linger in the air between them. “Maybe not. But I’m definitely catching up, I’ll be better than you with just a little bit more practice.” 

“Is that so?” Liam smirked, his tone teasing once more. “We’ll have to work on that, won’t we?” 

And just like that, the playful banter returned, but there was something different now—something deeper, something they both knew had shifted for good. 

-------

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

Taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo , @wolfbc97 , @heeseungthel0ml , @acourtofsmutandstarlight , @kylaisra

[chelseeebe]

there’s a honey

title based on there’s a honey - pale waves

i would give you my body but am i sure that you want me?

the one where eddie’s probably in love with you and yet you can’t even be seen in public with him.

kinda really angsty and sad i’m sorry

18+. mdni. smut. r is kinda very mean to poor eds here, maybe there’s a ltitle redemption/hope at the end.. who knows. modern au i guess.

eddie’s not supposed to be doing this, your number had been deleted and he knows he should’ve just let it ring out.

but he’d recognised those last three digits and hadn’t be able to help himself. at least this time he’d let it ring out a couple of times before picking up.

and now here he was, hand fisting your shirt, pulling it tight around your waist as he slams his hips against your doughy ass, the bed frame matching his pace as it slams against the wall.

he felt terrible.

chrissy was probably somewhere across campus waiting for him to text back while he was here, balls deep in the girl he’d sworn off last week.

they weren’t together, he’s not even sure if they’re talking but he knew he at least liked her. thought she was cute and not mean to him, but truthfully, she’s not you. she’s never going to be you.

and he’s not stupid enough to think that while you’re still in his life, they could ever be anything.

nobody else that he had ever had sex with had ever felt like this, not that it were a long list of people but still. he thinks that’s what keeps him coming crawling back every single time.

“oh my god,” you whine, arms collapsing underneath you as you fall into the mattress. moving back against him in unison, his palm coming to slap your ass, his handprint lingering.

he takes that as a sign to keep going, slamming into you with such ferocity that the sound echoes through the tiny room. the wooden bed frame close to smashing through the drywall.

“fuck,” he grunts, keeping his grip tight on your shirt, “you feel so fucking good,” unable to contain his babbles. breath becoming laboured as you squeeze around him.

your noises are muffled, face pressed into the blanket as you incoherently mumble what he thinks is his name. he can tell you’re close just by the way you’re breathing. he’s had years of experience, learnt every trick in the book to get you there before he was.

he lands another smack to your ass before pressing his chest to your back, lips sloppily connecting to the back of your neck, pressing you further into his rocking bed.

this new position allows him deeper, nudging himself against your sweet spot, just about able to keep his body hovering over yours.

“shit.. i’m close eds don’t stop,” you whine breathlessly but he already knows that. can feel himself teetering on the edge though it is absolutely necessary that you go first.

“i know.. i know,” he pants, sweaty body melting together as his pace falters, giving you everything he had for the last however many seconds.

your legs begin to shake from underneath him, fist balling his tousled bedsheets while his name falls from your lips like some kind of prayer. eddie will never tire of hearing you whine and cry his name nor the way you clench around him, turning to mush right before his eyes.

it’s the only time you’re ever soft, malleable even.

“that’s it,” he soothes, open mouth pressed to your clammy skin, hand finding your hand and resting his palm on your white knuckles as he topples over.

“fuck.. oh fuck,” he pants, slamming into your quivering cunt, painting your walls with his load, his forehead falling to the skin between your shoulder blades, head spinning a hundred miles an hour.

his arms let out, collapsing on top of you, breathing into the crook of your neck as he regains any sort of semblance of control. he eventually rolls off, outstretched on the tiny slither of bed as you come to.

“jesus,” he weeps, pulling his boxers back up around his waist, the elastic dealing a harsh snap to his skin.

you don’t honour his words with a reply, turning to lean back against the pillow, readjusting your t-shirt. you’d be off soon, he can sense it. not so long ago, you’d maybe stay the night but now it was out of the question.

eddie misses it dearly, maybe it was his fucked up way of playing make-believe for a little while but he missed it nonetheless.

“you going to tina’s party?” he asks from the pillow, eyes narrowed as you shift around.

“yeah i think so,” you shrug, readjusting your bra straps. you’re itching to leave, christ, you won’t even entertain him with a little pillow talk now.

“who’re you going with?”

you sigh, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, not willing to entertain this conversation, “i’m not sure yet,” grabbing your discarded clothes with a haste.

“why don’t we just go together?” he asks, knowing that it’ll probably push you over the edge. he can’t help himself, has never been able to understand why you’re so evasive about your relationship.

“oh my god eddie,” you frown before slipping into the connected bathroom, eddie jumps up from the bed, he’s not gonna let you run away from him again.

“oh so you are still doing this?” eddie asks, following you into the bathroom. he stands in the doorway, watching as you comb your fingers through your hair.

“doing what?”

“pretending that you don’t want me,” he pokes his finger into his temple, “playing your weird fucking game that nobody else understands,” he should stop there, but he doesn’t, “you know, nobody cares if you fuck the freak, we’re in college now, right? you’re the only one that gives a shit,” it’s truly cathartic to get it all out but he knows he’s going to regret it.

“what?” you mutter, speechless. confused why he’d just unloaded all of this onto you seemingly out of nowhere. spinning on your heel to face him, still half-dressed and disheveled.

“you heard me. and you know what? maybe i understood why you didn’t want anyone to know in high school but we’re adults now, you can’t pretend that you’re still worried about people finding out,” the scowl deep-set and unbudging on his lips.

“well i don’t want you eddie,” your face turning sour, jabbing your finger into his chest. “maybe you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that this- the sex, means more than it does, but it doesn’t,” you’re angry now, he’s got you riled up, exactly how he wanted, “i don’t care if you’re a nerd or you play board games or whatever the fuck it is that you do, i just don’t want anyone to know that i’m fucking you.”

your words are bitter, sharp even. slicing through his chest with harsh force. it’s not true, he knows that much. it’s no secret that you do care about that shit, you’ve made that abundantly clear over the years.

he just can’t understand why you still think anybody else cares. everybody’s too busy to give a shit about outdated cliques and who’s fucking who. it’s your worst-kept secret anyway, by the end of the night you were always hanging off of his arm or pulling him out of whichever bar you’d both coincidentally fallen into.

“you’re a liar,” eddie bites, levelling his eyes to yours, “even you don’t believe that,” he steps closer, brows knitted together as you rage on.

“fuck you,” you spit, deciding to do something he could’ve never expected. smashing your lips to his, it’s a short, passionate kiss, your fingers twisting into his shirt before he pushes you off.

“you’re fucked in the head,” he utters, voice full of sorrow. he pities you, truly. because he knows that if you’d just shake whatever weird self-doubt you still carried, that the two of you could be good together.

you push past him, pulling your jeans on as you grab the rest of your belongings. you’ve done this before, plenty of times. stormed out of here because eddie had asked you a question you didn’t like, only to call him up next weekend begging for his attention.

and he gave it, time and time again.

at your mercy, completely.

it’s the only way he’d known, not enough self-respect to end it completely. and even now, when it feels different, permanent somehow, he knows you’ll be back.

“don’t call me again,” eddie calls out, still lingering in the doorway, “i mean it, delete my number, block me, whatever. just don’t fucking come back,” his arms folded over his chest, like he meant it this time.

“oh i won’t, don’t worry,” turning to face him one last time, eyes full of spite before you disappear into the hallway, not for the last time.

-

unbelievably, the two of you had gone weeks of no-contact.

not even a drunken text to lure him over. nothing. nada. zilch.

eddie had taken that as a sign and asked chrissy if she wanted to go to the party together, at least this time he hadn’t been met with slamming doors and a screaming match.

she’d helped him do his makeup, dotted fake blood around his mouth and made them take a picture for her instagram, an incredibly foreign experience to what he’d ever had with you.

you’d taken selfies before, stupid ones that never saw the light of day. lounging in bed with a joint hanging out of your lips, refusing to ever send them to him incase he did something unthinkable. like post them or dare show anyone.

he shakes his head as if to rid his brain of the memory, trying to zone in on whatever bullshit chrissy’s friend heather was droning on about. he can’t focus, not when he knows you’re here.

see, it’s different when you’re apart. he can compartmentalise you, all of your memories, bury you in the back of his brain and enjoy the time he had with chrissy. it’s like you’ve infected him, weaving your web throughout his mind.

eddie’s phone buzzes in his pocket, pulling him out of the hole he’d burrowed himself into.

those familiar three digits flash across the screen.

bathroom 5 mins

he hasn’t even seen you yet, not that he had been keeping an eye out (he had). he shifts over from where he and chrissy sat squished on the couch, too engrossed in the conversation to have seen his phone.

“i’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” he smiles, guilt running through his veins, “get me another beer?” using that as an excuse to not do anything stupid.

though he knows himself, knows you too and most certainly knows that won’t happen.

“okay,” she grins, none the wiser, making him feel so much worse. her halloween costume was completely different to anything you’d ever worn, opting for a cute little rabbit as opposed to the ridiculously sexy getup you usually had on.

he wonders what you’ve chosen for this year, what low-cut, revealing outfit will have him on his knees, regretting his decisions this time around.

there are hoards of people everywhere, crowding the hall as he tries to shuffle through, not even bothering to knock as he reaches the bathroom.

he slips inside, quickly locking the door behind him as you sit perched against the sink. he was right. you’re in some tiny red dress, horns adorning your head. it’s fitting, really.

“so you didn’t block me,” you state, smug as shit as you lean against the white porcelain.

eddie just rolls his eyes, “is that all you wanted to say?” his hand already clamped around the door handle. it’s an empty threat, he’s not going without a fight, or a kiss, but probably both.

you bite down onto your bottom lip, the red lipstick already slightly smudged, “i missed you,” squeezing the words out, as if they physically hurt to verbalise.

“me? or my dick?”

“can’t it be both?” you smirk, pushing yourself from the sink to near him.

“not if you’re lying about the first one,” keeping his head stood tall, not letting his gaze wander, no matter how much he wanted to peer down your dress.

“i’m not,” placing your hand on his chest, looking at his lips rather than his eyes, “you didn’t miss me?”

you’re so.. so terrible. for him. as a person. whichever.

because he knows that you know he can’t resist. all you have to do is bat your eyelashes and speak softly to him and he’s right back at your feet. eddie wants to be stronger this time. to turn around and march out of here with his dignity still in tact.

but then your hand creeps lower, fingernails dragging down his unbuttoned shirt, leaving goosebumps in their wake and he knows he’s fallen for it again.

“of course i did,” he whispers, barely audible because even he doesn’t want to hear it.

“who’s that girl you’re with?” you question, fingers lingering at his belt buckle, gaze flickering between his eyes and his parched lips.

“chrissy,” he feels like a dick for even speaking her name right now.

“she’s cute. she your girlfriend now?” teasing him, drawing a line down to his crotch your finger.

his breath hitches in his throat, wetting his lips, “no.. she’s- uh,” stuttering when your palm meets his dick, already rising in his pants.

“she’s what?” grinning devilishly, hah.

“she’s waiting for me,” he chokes out, just about remembering that he’d asked her for another beer.

“why don’t you run along back to her then?” knowing full well that he wouldn’t. couldn’t even.

the words tangle in his throat, coming out in a squeak, “tell me- tell me that this is just sex and i will,” finding a spurt of courage from somewhere deep within.

you don’t reply, keeping a firm hand on his shifting jeans, “eddie,” more as a warning than anything else.

“or tell me you want me,” swallowing the lump lodged in his throat, ���and i’ll stay,” he’s pathetic, begging for an inch of your love, just a little of your heart.

