#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. “Keep her safe.”

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. “Keep her safe.”

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

[paxaz535]

Northwood Ends

pazzi x oc

chapter 3

——

Carmen heard something. She couldn’t even get three hours of sleep in. But she had to be alert—had to stay cautious. It was around 3 a.m. when the noise came.

A creeping feeling told her something was lurking.

She chose to keep watch.

Upstairs, she sat on the floor, the furniture already stacked against the door. A bat rested in her hand, her face unreadable.

She didn’t hear anyone coming up the stairs—until a voice broke the silence.

“Carmie?”

It was Azzi. Soft. Sweet.

Carmen whipped her head toward the basement door. Azzi stood there, eyes hazy with sleep, confusion lining her face.

“What are you doing up?” Her voice was like silk. It made Carmen’s heart soften without warning.

“I heard something. Thought I’d keep watch.”

Azzi bit her cheek to hide a smile. Carmen was so selfless, so careful with everyone else’s safety.

“How are you?” Carmen asked gently.

“Still sleepy. But I’m fine.”

Without another word, Azzi crossed the floor and sat beside her, legs tucked beneath her as she wiped at her eyes.

Carmen’s grip on the bat loosened just slightly with Azzi beside her. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward—it was full. Weighted with everything unspoken.

Azzi leaned her head back against the wall, her shoulder brushing against Carmen’s. “Do you think it was one of them?”

Carmen didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed locked on the stairwell, listening. Always listening.

“Maybe,” she finally said. “I don’t want to take any chances.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “You never do.”

There was a pause.

“You’re always looking out for everyone else,” Azzi added, her voice just above a whisper. “When do you get to rest?”

Carmen glanced at her, and for once, let her guard slip. “When this is all over.”

Azzi turned her head to look at her. Really look. “You know… you don’t have to do it alone.”

Carmen held her gaze. The softness in Azzi’s eyes made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear or exhaustion. She wanted to say something, but the words felt dangerous. Too heavy for the dark.

Just then, footsteps creaked from the stairs.

Both girls froze, until a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“Should’ve known you’d be up,” Paige said, her tone casual—but her eyes were sharp, flicking from Azzi to Carmen.

She was wrapped in a jacket, hair pulled up messily, eyes still puffy from sleep. She carried a knife at her side like it belonged there.

“What’s going on?” Paige asked, voice lower now.

Carmen straightened up a bit. “Heard something. Could’ve been one of them.”

Paige’s eyes stayed on her for a second longer than necessary. “You should’ve woken me.”

“I didn’t want to—”

“You don’t have to protect everyone by yourself, Carm,” Paige said firmly, stepping closer. She caught Azzi’s eye then, just briefly. “Some of us are here for you. Whether you like it or not.”

Azzi looked away.

Carmen exhaled slowly, her pulse picking up for a different reason now. She looked between them—Azzi beside her, Paige standing over her—and felt the walls closing in, but not from the danger outside.

From the weight of being wanted in two different ways.

Paige sat down on Carmen’s other side, close enough to brush shoulders. “If we’re keeping watch,” she said, softer this time, “we’re doing it together.”

Carmen didn’t answer. She just stared ahead into the dark, heart pulled in opposite directions—both of them right there beside her.

-

“Are they fucking serious?”

Nika’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Mia choked on a laugh, while Emani just blinked, trying to process the scene in front of them.

There, on the cold floor, Carmen, Azzi, and Paige were tangled together in a mess of limbs—Paige’s arm slung over Carmen’s waist, Azzi curled up on Carmen’s other side, her head resting on a shoulder. A bat and a knife had slipped from their hands and now lay abandoned beside them.

Kk raised an eyebrow. “Damn. Y’all playin’ apocalypse Twister or what?”

Azzi stirred first, blinking against the sudden light. “Wha—?”

Carmen sat up with a jolt, disoriented. “Wait—what time is it?”

Paige groaned, rubbing her eyes. “Why are we on the floor?”

“Oh, I know why,” Nika said, arms crossed, smirking like a cat who caught something juicy. “Didn’t realize it was that kinda watch.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Carmen muttered, running a hand through her hair, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.

“It really wasn’t,” Paige added, clearly still half-asleep and too tired to defend her dignity properly.

Azzi, on the other hand, yawned and stretched, unbothered. “Speak for yourselves.”

The others howled.

Mia shook her head. “Y’all are wild. Zombies outside, and it’s cuddle o’clock in here.”

Carmen tried to glare, but her flushed cheeks ruined the effect. “We were on watch. We just… got comfortable.”

Kk grinned. “Yeah, comfortable on each other.”

Paige just sighed, standing up and brushing herself off. “Remind me never to fall asleep around any of you again.”

“Too late,” Nika called after her. “Your secret snuggle squad has been exposed.”

Carmen covered her face with both hands.

Azzi leaned over, her voice teasing in Carmen’s ear. “We make a good team. Maybe next time we get blankets though?”

Carmen groaned. “God, please stop talking.”

But she was smiling.

-

Even an hour later, Carmen could still hear it—the teasing, the whispers, the exaggerated gasps whenever she so much as looked in Azzi or Paige’s direction.

Nika walked by with a smirk and muttered, “Power throuple.”

Emani pretended to swoon every time Carmen picked up her bat. “She’s armed and emotionally tangled.”

Mia kept calling