“i can’t.. i can’t be who you want me to be,” you choke, dropping your palm from his zipper, hanging limp as you back away.

“why?” reeking of desperation, pitying himself more than you ever could, “i don’t.. i don’t understand,” the party bounces on outside and eddie can’t think of anything worse than having to go back out there with teary eyes and a tent in his jeans.

you turn away from him, keeping your palms pressed to the porcelain as you stare into the basin, “why don’t you just leave? i’m not going to have this conversation with you again,” point blank refusing to even look at him anymore.

eddie scoffs, swallowing his despair to make one last statement, “you’ve ruined my life,” choking back his cry before swinging the door open, elbowing his way through the crowd.

he pushes past drunk assholes until he reaches the front door, storming out onto the sidewalk, gasping as the fresh air hits his nose. all he wants is to scream, or puke or maybe both. he can feel the eyes of concerned partygoers as he stumbles out onto the street.

everything sounds weird, metallic like ringing through his ears until a familiar voice calls out from the doorway.

“eddie?”

[callsign-rogueone]

keep her safe - g.t.

Garrick Tavis x Marked!Pacifist!Reader  This one is for my fellow tired, chronic pain girls who just want their suffering to serve some purpose, and those who trust everyone they meet, even if they shouldn’t. wc: 4.7k -- the longest work I've ever put on this blog! second chapter is here! 🏷: spoilers for both Fourth Wing books (I’m currently 500 pages into Iron Flame, and y’all... 😭) people refer to you with she/her pronouns, canon-typical violence and torture, mentions of canon character death / death of a family member, bad coping mechanisms, Dain and his memory reading (I tried to make him more tolerable), one (1) reference to sex, I gave you a last name (Avan) and Garrick calls you angel as a pet name, because I refuse to use y/n. Your dragon's name is Tab.

Your stomach drops as your name is called for a challenge. “No weapons today.” Emeterrio adds. “I want you to work on your hand-to-hand.”

The pair of you unsheath nearly a dozen knives apiece, you handing yours to Bodhi. Disarmed, you extend a hand to the boy, as is the Tyrrish tradition before a friendly spar, but he doesn’t take it. No unmarked ones ever have.

He charges first, tangles a hand in your hair and pulls, jerking your head back, and the crowd of freshmen gasp, but you plant your feet and move with him, twisting your spine with practiced ease.

That gives you enough distance to kick a leg out at his right knee, hitting him squarely in the back of it. He releases you. Another swift kick to his legs has them sweeping out from under him. You dig a thumb into his collarbone, finding just the right spot, and he crumples, giving you a split second to wrap your arm around his throat.

He claws at your elbow with blunt nails, wasting breath as he attempts to rise to his feet, but you keep him pinned with your body weight, bearing down as hard as you can. He bucks, and your left boot skids against the mat. 

You bend your knee to brace yourself in a lunge. Your arm is starting to falter, he can feel the muscle straining around his jaw, but he’s tiring too — running out of air. If neither of you moves, he’s going to die.

“Enough,” Emeterrio commands.

You release him, extending a hand to pull him up, but he smacks it away and dives straight at you, clearly not done. “I’m not letting you off that easily, traitor.” 

You squeak in surprise, your back hitting the mat with a thud, and he lands another blow to your jaw. You struggle to take control back, gasping for breath from how hard you’d hit the floor.

He gathers your wrists into one hand easily, the other closing around your throat.

“You are going to die on this mat if you don’t do something, now. Use the failsafe.” 

There’s one dagger you hadn’t removed, that you’d won from Garrick in combat your first year, that he’d let you win, really, and promptly ordered that you never remove it from your reach, for situations like this.

He doesn’t have your legs pinned, so you kick out, catching him in the thigh, and his grip falters. You manage to wiggle one arm free to pull the blade from the inside of your jacket, rolling onto your side and holding the point millimeters away from his chest. “Yield,” you order, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You won’t kill me,” He snarls. “Everyone knows you’re all bark and no bite. That’s why you keep him around.”

You drag it down, just enough to tear his shirt. “Yield, or you’ll meet Malek today and you can explain to him what a cheating coward you are.” The words surprise you, but you fight to maintain the hardened look on your face, trying to convince him you’re serious. 

“Fine,” he spits, “I yield.”

Heart still pounding, you move to lean against the wall with the other marked ones, Bodhi handing you back your arsenal blade by blade. 

“She cheated!” Jason protests as soon as he’s standing again.

“She did what was necessary after you defied a direct order from a superior officer,” Emeterrio says narrowly.

Jason glowers, but returns to his friends without further argument. The rest of the pack takes note of their faces; they’re likely as conniving as him, and as liable to try to kill you, too.

“I’m gonna end that motherfucker,” Garrick mutters, checking you over for injuries as subtly as he can. He hands you a scrap of cloth and you wipe the blood from your nose, wincing, but grateful it isn’t broken.

“He’s been at this for months. One of these days, he’s going to kill you.” Bodhi says quietly, his gaze not moving from the next sparring pair.

“Why not kill him first?” Imogen asks. “You had a knife to his gut, you should have used it.”

“No.” You say firmly. “To kill anyone unmarked, especially an officer’s son, would confirm what everyone else in this army believes about Tyrs; that we are bloodthirsty animals.”

“Let them believe that,” she scoffs. “They’ll never change their mind.”

You sigh. Maybe she’s right.

You don’t see your friends for the next ten hours, when you’re finally excused for dinner.

“Where the hell have you been?” Bodhi asks. 

“Medical wing,” you rasp, sliding into a seat at the end of the bench. “Mending infantry with Carr.” 

“You should eat,” Liam says softly, pushing a plate toward you, but you shake your head no, every muscle in your body screaming. 

You look like your head is going to hit the table, your neck no longer able to hold it up. Bodhi pulls you into his side and you slump against him, boneless. “Her signet isn’t fully developed yet,” you hear him explain to Violet and Liam. “She’ll be okay. She just needs to rest.”

When you wake, it’s dark out, the room nearly pitch black, but you can tell it’s not yours — the furniture is arranged differently.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, gentle one,” Tab greets as soon as you’re cognizant. He can only be this dry about it because he knew you’d pull through. “If he makes you do that again, I’ll eat him.”

You laugh, wincing at the pain in your ribs. Your entire body aches. There’s no way you got up the three flights of stairs here yourself — you didn’t even have it in you to chew food at dinner.

There’s a comforting scent to the room — all the soap and detergent everyone uses is standard issue, but something about the sheets smells like Garrick. Your theory is confirmed when he walks through the door, the hallway light illuminating the hilts of the two swords strapped to his back. “If you want me in your bed, Gare, you just need to ask,” you say in greeting.

He laughs dryly, waving a hand to activate a small mage light. “The damage can’t be too bad if you’re already cracking jokes.”

“I missed physics, didn’t I? Did you carry me up here?”

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about. You can copy Violet’s notes, they’re way better than mine.” He strips some of the weapons off, shedding his flight jacket along with them. It’s something you’ve seen many times before, but it never fails to make your heart flutter.

He sits on the edge of the bed, a gentle hand moving up to lay against your cheek. “And I did carry you. I’d do anything for you, angel. It scares me sometimes.”

He brushes a piece of hair from your face. You’d been freezing cold when you fell asleep, so he’d draped you with every blanket he owned before leaving, and it seems to have worked — your skin is pleasantly warm against his hand.

“Anything, hm?” You ask, a lazy smile on your face. 

His eyes sparkle at the mischief in your tone, but he’s responsible enough to think before he acts. “Not until you’ve recovered,” he says sternly. 

You yawn. “D’you have section leader stuff to do tonight?”

“That’s what executive officers are for.”

You crack an eye to look at him in disapproval. “Gare, you can’t skip duty. Melgren will have your head.”

He sighs. “Fine. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t. Your bed is more comfortable than mine anyway.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, tugging the jacket back on and strapping in the swords.

/////////

Someone is standing in front of your yoga mat. Dain. “No bodyguard today?” He asks.

You’re silent, your gaze flickering between him and the longsword by your side, the one Garrick had insisted you take with you everywhere when he wasn’t there to protect you.

“You may find this hard to believe, but I don’t want to kill you.” He says with a sigh. “I just need to-”

“Quit talking and join me, or leave.” You interrupt, settling into a deeper stretch, eyes closing as you gesture to the floor next to you with an open hand. By the grace of Amari, Carr had given you enough time off to recover, but he’ll likely be making you work another shift in the infirmary today. This will be your only pocket of calm for the next twelve hours. You aren’t going to skip it for Dain, of all people.

He chooses the first option, surprising you as he drags a mat over beside yours, attempting to copy your movements. “Do you really do this every day?” He asks, uncomfortable.

“Even a soldier must take time to be at peace. Clear your mind. Whatever you’re thinking about is so loud it’s distracting.”

He startles, his foot slipping on the mat.

“No, my signet is not mind-reading.” You say, eyes still closed, though there’s an amused look on your face. “Relax. You’re killing the air in here with that nervous energy.”

For the next five minutes, you both stretch in total silence. “Now,” you decide, bringing your arms back to your body, focusing on your breathing, “what was so important that you needed to find me here?”

He cuts straight to it. “Varrish wants me to… practice on you. He thinks you’re hiding something, that all of you are.” He doesn’t need to specify who he means by you. 

You don’t seem to react to the information, instead looking at him with curiosity. “How do you feel about your signet?” 

He blinks. Nobody’s ever asked him that before. “I don’t know.” He says quietly. You shift again, but he doesn’t follow you, folding his legs underneath him instead. Your silence presses him to speak, needing to fill the air. “I used to think it was cool, but now… now I’m wondering if it’s really a gift at all.”

“What do you see when you view a memory like that? Are you living it through their eyes, or from above, watching it unfold? How far back can you see?”

“Through their eyes.” He answers, throat dry. Why is he telling you this? “A day, maybe two. It depends. Varrish wants me to learn to push it farther.”

You weigh the consequences. If he’s being honest, he won’t see anything confidential — at worst, a gathering of more than three marked ones to exercise, but is he really petty enough to tell Varrish about that, when he’s giving you a warning in the first place?

“Okay.” You say, opening your eyes. Better it be you than one of the kids who can’t shield their memories yet, or Garrick or Bodhi, who would rip him limb from limb if he tried to touch them.

“What?”

“I’m going to go about my day now as if this conversation never happened,” you say, looking him in the eye, unflinching, “and you’re going to do what you have to do to satisfy Varrish’s demands — with me and only me. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” he stammers, shocked that you’re letting him do this.

“Good.” You pick up the longsword, strapping it back in along your spine. “Dain?” You call over your shoulder. “I won’t make it easy for you.” You say, and he knows that’s a promise.

“That was an incredibly stupid decision, gentle one. A noble decision, but stupid nonetheless.” Tab speaks into your mind on the way back up to your room. “You cannot always assume everyone has good intentions. It would have been your downfall by now, if not for your mate’s protection.”

“Stop calling Garrick my mate. That’s weird.” You deflect, not wanting to unpack his earlier words.

“Forgive me. Dragons do not have a word for a relationship as trivial as a boyfriend.”

You build up a mental wall like Xaden had taught you, ending the argument. 

When Varrish calls you into his office that afternoon, you already know what it’s for. “Take a seat,” he says with a smile that you know isn’t meant to be friendly.

He sees the way your eyes immediately narrow at the sight of Dain — everyone knows how the quadrant’s golden boy feels about marked ones, and how you feel about him. You’re going to be doing some very good acting today.

The door closes and locks behind you, and your stomach flips as you feel the sound shield form and press up against the office walls. There’s no escape, and no screaming for help, but you know what you’ve walked into. You signed up for it this morning.

“To what do I owe this meeting, Major?” You ask respectfully, lowering yourself into the chair beside Dain.

“Professor Carr has made me aware that both of your signets have been slow to develop. We’re going to spend your leisure time today practicing, in hopes that you will finally improve.” A very convincing lie, you’ll admit. If Dain hadn’t come to you this morning, you might have believed it. “No objections?” He asks, waiting for you to protest.

“No, sir.” You say calmly, Dain answering the same a beat behind you.

“Good. Aetos, you first.”

It takes every ounce of self control not to squirm as Dain stands, stepping toward you. You lift your chin, closing your eyes -- a gesture of consent small enough to fly under the Vice Commandant’s radar.

You may be letting him try, but you’d told him this wouldn’t be easy. You block him out completely, raising your mental shield and barring the gates.

“What do you see?” Varrish asks.

Dain doesn’t answer. He does not push, does not attempt to kick the door down or dig below the foundation. He stands outside, waiting for you to give him something. 

The crack of his nose breaking has your eyes flying open, the coppery scent of blood starting to fill the room immediately as he staggers back into his chair.

“Your turn, Avan."

You stand, laying a gentle hand on Dain’s jaw to tilt it up, stopping the blood from pouring down his shirt. 

He looks up at you, stunned, but lets you touch the broken cartilage with your fingertips, and moments later it feels like nothing ever happened. It’s mind-bending.

“Very good. Aetos, try again. What was she doing this morning?”

Dain stands, angling his body between yours and Varrish’s so that the Major can’t see the apology he mouths before his hands touch your forehead. Whether he can see his conversation with you in the gym is unclear. He lies through his teeth either way. “She was alone,” he answers, “on a run to the flight field and back.” 

“And then?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes not leaving yours. “A shower, breakfast. Eggs. An apple. Toast. She sat with Tavis and two other marked ones.” He leaves out Violet from the group, not wanting to implicate her. Interesting. 

That much is true, but it’s part of your everyday routine — he could have easily gleaned that from watching you across the mess hall. Is he still locked out?

Varrish stands, rounding the corner of his desk. “Let’s make this a little harder, shall we?”

Dain screams as a dagger pierces his arm, thrashing in his chair. Varrish twists the blade as he pulls it out, letting Dain’s blood drip to the floor. This is why he needed the sound shield.

Your eyes widen, and the adrenaline has you leaping to your feet to fix it. You press a hand into the wound, apologizing when he winces. It takes you longer than it should for the muscle to repair itself.

“You care more about him than I thought.” Varrish muses.

You turn to him, anger flickering in your chest. “It is my moral obligation to help the wounded.”

He tuts. “You would have made an excellent healer, had your parents not committed high treason. Aetos, again. Find something older.”

Dain trembles as he stands, and you take pity on him. You push an older memory forward, a happy one, remembering it as vividly as you can.

You watch together as you sprint through the forest, stopping dead in your tracks as you see two cadets fighting. The one losing is a smaller girl in your class whose name Dain can’t remember, a tall, muscled boy towering over her, sword ready to strike.

You spring forward, catching him by surprise and effectively disarming him, and he chooses to abandon the sword and run rather than fight the both of you. You extend a hand to pull the girl to her feet and her eyes widen further, staring up not at you, but behind you.

You feel a burst of heat against your back — not hot enough to be fire. Steam. You bow your head in deference, turning slowly to give the girl time to run… And the dragon bows back. What the fuck?

“You did not kill the boy.” It says directly into your mind.

“I did not.” You answer aloud, not sure if humans can do that.

“Have you ever killed before, gentle one?”

“I haven’t.” Should you be embarrassed? Dragons are violent, surely they would see this as a sign of weakness.

“Not all of us.”

“Holy shit, you can read my mind.”

The girl laughs in disbelief, and you realize you’ve just bonded a dragon.

“In time you’ll learn to control that. But your friend needs to get moving, and so do we.”

You wish her luck before scaling the leg of your dragon and taking a seat.

“Hold on.”

You shriek in happiness like a child as he jumps up, and seconds later you’re thousands of feet in the air, looking down at Basgiath and the valley below. When you return to the flight field, you find Garrick there with a giant brown Scorpiontail, bloodied but happy as he stands next to Xaden and the biggest blue daggertail you’ve ever seen. You pull them both into a hug, just grateful they’re alive.

“Careful, angel,” Garrick warns, grinning into your hair, “we just might make it out of here.”

You cut Dain off there, yanking back the memory before slamming your shields back up. He can have that moment, but only that moment.

“Threshing,” Dain says. Thank the gods. “She helped another cadet who was being attacked. That’s why Tab chose her, for her kindness.”

You both look at Varrish for further instruction. Your shields have been weakening with every injury you repair, but so have Dain’s abilities. You don’t know how many more rounds either of you can take. 

“I think that’s enough for today,” He says, sounding pleased. “I’ll see you again on Wednesday morning, to check your progress. You’re dismissed.”

The sound shield dissipates, the door unlocking. The only evidence is Dain’s blood, smeared across his face and arms, drying on the floor and under your nails. You commit the sight to memory, tucking it into the same folder that holds the death of your parents, and slam the drawer shut.

It takes you five minutes to scrub the blood out of the cracks in your palms and from under your nails. Your fingertips are wrinkled when you step into the gym.

“Why did Tab tell Chradh that you were called into Varrish’s office with Aetos?” Garrick asks, remarkably calm as he toys with one of his smaller daggers.

“Because he’s a meddling mother hen.” You answer, avoiding the question.

“Watch it.”  Tab warns. “Tell him the truth, or we will.”

You know he’s not bluffing. “He wanted us to practice our signets on each other.”

“Dain practiced his signet, his memory-reading signet, on you?” He asks, already simmering with anger.

“This morning, he came to me to warn me about Varrish’s plan, and I told him it was okay. I used my shields, and I only showed him what I wanted to. We’re supposed to do it again Wednesday.”

Your eyes communicate something else you won’t say aloud, not in front of everyone, and not when you know Dain might be able to see this conversation in two days. I did this to take the heat off of the others. You know I was the safest choice.

Garrick sighs. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d like to state for the record that I hate this plan. Literally everything about it. Except for Aetos being stabbed, maybe.” Of course Chradh told him about that. He’d have been delighted by the news, despising both him and Cath.

You give him a look.

“Okay, fine. I take that back.”

He doesn’t. 

By Wednesday, the pain in the bridge of your nose is gone, but your arm is still tender where Dain had been stabbed. Bodhi joins you in the gym, stretching with you for a few minutes before he settles into a plank at your side, his eyes never leaving the door.

Dain does not make an appearance at breakfast, notably absent from the leadership table.

Garrick excuses himself as soon as he sees you stand with your tray, catching you by the doors. “Remember that you’re stronger than both of them in all the ways that matter,” he says quietly. “I’ll find you as soon as you’re done.” You both tap your chest twice before parting ways, as has been your tradition for years -- a reminder that even though you’re leaving, you still hold the other in your heart.

Each step up to Varrish’s office is another reminder of what’s to come when you reach the top. “Cadet Avan,” he greets with another sickening smile. “Just in time. We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Your jaw drops at the sight of Dain slumped into the same chair as last time, bloodied and exhausted.

“Nothing fatal,” Varrish reassures. “Not if you act quickly. Go ahead, get started.”

The Vice Commandant’s words have you on edge as you assess him, looking for gaping wounds or broken bones. Dain winces as your hands move over his ribs, and you whisper an apology, pressing in deeper. When your chest starts to ache, you know it’s time to move on. You mend two broken ribs, dissolve a purple bruise on his arm, and fix a split lip, but Dain still hasn’t woken up.

You turn back to Varrish. “One left,” he says. “Use your head.”

Oh, gods. He’d given Dain a concussion, because he knows the migraine it’ll give you will make it harder to shield. You cradle the second-year’s head in your hands, breathing out deeply as you transfer the pain from his body to yours, healing the bruised tissue. Dain blinks himself awake as you stumble, the room suddenly spinning.

“Well done. Aetos?”

You fumble for the arms of your chair, vision blurring at the edges, but you manage to sit back down.

“Say the word, and I get your mate,” Tab offers. He can probably feel your disorientation, concerned you won’t be able to block Dain out in this state.

“No,” you rasp back. “If he shows up, Varrish will have us practice on him instead.”

 You need to pick another memory to satisfy Varrish, something older, but your brain isn’t firing on all cylinders. Dain gives you a moment to gather yourself, a small gesture of mercy.

“A moment of pure happiness,” Tab suggests. “Something with the wingleader and your mate.”

You flip back in the book of your life, nearly all the way to the beginning, opening it to the right page to give to Dain and slipping it under the gate with a nod of your head — you’re ready.

Dain’s hands are warm against your freezing cheeks. A boy no older than five that he recognizes as Garrick crouches under a desk across the room, holding a finger to his lips. 

“Wherever could those children possibly be?” Someone muses aloud, and you fight laughter as the voice grows closer, thinking it amusing that this adult has no idea you’re hiding in the curtains.

Footsteps retreat, and Garrick signals for you to move. You make it down the hallway before you see someone searching — presumably whatever parent you’d convinced to play with you. Small hands tug you both behind a plush velvet couch. Xaden. 

You press yourselves up against it, trying to be as quiet as possible, watching as a shadow forms on the wall in front of you, then a head peers over the back of the couch — that must be your father. He looks just like you, has the same warm smile.

“One more, and then I need to get back to work,” He says, already moving to cover his eyes and starting to count to one hundred. You each run off in a different direction, and the scene fades there.

“A childhood memory,” Dain says. “Playing hide and seek in her father’s office with Riorson and Tavis.”

Not good enough for Varrish. “Give me something I can use,” he snarls, a Freudian slip, but nothing either of you hadn’t known already. 

You flip forward in the book, settling on a page you never look at, that you can’t bear to, but that Varrish will revel in. You rip it out, sliding it under the gate. “Bad,” you whisper, the only warning you can manage.

Dain nods in permission, ready to watch whatever memory you’ve pushed forward.

Someone presses a small stone into your hand, an intricate overlap of shapes and lines engraved on one side, the other perfectly smooth.

“Do not put it down, even for a moment,” your father says. He’s aged between now and the last memory, starting to go gray at his temples. “Keep it in your hand until the end. It will protect you when we can’t.”

He looks next to Garrick. “She is everything good about the world.” He says quietly. “Take care of her.”

Garrick promises he will, and your father pulls you into one last embrace before he leaves. Tears blur your vision, Garrick pulling you close. “It’ll be okay,” he soothes. “They’ll come back.”

Hours pass that Dain can’t see, because you don’t remember them. 

There’s an ache in your palm from clutching the stone so hard, the rounded corners digging into your skin. Garrick takes your free hand in his, interlocking your fingers. Then there’s only screaming and fire and rage, heat burning up your arm as it’s marked with inky swirls. Until the end, your father had said. This must have been what he meant.

“Her parents’ execution,” Dain says, a note of genuine hurt in his voice. “They gave each child a runestone before they left, as protection.”

Varrish’s eyes rake over to you. He leans forward, yanking on the leather cord that disappears into the neck of your shirt hard enough to pull your body with it. “A runestone like this one?”

“Yes,” you answer before Dain can, saving him the lie. You shut your eyes, wincing as the cold edge of a knife brushes against your neck and the cord breaks, a single drop of warm blood running down your collarbone. You don’t protest, you can’t, your mind still hazy and eyes wet with tears from reliving the memory with Dain.

“That will be all.” Varrish dismisses. He doesn’t make an appointment for you to come back. He has what he needs.

You stand, relying on your knowledge of the office’s layout to navigate your way forward until the door closes behind you.

“I’m so sorry,” Dain breathes once you’re down the hall far enough to avoid being heard. “If I had known,”

“It’s okay. The rune is long dead, and he has no idea how to recreate it. I’m just glad he didn’t hurt you again.” You blink, trying to clear your head. How are you going to get down all these stairs? You can hardly see.

“Here,” he says quietly, extending a hand. You take it, letting him loop an arm over his shoulders — your right, the one that Varrish hadn’t bruised black and blue on Dain — and lead you one step at a time.

You’re halfway down when you hear heavy footsteps running up the stairs. Garrick. He’d promised he’d find you when you were done. He doesn’t spare a glance at Dain, gathering you into his arms and apologizing when he puts pressure on your not-broken ribs.

Dain watches as the older boy carries you down the rest of the stairs, murmuring reassurances to you all the while. Your father’s words echo in his mind. “Take care of her.”

Garrick Tavis is a man of his word.

[houserautha]

Pain & Pleasure

Summary: Based off this ask. Your husband only wants to protect you.

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x f!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: MDNI. Most of my warnings fall under the prompts given for Fangtober. Also, spanking. In the wise words of Cloud Guy, “A little slappy, make daddy happy.”

A/N: This is my submission for @lady-phasma’s Fangtober!! I kept writing and rewriting until I saw this ask and then was inspired. Prompts: blood, ejaculation, bondage, dominance, S&M, some humiliation and discipline, and tears.

The spice-laden wine goes straight to your head, blurring the harsh edges of the Harkonnen party. It's certainly more tolerable this way. You float through the throng of courtiers as if pulled along by a slow moving current, smiling and offering platitudes when necessary.

Distantly, you're aware of Feyd's eyes on you.

They never really leave — a constant, watchful presence that burns between the blades of your shoulders. He likes to keep you within view, preside over every interaction and conversation. And when you complain about this, he always tells you, "You are my jewel. You do not leave precious treasure unguarded."

Precious treasure, you muse, sipping the dredges of your drink.

If you tried hard enough you would surely find Feyd in the crowd, dark gaze trained on you. He would be charming the courtiers all while keeping you in his sights, somehow straddling the line between host and careful guard. You, on the other hand, struggle with the act of entertaining your guests. Not from lack of trying.

And thus, when one of the courtiers presses his hand to your lower back as he passes by, you don't threaten to cut it off. Hopefully the smile on your face doesn't resemble a grimace. The courtier, a man dressed in a trim suit, removes his hand but does not leave.

"na-Baroness," he says, feigning surprise. He's a terrible actor. "I didn't realize it was you. My humble apologies."

"You're forgiven."

Why do all of your smiles feel as if you're baring your teeth?

"May I get you another drink?" The man asks.

Before letting you answer, he waves down one of the servants and thrusts another glass into your hand. His fingers graze yours in the process, in such a fashion that cannot be mistaken as an accident. There's no spark of attraction, no pinch of arousal in your lower belly that a touch from your husband would usually incite, but you let this go too. Not only because you need to develop repertoire with the courtiers, because usually people are too frightened to speak to you.

This man might be a brash idiot but at least he doesn’t shy away from you.

"You look magnificent," the man says, his mouth close to your ear. The music isn't really that loud, and you recognize this as a ploy to get closer to you. "The na-Baron is a fortunate man indeed."

You swirl the spice-wine coyly. "That's what I tell him."

“You shouldn’t need to remind him.”

“Mm. Why’s that?”

"He should know to take care of such a beautiful woman, lest someone start to covet her." He adds boldly, "There are more things a man can offer you than prestige and wealth."

"And what would that be?" You peer up at him from beneath your lashes.

Feyd has given you quite literally anything you could ask for — a home, a protector, an equal. And more orgasms than you can count, which you understand is what this man before you is implying the na-Baron cannot provide.

The man steps closer to you. "I would be more than willing to show you, na-Baroness, if you would let me."

“You are very bold," you counter.

“Among other things.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

"Don't be." He flashes you a winning smile that does absolutely nothing to you. You might as well have been speaking to a rotting corpse. "You can ask me anything and I will answer as truthfully as I can."

You study him, considering, tapping your nails on the stem of your glass. "Do you truly think I will stray from my husband for you?"

"Yes," he says. "Next."

"Do you truly think you can best him in pursuit of my...pleasures?"

"If you come with me, you might answer that question yourself," the man says in way of reply, hand lingering over your elbow.

"Go with you where?"

Feyd appears nonchalantly at your side. A part of you sighs in relief, as it always does when you're together. But there's an underlying current of danger in his voice, double-edged and pointed at both you and this courtier, who apparently does not sense it or does not care.

"I was going to let her choose," the man answers coolly.

Feyd's jaw feathers. "How quaint."

"Excuse me?" The man's brow furrows and you almost feel bad for him, this stupid, arrogant courtier.

"My wife goes where I tell her. She quite likes a...strong hand." Feyd curls a possessive hand at your waist and, without breaking eye contact with the man, orders, "Go to our room and kneel on the bed, naked, and wait for me to join you."

Desire pulses deep within you. You shoot the man an apologetic, slightly triumphant look, knowing that his demise is eminent, and disappear into the crowd. Anticipation carries you all of the way to your shared quarters with the na-Baron, where you undress and then arrange yourself at the foot of the bed. An inordinate amount of time passes before the door finally opens and your husband steps through it, a phantom in the shadows.

Feyd prowls toward you. Only once he's in reach of the light do you realize that his hands, the front of his tunic, are drenched in blood.

You breathe out, "You killed him."

Not that you're shocked, necessarily; it's the quantity of blood that disturbs you, painting him in a study of crimson. Goosebumps pimple over your skin.

Feyd does not deign you with a response.

When he comes to you, you flinch away reflexively from his blooded hands. A growl rips from his chest and you don't even have time to regret your decision when he's grabbing you by the jaw and squeezing. "You did this to him."

"I didn't make him do anything," you hiss. Feyd's grip tightens. The pressure becomes nearly too much for you to handle, fingers digging into your flesh, pouting your lips.

"You didn't stop him either, did you?" Feyd looms dangerously close to you, fury radiating off him. The brunt of his anger comes when he releases you, roughly shoving you away.

You're then aware, vaguely, that the man's blood is now smeared on your face in the shape of your husband's hand, inviting a coppery smell that invades your senses and churns your stomach. The weight of Feyd dips the mattress as he sits down then pats his thigh. "Lie down on my lap."

You hesitate. Another stupid, reckless decision.

Feyd grabs the hair at the base of your skull. A squeal escapes you as he forces you down over his knees, exposing you entirely to him. Liquid embarrassment floods over you and a protest begins to form on your tongue — you are the na-Baroness, after all, not a child to be ridiculed.

Like he can hear this particular train of thought, Feyd snatches your wrists with one hand and secures them behind your back. When he leans in, discomfort sprouts from the awkward position, your back bowing to keep your arms from snapping. "If you're going to act like a whore, then I'm going to treat you as one. Do you understand?"

“Y-Yes.”

“Yes, who?”

Your face burns. “Yes, na-Baron.”

“Good girl.”

You’re perched over his lap now, ass up, cunt exposed to the coolness of the room. It’s shameful how wet you already are. There’s a moment of jostling as Feyd removes his belt and snakes it over your wrists to keep you bound.

Now that both of his hands are free, Feyd drags his fingers through your slick folds. He continues up, up, up, circling your wetness over the tight ring of muscles of your ass. Your breath hitches as he then palms one cheek and gives it an experimental squeeze.

A dull roar consumes your mind. The inevitability of his punishment ratchets —

White-hot pain explodes over the surface of your ass. You gasp but there’s barely any time to recover before he’s striking you again, open-palmed, the contact of skin on skin ringing out. A sob builds in your throat. No matter how you tense or prepare, his hand collides with your backside in a sear of blinding heat.

And, worst of all, your traitorous cunt clenches with anticipation.

Feyd ceases long enough to snarl in your ear, “I know what men think when they look at you. Look at my wife.”

His palm cracks against you. You try to jerk away but he keeps you in place. Beneath you, his hardening cock nudges against your belly.

“I know —” smack, “—what—” smack, “—men—” smack, “are capable of.”

Tears spring to your eyes. The memory of his hand prickles as you attempt to collect yourself, only to yowl out as he spanks you again. The repeated action robs you of any thought or rationality, any plea that you might be able to summon. And he seems to be enjoying it as much as you are, bucking his hips as you thrash and squirm. Everything burns.

Pain lances through you, fiery and sharp. You feel your backside blistering from his touch, feel the welts raise. And you’re completely helpless to stop this. The leather of his belt bites into your wrists, scrapes against you as you writhe, trying to escape his hand while also dripping wet at the promise of being dealt another strike.

“It’s for your own good, you know,” Feyd murmurs almost lovingly, large hand brushing over your ass. The reprieve has you sputtering and gasping for air, aware that your front — and likely your backside — is covered with sticky, dried blood. Feyd strokes your hair as you whimper. “I just want to protect you, jewel.”

The sentiment is punctuated by another bone-rattling smack. You howl out and in reply he snaps his hips up, grinding into you.

“And that’s why I have to punish you.” He cracks his hand down again. There’s a tremor of emotion in his voice. “So I can protect you.”

Feyd spanks you again and again until you’re freely sobbing. He’s managed to unravel you completely, cast you adrift in a sea of pleasure and pain. You barely know who you are anymore, wave after wave of burning heat making you somehow both deliriously empty and wanting.

“You are mine, jewel,” he rasps finally.

“I-I am yours, na-Baron.”

He murmurs his approval, setting to work removing his pants. “Now get up and take this cock.”

You wince. “Feyd, I —”

“You can and you will.”

He wrenches you up by your hair again, tossing you to the side as he rises to his feet. You fall awkwardly to your side and Feyd takes advantage of your stumble, whipping you around so that your front is now pressed to the mattress. Another bought of embarrassment grips you as you realize how easily it will be for him to see your arousal — how ruined you must look, skin flaring with welts and bruises and blood.

Feyd keeps your head pushed against the mattress as he forces his cock inside you. He buries himself deeply without giving you time to adjust, and with your arms bound behind your back you can do nothing but squirm.

Saliva gathers in the corners of your mouth. You struggle to breathe against the mattress, breathe through the combined waves of pain and pleasure. Each snap of his hips sends a jolt through you as he comes in contact with your ass, reigniting the burn. He ruts into you as if he knows this and your whole body jostles with his thrusts, growing more fervent as you choke out sob after sob, muffled into the bed.

“Maybe next time you’ll remember to be a good wife,” Feyd all but seethes.

He claws his hands over your hips and ass, fingers digging into the reddened flesh. Blood and your own juices mingle, filling the air with wet noises — sending you over the edge with the reminder of you and the courtier’s punishments.

The mattress muffles your scream as you come, a loud, cathartic release. Feyd bucks into you until you’ve finished, and even then, wringing out every drop of your pleasure until he reaches the peak of his own. He pulls out at the last second, deriving you of his cum, and you howl. Warm splashes of his seed spill on your ass, agitating the already raw skin, and your cunt clenches in displeasure of not being filled.

Feyd lingers in you until his cock softens and slips out. You’re sniveling and crying still as he disappears from behind you — you’re half afraid he’s going to come back and continue his punishment.

But when he returns, it’s to gently wipe away the mess of blood and cum with a towel, taking precaution not to hurt you more than he already did. His hands replace the towel next, massaging a soothing balm over each cheek. You’re still sniffing by the time he unties the belt from your wrists and pulls you further up onto the bed, cradling you against himself.

“Shh, now, jewel,” he breathes into your hair. “I will always keep you safe.”

[just-aake]

Boundless Devotion - Part I

Pairing: princess!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: MedievalAU. Natasha is the eldest princess of the Romanov Kingdom. As the time of her coronation approaches, she is suddenly forced to make a decision – either find herself a partner or her parents will choose one for her.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Warnings: slight angst

Words: 1991

In the training yard of the castle, the sound of clashing steel fills the air as the Captain of the Royal Guard, Steve Rogers, faces off against the eldest princess and heir to the Romanov kingdom, Princess Natasha. 

The sun shines on the area as the two circle each other, carefully watching the other’s movement.

Surrounding them, some of the castle’s staff and the other knights pause in their activities to watch the match with anticipation. 

The captain lunges forward first, his polished sword gleaming in the sunlight. With a swift flourish, he aims a diagonal strike at her midsection.

In response, Natasha sidesteps the attack gracefully, her own blade moving smoothly to parry his sword.

The crowd watches with rapt attention as Steve continues to press forward with additional powerful swings, but the princess evades every strike, stepping as if she were dancing.

On a particularly powerful thrust, Natasha ducks under his attack, extending her arm to him. Then with a twist of her wrist, she expertly hooks her blade around his sword’s hilt and applies pressure. Using his momentum against him, she jerks the sword out of his grasp, sending it spinning through the air. 

The blade lands with a clatter several feet away.

Then in a swift and uninterrupted motion, she hooks her leg around the back of his knee, sweeping it out from under him. 

Her sword points at the captain’s chest in victory, ending the battle, as cheers and applause erupt around them.

With a quick twirl, Natasha holds her sword behind her before extending her hand to the captain. Steve gives her a grateful smile and takes her hand as she pulls him to his feet. 

He dusts himself off before giving her an exasperated look.

“Did you really need to show me up in front of my knights?”

Natasha gives him a smirk, replying.

“Well, I have to keep you humble.” 

Captain Steve Rogers was the one who trained her and her younger sister, Yelena, ever since they were little. Years later, they have both mastered their sword and martial arts skills, becoming one of the best in the kingdom.

Glancing around, Steve gives a stern look to the surrounding knights who rush to resume their training. When he turns back to Natasha, he nods in the distance.

“Looks like you have some guests, your Highness.”

Natasha brushes her hair out of her face, turning to look at the directed area.

At the edge of the training yard, she finds you standing alongside another noble, Lady Kate Bishop. 

Kate waves excitedly at her in greeting, and the golden retriever next to her also jumps in place, matching his owner’s energy.

Visits to the castle from the two of you were not surprising. With both of your noble families having prominent positions in the kingdom, it was natural that the four of you, including Yelena, would end up forming close bonds, having known each other since you were children.

Kate is Yelena’s closest friend while you are hers.

Well, you two used to be close.

However, ever since the incident last year on the night of her birthday, you’ve kept your distance from her, only seeing or talking to her when necessary. 

Even now, Natasha can see that the only thing holding you in place is Kate’s interlocked arm in yours.

Your body is turned towards the castle, and your eyes are looking everywhere else but her.

Natasha sheaths her sword at her side and walks over to the two of you. She is knocked back slightly when the golden retriever leaps at her in greeting, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

Natasha chuckles and pets his head, “Well, hello to you too, Lucky.”

Kate’s excited energy follows, moving closer, which in turn pulls you forward also. 

“That was amazing! You have to teach me that move!”

Natasha releases the dog with a final scratch before letting him return to his owner’s side. 

“I’m sure Yelena can show it to you the next time you two practice,” she tells her.

Kate nods to herself, reminding herself to ask the younger princess about it later.

Natasha turns to you, giving you a hopeful smile.

“How have you been, Y/n?”

You give her a slight bow in acknowledgment, your eyes still averted from hers.

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking, princess.”

Natasha's smile drops slightly at your neutral response. 

So far, her interactions with you have been like this, formal and distant, unlike the usual banter and casual teasing that typically characterizes your friendship.

Before she can ask anything further, Natasha notices a slight movement in your arm as you discreetly tug Kate, trying to get her attention. 

Kate turns to look at you in question and sees your pointed stare as you tilt your head subtly towards the castle.

Her mouth opens in realization, and she turns to Natasha apologetically.

“Oh, that’s right! I’m sorry, Natasha, but we have to get going. Y/n has a meeting with the queen.”

You are practically dragging her away as she finishes talking, offering Natasha a tight smile and a small farewell bow.

Natasha’s shoulders slump in despair as she watches you rush away.

It was disheartening to see her closest friend become almost like a stranger, but she can only blame that incident which caused this rift between the two of you. 

Sighing sadly, she pulls out her sword again and heads back toward the center of the area to resume her training.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha is practically sprinting to the dining hall with how fast she is walking through the hallways.

Guards and maids dodge out of her path as she rushes by, already understanding the need to hurry, judging by the time. 

As she approaches the entrance of the dining room, the guards open the doors for her to enter. Stepping into the room, she is immediately greeted by the queen’s reprimanding voice.

“You’re late, Natasha.”

Her mother, Queen Melina, sits at the head of the table while her father, King Alexei, occupies the opposite side. Yelena is positioned on the table's side facing her, subtly shaking her head in warning as her eyes gesture meaningfully toward their mother.

Natasha thinks back to how she spent the remainder of the day after her encounter with you, destroying the training dummies around the training yard in frustration.

By the time she realized how long she’d been training, the sun had already set. 

Deciding there was no point in making up an excuse, she settled with the truth.

“I lost track of the time,” she replies.

In response, Queen Melina nods at the chair closest to her, indicating for her to have a seat. 

When Natasha sits down, a member of the kitchen staff places a plate of dinner in front of her before stepping away.

In an attempt to break the tension, King Alexei claps his hands together and exclaims joyfully.

“Great, the family’s all here! Let’s eat!”

The members of the royal family start eating their meals, except for Queen Melina, who instead turns her attention to Natasha.

“I heard that you were at the courtyard today, training with the royal guards.”

“I was,” Natasha responds casually.

“What about your studies?”

“I already finished them all.”

“If you had told me earlier, I could have given you the next part of your lessons,” Melina admonishes before continuing her lecture. “You are about to be crowned soon as the next ruler of the kingdom. There’s always more that you can learn.”

A small snicker from Yelena catches Melina’s attention, causing her to direct her lecturing tone to the younger princess.

“And you should not laugh at your sister. At least she finished her studies. I heard that you didn't even show up for your lessons. Where exactly were you all day?”

Yelena shrugs nonchalantly before looking down next to her chair at the Akita dog eating from her bowl.

“Fanny wanted to go out for a run, so we spent the day out in the fields.”

At the sound of her name, the dog looks up attentively.

In response, Yelena gives her a gentle scratch on the head, before turning the dog's face toward her mother.

“You can’t say no to this face,” Yelena coos. 

Melina gives the two of them a deadpan look before shifting her gaze forward to her husband.

Alexei chokes on his food in slight panic when he realizes her attention has now turned to him.

“Our daughters have inherited your adventurous spirit,” Melina remarks accusingly.

“That’s my girls!” Alexei exclaims proudly before he catches the sharp glare from Melina. “I-I mean, girls, your studies and lessons come first. You know how important they are to your mother.”

Melina sighs defeatedly, shaking her head at his poor attempt at scolding. She returns her attention back to her eldest daughter.

“I have scheduled several meetings for you this week, Natasha. They’re with the daughters from some of the noble houses, so be sure not to miss any.”

Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, Natasha brings her cup up for a drink as she asks for more information.

“What are the meetings for?”

“To find you a partner, of course.”

Natasha spits out her drink in surprise, coughing as she reaches for a napkin.

“Mind your manners, Natasha,” Melina chastises.

Ignoring her mother's reprimand, Natasha exclaims in outrage.

“Why am I looking for a partner?!” 

Unfazed by her tone, Melina answers her question with a serious expression, “Taking on the responsibilities of the kingdom is a lot for one person. You should have someone at your side.” 

Natasha makes a sound of disagreement and gestures at her in accusation.

“A couple of months ago, you told me that I was fully prepared to take over the throne,” she reminds her mother. “You’ve never mentioned that I needed to have someone back then!” 

“Well, that was before I realized that you have obviously made no attempt at looking for a potential partner. So I took the liberty to invite these lovely candidates to help you get started, and you will meet with them.”

Natasha huffs and crosses her arms, shaking her head in disbelief.

Seeing her reluctance, Melina continues, declaring, “If you cannot find someone by the time of your coronation, your father and I will choose one for you.” 

Natasha’s eyes widen, and her mouth hangs open in shock at her words.

This was not fair.

Throughout her life, her parents have never shown interest in her romantic relationships before. Suddenly, they decide that she is not capable of taking over the kingdom unless she has someone by her side. 

As Natasha tries to come up with a way so that she can get herself out of this situation, an idea comes to her mind.

“What if I’m already in a relationship with someone?” Natasha asks.

Three sets of eyes stare at her with varying looks of disbelief on their faces.

Yelena speaks up first, giving her a skeptical look.

“Nat, you’re popular throughout the kingdom, but the truth is, you spend more time with your sword than you do holding a lady's hand.”

Natasha subtly kicks her sister under the table in response to her comment, causing her to curse in pain. 

“Watch your language, Yelena,” Melina reprimands her before resting her clasped hands on the table and focusing on Natasha. “But she’s not wrong. I have not seen you romantically close with anyone,” she points out accusingly.

Without hesitation, Natasha smoothly lies, “We’ve been meeting in secret.”

Melina examines her critically, and she matches her mother's intense stare.

When Natasha’s gaze doesn’t waver, Melina relaxes her posture and relents. 

“Alright then, if you could tell me who you are in a relationship with, I will cancel all of the meetings.” 

The name rolls off naturally on her tongue before Natasha can even stop herself.

“Lady Y/n Dreykov. I’m in a relationship with Y/n.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Series Masterlist : Boundless Devotion

[spitdrunken]

notes: implied stellaron hunter polycule (blade x reader - implied blade x kafka, implied kafka x reader), consent turned to non-consent, biting, drawing blood, blade's mara

sex taps into blade's more unrestrained instincts and, because of it, it is not always surprising that it stirs his mara as well. you're not the first to have experienced it. your other partners have, as well, and told of you the warning signs.

if blade starts to mutter under his breath, if his pace starts turning to uneven (and he doesn't seem to be close to cumming), if his eyes start darting around the room, if he starts hurting you bad, it's time to call it quits and call for kafka. not all of you have infinite regeneration to depend on.

so when blade starts to and keeps turning his head from left to right, though his hips never stop, and doesn't respond to anything you're trying to say in between gasps, you are tempted to call out. when he leans down to your neck and bites, bites hard enough to draw a strangled, barely-suppressed scream from your throat and has rivers of blood streaming down towards your collarbone, enough is enough. as much as you care for blade-- hell no.

extending one arm on the mattress, you furiously search for and pat for a string with a button on it. not unlike the kind of devices used by people dealing with potentially violent inmates, or elderly folks alone in their home, afraid of a fall. (you'd laughed when kafka had first presented you with, shook your head when she told you she would be in reach, should you ever need it. in turn, she had smiled and told her you would be glad for it, eventually. you know you are glad for the suggestion that blade store his sword across the room at all times, during sex.) you press it with all your might, hammering the button.

blade pulls away, lips slick with your blood, specks of gold lighting his eyes. he leans down, and your eyelids flutter shut in expectation of a kiss, but he only licks at your mouth instead. your heart is pounding. you dare not make any sudden movements. like an animal on the prowl, you are certain any attempt to escape would only agitate him more. ...though you suppose the closest comparison to blade would be an animal with rabies. his thrusts inside of you have turned sloppy, uneven. you are thinking of anything except your own pleasure.

"blade, please- haaa, look at me. it's me. yes?" when the full force of his piercing gaze clashes with your eyes, you wished you had not called his full attention to you after all. it's heavy.

"you..." he mumbles, blinking rapidly. his hands snake their way up your sides, towards your neck. you tremble. you know how to defend yourself, you're not here without reason. but if there is a way to de-escalate this situation without hurting either of you more than necessary, you will take it with both hands.

blade's still fucking into you, drool peeking past the corner of his mouth, when kafka opens the door.

"listen: bladie, slow down." she starts, and continues from there, slowly adding command upon command.

you can see the spirit whisper taking effect, at kafka's pulling and tugging at blade's mind, tying the frayed edges of his sanity back together as she coaxes him back to coherency. you try not to think about the fact that his cock is still inside you, throbbing. ...it's kind of humiliating, really.

kafka smiles when she makes her way to your side, wiping away some of the blood with the tips of her gloved fingers. "that sure is a nasty wound. ...you must have gotten poor bladie really excited." the man in question sits on the mattress, cock now flaccid. he rubs at his skull, still dazed and out of it.

"he'll be fine," kafka tells you, her blood-slick fingers grazing down your body. "but he left you a little high and dry, didn't he? well... you'll let me take care of that, won't you?"

[hoonvrs]

ICE ICE BABY — p. sunghoon

PAIRING sunghoon × fmr

DESC. skating date with hoon gone wrong??

GENRE est. relationship, fluff

WARNING swearing

W. COUNT 1.2k

S. NOTES HAPPY BDAY TO THE LOML AND MY BOYFRIEND ILY BF MWAH

pulling some strings to rent out a whole ice rink after closing wasn't easy.

thankfully mrs. park kept most of her connections from sunghoons skating days and came to the rescue when you told her your date plans for his birthday.

safe to say sunghoon was beyond confused when you pulled him around with so much excitement it was rolling off you in waves. he could almost see it through the fabric on his eyes, “is the blindfold really necessary?”

“yes, don't want to spoil the surprise, duh,” you kept pulling him hoping he wouldn’t notice the sudden drop in temperature walking past a set of doors.

as soon as you had him standing directly in front of the entrance to the rink, you walked behind him carefully taking off the blindfold, “ta-da!”

it took him a few blinks to adjust to the harsh lighting above, looking around in confusion when he starts to realise where you’d taken him. suddenly, a pair of white skates is shoved into his hands, “how did you even get these?”

you put a finger up to his lips, shushing him with a little shake of your head, “no time for questions. put them on, let's skate!”

a lightbulb turned on in your boyfriend's head, you could see it in the way his eyes lit up with an ominous smile spreading across his face. he wasn’t oblivious to the copious amount of fan fiction his fans have written about him — maybe he’s read one or two here and there — so he wasn’t entirely new to the ‘figure skater park sunghoon takes his girlfriend on a date where he teaches her how to skate’ trope.

the idea of seeing you wobbling on the ice like a fawn learning how to walk sent butterflies to his stomach, leaving him no option but to be your knight in shining armour as he approaches and takes you by the hand as he glides you both around the room as a love song starts playing in the back.

sunghoon should really stop reading those fanfics.

he couldn’t hide his excitement. rushing to put on his skate, even having to start over lacing it a few times because he kept messing up but as soon as they were both on and secure, he made a beeline for the ice.

getting on the ice was like meeting an old friend. something warm and familiar, comforting in a way only he could feel, and he couldn’t wait to introduce his first love to his last.

except he constantly forgets that throughout your whole relationship, nothing has ever gone the fairy tale way his fans have depicted, feeling the giddiness in his belly drop dead when he turns to see you getting on the ice.

the issue wasn’t you joining him, but how you did. knitting his eyebrow watching you trying to familiarise yourself with the new footing, “why aren’t you shaking?”

”what,” you looked at your boyfriend puzzled. you should’ve prepared yourself honestly, sunghoon has a track record of saying the weirdest things at odd times.

“why are you good at this? aren’t you meant to be falling and holding onto the board for dear life?”

now it was just two idiots staring at each other at a loss, “hoon, babe, i can skate.”

a pout settles on his lips, casting his eyes down before skating off at an ungodly speed, “hey! don't leave me!”

your skating skills were average at best. i mean, you can walk and maybe speed up a little but nowhere near your athlete boyfriend who was doing rounds around the rink like a hamster on crack.

huffing under your breath you decided to just let him tire himself out a little as you tried to find your footing correctly, so you didn’t fall and break your back.

once you got to the centre you heard a pair of blades skim the layer of ice right behind you, “are you done with your little hissy fit, babygirl?”

“don’t call me that,” he scowled. he walked straight into your line of sight, remnants of the pout still there. slowly he grabs both of your hands into his, interlacing your fingers together as he starts to pull you along.

“want to tell me why you’re sulking?” 

“i’m not sulking.” sunghoons ‘cold ice prince’ image must be a big rumour that got out of hand because how could someone so cute be intimidating?

once he slows down his pace you slip out a hand, gently placing it on his cheek, “tell me.”

you can see him trying to avoid eye contact as a rosy hue starts to creep up from his neck to his face that he’d probably try to blame on the cold if you mention it knowing that both of you know he’s practically immune to the cold at this point, “i just, i kind of wanted it to be like those books where i try and teach you how to skate cause you’re shit at it but it’s okay cause i’m here but i can’t even do that.”

surprise isn’t even the word to describe what you’re feeling. how could such a small confession make your heart flutter and your cheeks warm?

“i mean, i’m no professional. guess this means we're skipping the basics and you have to teach me some tricks, live out your coaching dream through me.”

seeing his demeanour instantly change should’ve been a warning in itself.

“first lesson, triple axel! get some speed and momentum then when you’re ready quickly push off the ice and life your knees but make sure to—“

a hand covering his mouth interrupted his rambling as you look at him as if he’s suddenly grown a second head, “how about we start with some spins then get around to the jumps, hm?”

nodding his head enthusiastically he doesn’t waste any time. it takes you a minute to get the hand of spinning on literal ice without feeling like you would fall fat onto the ground, but you soon got the hang of it.

you managed to convince your boyfriend that was enough learning knowing if you tried anything else you would run your battery straight to zero before you could do what you planned for the rest of the day. now you were back hand in hand, gliding around the perimeter together.

sometimes you think that sunghoon does things without thinking, this for instance.

once you guys are both safely skating, all two feet on the ice then next thing you know you find yourself colliding with the ground, the fall softened by your boyfriend's body below you because something possessed him to believe he could pick you up mid skate like he’s seen with skating duos even though the man himself has never done it before, never mind with a amateur skater like yourself.

“oh my god,” you screamed, not being able to hold back from laughing straight into his face. sunghoon looks at you, fondness swirling in his eyes watching you struggle to catch your breath, “are you stupid? why would you do that?”

he ignores your question choosing instead to scan your face, noticing your nose has gotten red at the tip and your lips a little pale, “your lips look cold. want them to meet mine?”

“shut up,” before he could respond you pushed your lips against his, sharing soft kisses to stop whatever other cheesy pickup line he could come up with to escape.

and although the air around you nipped at your skin and could barely feel the tip of your fingers you felt warm inside.

just you, sunghoon and his first love.

perm taglist @mesopret @whoschr ​@haknom @shinsou-rii @redm4ri @lacimolela @llama-lyna @boyfhee @lazysmushi @flwoie @kocokookie @kyexvly @seongclb @dammit-jjk @flwrshee @produmads ​@teddywonss @aleiouvre @dneltrise @aleiouvre @nyxvrse @yohanabanana @whois-alexis @tinyegg @sserafimez @satsuri3su @yuemvi @chirokookie @idk-tbh777 @s00buwu @ynsvnte @isawritesss

[cringecannon]

hmm, which of the resident sexy war criminals do you think would indulge in long term-to-permanent mutilation as a way of keeping their lover/pet/trophy from running off? orin definitely has the vibe of being willing & able to hack off a hand or a foot, and (sexualizing one of my own injuries here) i could also see someone like raphael breaking an ankle and making sure it healed wrong. much to consider. (sorry if this is over any lines - i saw "extra dark" and my neurons lit up like a switchboard) -☄️

I literally had Gortash cut off someone’s hand for you before. What’s to say that couldn’t turn around and bite you?

Raphael will maim you, and fix you, and maim you again, as easy as a snap of his fingers. If you really anger him, the maiming could be permanent. He could fix it, obviously. He’s just not going to. It’ll be a good lesson. You’re lucky if he even lets you heal wrong. Your ankle is broken long past the point it should be, never better. It’s miserable. Infuriating. Walking without his help is near impossible, and he’s eating it up. Don’t complain though- he’ll drop you right onto your bad foot to make a point.

Gortash won’t take something obvious. He wants it to be an injury you can hide. He doesn’t do the dirty work, arms wrapped around you and smiling down at your horrified face as a doctor cleanly amputates your leg from the knee down. He was merciful enough to let be numbed, but he wanted you to watch. The bedrest would last longer than necessary. He’s waiting for something, you can tell. It’s only after at least a week of your best behavior he brings you a gift. A prosthetic leg, ornate and beautiful. He makes you thank him as he fastens it to your thigh. This is a costly gift, dear. He expects you to stay obedient. If not, well… he can always take the other leg too.

Orin would remove all your limbs if she could, but she prefers when you can struggle. She cuts through your wrist, gentle and terrible and delicate and excruciating. The cuts are so slow. You grit your teeth, fighting back a reaction as best as you can. She suddenly forces the knife down all the way through, severing the rest of your wrist in one go and wrenching a scream from you. As your own noises die down into shock you can hear her giggling, dropping the blade to the stone. You hold your arm to your chest and she crowds you, holding her hand below the wound so that your blood coats her pale skin before dripping to the floor. Her other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close. She likes this new look. Loves it. Maybe she should take the other one. Decisions, decisions.

[jedi-lothwolf]

Codywan Week Day 1: Cody With a Lightsaber

Summary: Cody learns to use Obi-wan's lightsaber.

Warning: slight violence?

Note: Cyare: Mando'a for beloved/loved

A lightsaber is a Jedi's life. The crystal carefully calls to you, knowing you'll use its power for good. Who decided to trust it with was your decision.

Obi-wan carefully placed his in Cody's callused hands, "can you take care of this for me? I can't take it on my mission."

"Wouldn't you rather have Anakin hold on to it?" Cody was unsure. He knew how much lightsabers meant to the jedi. Was he really the one who should be the one to watch over it?

"No, I'm sure. It wasn't a hard decision. I'll be back in a few days." He smiled, hoping Cody understood how much this meant.

"Okay. It'll be here when you arrive." Cody hooked it to his belt in the pace he had hallowed out for it. Obi-wan seemed careless with his saber sometimes. Cody ended up holding on to it so he carved a place for it in his armor, altering his most personal possession.

After Obi-wan got back he taught him how to use the lightsaber. Turning it on and off, hold it correctly, and how to fight and protect. Cody picked it up quickly, the Jedi even joked that Cody was force sensitive. He even found a training saber for the commander when they sparred.

As time passed, Cody got better at using it. He no longer feared getting hit by the blade, knowing he wouldn't because of his skill. As he got better the general got closer to him. He stood behind him, wrapping his hands around Cody's body to guide him.

Obi-wan was so warm and inviting. He was patient and passionate. The two found themselves getting to close for the code to like. Lightsabers weren't the only thing to interlock. Hands and lips touched each other gently.

So much was going on. Fire rose on the battlefield and Cody watched Obi-wan. The Jedi fought with the sith apprentice Asajj Ventress. He was losing.

Not long after the sith struck him down. Cody didn't hesitate. He shot at her and rushed to his general's side. Grabbing Obi-wan's lightsaber and turned it on.

The memories of learning to use the saber filled his head as well as the fondness of the time they spent together. Cody looked down at Obi-wan, knowing he held his life in his hands. He would be damned if he would let his cyare's faith be placed wrong.

Ventress was entertained. "You're going to fight me?"

Cody didn't answer. Instead he attacked. Intrigued Ventress held off killing him. When she got bored she would just cut his head off and be done with it.

Obi-wan awoke to lightsabers classing. He attempted to get off the ground. Failing the first time he looked up to see Cody fighting his enemy. He was in awe of his commander.

However he knew the sith was humoring him. Obi-wan had to get up. It scared him to think what may happen if he didn't.

The Jedi pulled himself to his feet, ready to do what was necessary to pull this battle out of the separatist hands. "Cody" he started.

The clone turned his head for just a moment. "Hey general."

"Can I have my saber please?" He joked.

"Of course sir." Cody smiled under his helmet and quickly, yet gently, handed Obi-wan back his saber. He grabbed his gun and stayed nearby.

The battle was just barely a Republic win. Cody helped the injured where he could and when he was no longer of any use went to find Obi-wan.

"Thank you." Obi-wan smiled upon seeing Cody come to his side.

"I'm just glad you're alright. Thank you for trusting me with your life."

"Thank you for taking time to learn how it works."

@codywanweek

[soleilceirinen]

Renaissance | teacher!Cillian Murphy x fem!Reader - Part 9

Summary: you are an Art History student in your last year at university. Cillian is your teacher. A/N: in this story Cillian is about 20 years older than the reader. Everything happens in an alternative universe where he is not an actor or famous, he doesn't have a wife or kids like in real life. English is not my first language, sorry if there are mistakes. Thanks for reading! Cillian Murphy Masterlist - Part 8

The next morning you woke up with the first sun rays of the day directly in your face. Opening your eyes slowly, a sudden uneasiness flooded you when you didn’t recognise the bed or the room. But it didn’t last long, the moment you heard a soft snort coming from your back and noticed the arm hugging you around the waist, everything made sense. 

Your cheeks turned red at the memories from last night and you couldn’t help but start to panic, unable to control the intrusive thoughts that landed in your head. 

The first time Cillian and you kissed, he stopped talking to you for weeks, ignoring you as if you were not there anymore. How would he react now? You did more than kissing the previous night… A faint snore followed by some movement behind your back brought you back to reality. Things didn’t have to be like the last time, they could change for the better. 

Cillian was awake, or at least, he was in the process of waking up. He hugged you tightly and buried his face in the space between your shoulder blades, his eyelashes tickled your skin making you shiver. Slowly, you turned around in his arms until you were facing him. He looked peaceful with his eyes closed, although you weren’t sure if he was awake or not. 

With the tip of your fingers you started touching his face, tracing his sharp cheekbones and the shape of his eyebrows, going down the bridge of his nose to end up brushing his plump lips with the pad of your thumb. The corner of his mouth rose slightly, so he wasn’t sleeping after all. 

“Good morning,” he said hoarsely. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” you whispered, brushing the hair out of his face, “and you?” 

Cillian opened his eyes meeting yours and nodded before burying his face in the crock of your neck. Him being all cuddly in the morning wasn’t what you were expecting at all, but you kind of liked it. A pitiful moan from the other side of the door broke the bubble you were in. 

“Scout wants his morning walk,” he murmured against your skin. You hummed in response, caressing his hair. 

-

After taking Scout for a walk and having breakfast, Cillian drove you to your apartment. You would have liked to spend the day with him but you had to go to work. The idea of calling Maureen and telling her that you were feeling unwell crossed your mind but you dismissed it as it came, you weren't that kind of person. 

Cillian parked in front of your building. Before you could open the car door, he gently grabbed your wrist. When you looked at him, he held your hand in his and gave it a little squeeze. 

"I really enjoyed what we did last night," he said as he caressed your hand with his thumb. “I’ll call you later, alright?”

You stared at him and nodded. "Alright, but I'll tell you something Cillian. Don't you dare to disappear on me this time because I promise you I will haunt you day and night, even in your dreams." You muttered without breaking eye contact. 

He let out a chuckle and squezzed your hand again. "I promise you I won't, even if I tried I couldn't. I'm already haunted by you, every time I close my eyes all I see is that beautiful face of yours."

“Oh, wow.” You giggled, feeling your face getting warm and turned to look out your window in order to hide your blushed cheeks from Cillian. 

He put his hand under your chin to make you look at him and contemplated your face as if he were searching for your approval, however, it was not necessary. You leaned towards him and placed your free hand behind his neck to pull him closer to you. 

You indulged in a long and sloppy kiss that left you catching your breath. With a last peck to his cheek, you grabbed the handle door and got out of the car. You looked back as you walked away and waved goodbye to Cillian, he was touching his swollen lips with a lost look in his eyes, as if he were focused on something important.

At the front door of your building you found Brad. He was standing there with a shopping bag, probably after coming back from the store. You sighed in resignation. There was something about the way he frowned in the direction of Cillian’s car that you didn’t like. 

“Who is that?” he asked with a sullen attitude. 

You bit your lip and looked at the car. From that distance you could tell that someone was sitting inside but at least it wasn’t easy to see his face through the window. Suddenly, you realised that Brad had seen your kiss. 

“Nobody,” you said shortly, pushing him towards the door. 

He followed you after casting one last glance in Cillian's direction. You mentally prayed that Brad wouldn't remember Cillian from the charity book market. 

Inside your apartment, he headed to the kitchen to drop off the bag and called your name before you could enter your bedroom. At the same time your phone vibrated with a new message. You stood in the hallway and stared at your flatmate. 

“We need to talk, Y/N. There’s something I need to tell you,” he started saying, leaning against the kitchen counter.

You felt a wave of cold sweat just thinking about the last time you two spoke. “Hurry up then, I have to get ready to go to work.”

“I’m leaving the apartment this week,” he told you while looking at the floor. 

“What? But the rental contract doesn’t end until June,” you commented, calculating the months that were still left.

He shrugged. “The landlord already knows, so that’s it. If you want, you can find someone else to live in my room or talk to the landlord yourself to see if he will let you continue on your own as before, but I don't think he will.” 

You looked at him in disbelief. Neither of you was supposed to leave the apartment without noticing it to the landlord at least a month earlier. From the tone in which he spoke, you got the impression that he already had it planned and was just telling you now. “Really, Brad? Perfect timing, as always.” 

Before he could reply something back, you got into your room slamming the door. You took a few deep breaths and looked at your phone. Cillian had written to you, asking if everything was okay after seeing Brad at the entrance. Maybe that was the reason why he was still there while you and Brad talked at the door. 

You wondered if he was still parked outside, with the wish to rush out and get back to the warm interior of the car, without worries. 

“What a mess,” you murmured, thinking of everything that was coming your way the next few weeks. 

You would have to spend time researching for your final project, although with Cillian's guidance you could get through it, without forgetting that exams were just around the corner and soon you would have to start studying seriously.

To that, you had to add going to work at the gallery and now start looking for another apartment at this time of the year, you didn't have much hope of finding something that you liked as much as the current one. You would stay if you could, but you couldn’t afford it by yourself. Besides, your landlord was a bit of an asshole and wouldn’t even consider letting you stay paying only for your room, so there was no point in talking to him. 

Just thinking about all that made you want to cry with rage. Although thinking about it, at least one of your problems would be solved, you wouldn't have to cross paths with Brad anymore. You grabbed your phone and opened Cillian's chat. "Good news: Brad is leaving the flat for good; bad news: I can’t stay."

[ticklesobsessor]

Tattoo tickles (back)

Okay so initially I wasn't gonna write tickle fics as my creativity is as dry as bone 😆 but while in class one girl was drawing on another girl's back to imitate giving her a tattoo and I got this idea in my head and through to share it with you guys. I hope you like it... and I hope it's good for writing my first fic ever. If you guys enjoy it interact with it and I might do other ones like this, with tattoos on different parts of the body.

You're in your early 20s and have quite a few tattoos, all done by your sweet and loving tattoo artist partner, who you've been with since you both were 16. For a few weeks now you've been thinking of getting a spine tattoo and searching up pics of ones you would like. When you finally made up your mind about the one you wanted, a line down your spine with pink flowers looped around it, you talked to your partner and thwy happily agreed to do it.

This leads to this morning when you both made your way to their tattoo studio (they own it and is the employer) when it was supposed to be closed but for you, they'd happily open it to make you happy. Now you lay in the chair on your stomach, t-shirt pulled up till your underarms.

"You ready Love?" They ask after they had placed the stencil on your back and prepared everything necessary. "With you, always." You answer as usual which never fails to make their heart melt. They place a small kiss on your back, the sign that their going to start and you relax your muscles.

For the first few minutes, the only sound in the studio is the buzzing of the tattoo machine and occasional talk between you two. That is until it starts to hurt a little and your hisses join the fray. You try your best to not tense up whenever they tattoo over a spot that makes you hiss and they notice. They use their thumb from their free hand that is resting on your back to rub back and forth for comfort as they whisper sweet praises like "You're doing so good Love.", "I love you", "I'm so proud of you." and more.

"Y-yeah, your thumb just... tickled a little." You answer, a blush rising up your neck. Not that you minded it. Now is where a small important detail comes in, you had told them just a year after you got together that you liked being tickled when they were tickling one time. Ever since then they never said no when you asked to be tickled, as they just loved your reactions, how you blush from being flustered, how you don't fight off the tickles, just everything.

At one point their thumb rubs so lightly along where your back meets your side that it tickles and you can't hold in the giggle that escapes. "Darling, you okay?" They ask concerned as your giggle was muffled and they thought it was a noise of pain.

"Really?" By their tone, you can tell they're smirking and you twist your head to lay your cheek on your hands to look at him. Sure enough, their smirking and when they meet your gaze your blush rushes up your neck to your cheeks. "Think it's time for a break, don't you?" They ask, setting down the tattoo machine.

They stand up from their chair so they can easily do what they're planning. "Would you like a tickle break my tickle bug?" That nickname always has a way of effectively putting you in a lee mood. You whine, burying your face in your hands but nod nonetheless but they aren't satisfied. "Nuh uh Love, you know how it is, you have to use your words or else I won't know if you truly want them." They say to tease.

You twist your head back to look at them like before and with a tomato-red blush you say, "Please tickle me." "A please? How can I say no when you're such a polite tickle bug." They wink which is the only sign you get before their hands position under your shoulder blades and their fingers start spidering gently down and back up your back, clawing at your sides with every cycle.

You don't try to hold back your giggles as you have a mental battle with your fight-or-flight instinct to squirm away. "Hehehehehe, Bahahaby... it ihihit tihihickles."

"I know it does or else I wouldn't know that this," they wiggle their finger on your lower back, the most ticklish spot on your back, and your favourite, "tickles." They whisper the word in your ear knowing how much more flustered it makes you.

Your legs kick a little, something you do when you're truly enjoying being tickled, which just makes them chuckle. "Awe is someone enjoying their tickles? Does my tickle bug want more? Should I tickle right here?" They coo teasingly, placing their fingers on your neck, not moving them to grow the suspense.

"Plehehease." You say giggling from anticipation.

"Such a good little lee." Their fingers wiggle into your neck, squeezing on the sides as they plant sporadic tickle kisses along the back of it. "Who's a cute tickle bug?" They whisper in your ear.

"Mehehe, nahaha not there." I squeal when they give a teasy tickle to my armpit. "Awe why not, your squeals are so cute." They respond.

And they continue for a few more minutes till you both decide to continue with the tattoo. The difference is with every outline of a flower that was finished they'd tickle you and when it was all done you went back to your house where they gave you reward tickles before they made you dinner.

[sableflynn]

haircut

In which Volkan cuts Felicia's bangs for her.

contents: references to/implications of noncon and torture

---

He was drunk when he cut her bangs.

No, not drunk, he would insist: Volkan would never concede to such a flawed human state as inebriation. He prized his control of himself and others above all else; he did not lose that control to alcohol the way weaker men did. Regardless, he was several drinks in when he pulled Felicia into his lap and brushed aside her curtain of bangs.

“These are getting too long,” he murmured as the bangs fell to cover her eyes.

He wasn’t wrong. They’d grown long enough to obstruct her vision, longer than she’d ever let them grow. And that was what she was steadfastly refusing to acknowledge: she couldn’t allow herself to recognize that she’d been here long enough for her bangs to grow out so much. Her hair was a physical marker of the passage of time, a reminder that this wasn’t normal and she wasn’t safe.

“Your hair still looks good, at least.” He demonstrated his point by winding his hand through the long tangles of her hair, punctuating with a jerk of her head that forced her to arch back and grab his arms to stabilize herself. “I like this. But these bangs,” and his free hand brushed them again in vain before they fell back into place. “They cover half your face. You shouldn’t be able to hide your eyes like that.”

Her body tensed in unconscious recognition of his fucked-up sort of foreplay, the precursor to pain or to sex, which was just another sort of pain. He hadn’t hurt her yet, really—he wasn’t even hard—but every molecule of her being was attuned to him, and the animal part of her picked up on the cues of his pleasure at her discomfort, and the logical part of her knew this sort of attention always ended the same way.

He shifted, forcing her to grip his biceps tighter, and pulled a knife from his pocket. The lamplight glinted off the sharp blade as he flicked it open.

She tried to ignore the way her stomach dropped at the sight of it. “You’re going to cut my hair with a knife like that?”

“I can’t exactly bring you to a salon, can I?”

She hated him in these moments in particular, when he teased and joked with her like they were a normal couple, almost pretending that he saw her as a person. She hated herself even more for playing along with it, for almost yearning for it, because she was desperate for anything but the monotony of torture and degredation.

“Hold still.” The command was redundant when his knife was inches from her face. She held her breath as he gathered her bangs in his hand and sliced with deceptive gentleness. His face was close enough that she could smell the lingering mix of liquor and cigar smoke that clung to him like a perfume, could feel his hot breath on her skin as he cut away her bangs as easily as he’d cut away her strength, her self-worth, her sense of being. The past few weeks fell away in tufts of soft red hair that littered the hardwood floor.

When he was done, he took her face in both hands, pulling her back to examine his work. “Much better,” he said, thumbs pressing into her cheekbones a touch harder than necessary. She didn’t need to see her reflection to know she looked like shit. She could feel it like the absence of a limb: the cool air hitting her face, bangs irritating the very top of her forehead, cut higher than she’d ever choose to have them. Her eyes uncovered, unprotected from the lingering veil of her hair. Nothing to shield her as Volkan studied her. Nowhere for her to hide as his manner took the turn she’d known was coming, and he pushed her onto her back on the couch and climbed on top of her, the knife in his hand once again.

[akirakirxaa]

FFXIVWrite Prompt 21: Grave

Rating: M

Word Count: 697

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, Suicide attempt, Blood

Summary: Akira stopped the Final Days, but is stranded in the past, with no way back to her future or her friends. For saving the star and averting disaster, the Convocation has done their best to make her feel welcome, but Akira can't help but feel empty inside. [Time travel AU? Not really sure what to call this AU. Same universe as Prompt 1 but it's not necessary to read that one to understand this one.]

Master Post

Akira sat in the dark room, not bothering to turn on the lights. The walls were bare, the windows just as decorative as every other room in the capitol building. There were a few small furnishings, nothing beyond the necessary. A small bed in one corner, a table and chair, and…that was it. Akira waved off the concerns of grateful Words that insisted they would be happy to make anything she needed or desired to make her comfortable. She needed to think about what she would need, she claimed. Maybe sleep on it. Not a soul on the convocation protested Elidibus’ decision to allow her to stay until they found her more permanent lodgings. Akira should be grateful for such generosity.

It was a shame it was going to go to waste.

Akira stared at her greatsword in the dark, the purple crystals a memorial to a future that now would never be. A blow that would never need be struck, least of all by her. It would be only fitting for her final breaths to be taken by these crystals, when their creator had been felled by her in his attempt to strike her down.

“Maybe your future still exists in a parallel dimension,” Azem had said encouragingly when she’d faced a room entirely devoid of the portal that had brought her to the past. “We’ll research it. Surely we can find you a way back to help your friends!”

Azem — Persephone, she reminded herself — was so optimistic, but the grave faces of other convocation members at her back told Akira what she needed to know. None of them would risk experimenting with time when they only just barely escaped disaster. Elidibus — or Themis, as she’d learned his name was — had insisted that they would do everything possible to make her feel welcome, and so far he was delivering, but…

Akira could not stop thinking about her dearest friends. The ones she’d completely erased from existence. And their loved ones. Their friends. People she never met and now never would. Places she would never see. An emptiness yawned wide inside her soul like a grave, ready to devour her whole.

She flipped the sword, nearly as long as she was tall, and braced the handle against the floor. Akira remembered Hythlodaeus telling her about how the ancients chose when to die, returning to the star when their purpose was complete. Was hers not complete? She stopped the Final Days and erased the world she loved in the process. What was her soul but a reminder of the disaster so barely averted? Everyone would be better rid of it. Would her soul even be able to join the Lifestream in this time, torn and damaged as it was?

She gripped the blade of the sword and angled it towards her chest, hands bloody as she clenched them around the sharpened edge. The amethyst glow seemed to brighten in the dark. All she would have to do was lean forward.

A knock at the door. Akira ignored it, glaring at the blade as she gathered her courage. Another knock, and she bit her lip, breathing heavy as she tried, tried to throw herself upon the sword, but continued to just stand there, hands tight on the crystal and blood dripping down.

“Akira? Sorry to barge in but I wanted to see how you were— Akira!” Hythlodaeus hesitantly pushed open the door that she’d foolishly forgotten to lock, only to push it out of the way as he hurried to her side, knocking the blade from her hand where it clunked heavily to the floor. He pulled her close as the emotions that she’d so stalwartly hidden just beneath the surface since realizing she had no way home cascaded down her face and into his robe.

“Why?” he asked, voice shocked. Akira struggled for breath.

“You said that… that once your purpose is done, you return to the star… That it was beautiful…” she choked out between sobs. He clutched her tighter, and they sank to the floor as he gently rocked her back and forth.

“Not like this,” he murmured quietly into her hair. “Never like this.”

[kazeofthemagun]

@cursedfortune asked the summoner:

Her fingers danced along the inside of his arm like they so often did on nights they cuddled up together. Except they weren't doing any such thing. Sat facing once another within the heart of her garden, knees bent and touching his own. Close. Familiar. Back to their earlier days when his connection to the Magun had been lost.

"I cannot stress enough how unpleasant this will be." Mortem voiced once more, just as she had again and again. It wasn't to dissuade the Hunter, no, but a merciful reminder for him to always keep at the forefront of his mind.

Her fingers stopped short of his hand, ever careful. She observed his veins that laid beneath her touch a moment before pulling back to rest her hand in her lap. She knew he could handle this means of training but all the same... she knew intimately how brutal it could be.

"I can only harm you with the pains I know, and I know many. I can also harm you with pains you know, if you share them. I will not abruptly gift you with pain that would be a jump in experience - like being burned alive. We will start with the hurts you know and intensify from there." A starting point until... he was ready for more extreme measures. "This is a matter of endurance, not traumatizing you. You say stop, I stop. If you don't say stop, I will stop if I deem it dangerous."

Mortem lifted her gaze to look upon his face, "This is an exercise. Like tearing muscles so they reforge themselves stronger. But like muscles, I'll make sure your soul has a care routine that follows. Do you have an questions?"

The sumnoner sat, cross-legged, observing wordlessly as the plum-haired woman traced her fingers down the inside of his arm. Lines only she knew the significance of, following the flow of blood within his veins. Blue eyes looked up when her motion paused at the wrist, the Witch's voice bringing forth a warning - one unnecessary, but appreciated nonetheless. Even if he was already well prepared, there was no harm in reaffirming his focus - refreshing the weight of the trial he had undertaken.

He nodded lightly. It wasn't as though he was a regular mortal, after all. They were both quite a far cry from such mundane things.

The training, even in its inherent horror, was a necessary step in refining his state of being. Chaos lacked the means to truly kill them - him and White Cloud - or, at least, hadn't yet figured out the method. That, in turn, meant the main weapon it possessed against them was pain. Something which could very often be far worse than death.

Something both of them knew intimately - but there was one who knew it more intimately yet: the Witch, far more experienced and long-lived in her spellforged immortality.

"...Not going to call me crazy?" He quipped, although the humor of it was ever buried behind his dry monotone. Craziness so often was a synonym to foolishness, but to them it was something different. An acknowledgement of pushing limits, witnessing them be broken time and time again.

...Realistically, it was the shock of his own expectations being broken. He still remembered the first time they crossed blades, the first and final time he approached Mortem believing her to possess limits comparable to his own. Watching that very assumption shatter was precisely when he realized that neither of the Unlimited had really grown into their name quite yet - especially when compared to her.

And yet, between himself and White Cloud, only he was crazy enough to want to practice pain and dying. Who said immortality could not be exercised..?

He listened to her words intently, mind steeled for whatever was to come - all the way until she finished and asked about any questions.

"...Is it easier to channel this magic here?" The garden in which they sat was blooming, scents of flowers and damp earth permeating the air. An open sky above them, just like his own soul was open for her to do her work. "....Have you ever had to do this with another? With yourself?"

A creature that went through so much suffering - one that challenged every short-sighted idea of possible and impossible. It would be a lie to say he was not curious how the Witch named Mortem arrived at this tempered blade of will she so boldly embodied. Even if it had taken centuries, millenia - perhaps he, too, could be alike to her.

[thatconfusedanon]

| She was upright and he slammed her back down, using the other hand to stuff the washcloth further. There's not much he could do otherwise. |

Bite.

| She closes her teeth down on the cloth and his finger, which he pulls out with the space necessary only getting a small scratch. Why do the living have to be so goddamn stubborn? And why did he have to be in that mix? |

| He keeps one hand to keep her down while he snagged his work, sitting by her on the mattress. He pulls the souls into his lap and takes the knife. She glares at him and he sighs, taking his hand off to resume his work. She curls into herself, feeling sick to her stomach. Cries muffled by cloth as she hit on his arm, he continues on until the room falls silent. With one final cut through the thickest end he releases both. He drops the blade which was now stained with light grey substance nearly white. |

*It's gone quiet now, she's stopped writhing in agony now with a thin sheen of sweat coating her skin. His glinted beneath the dim light as well, as he heaved. His breathing turned ragged as the part he cut out stared with not grey but reddish eyes now, it changed in ways that Altair never really thought was possible.*

Was it worth it?

Shut the fuck up.

*For the record, he likely would've fallen apart again if he didn't do it. Regardless, however, he gets up and pulls a thin loose sheet over her seemingly lifeless body before retreating back up.*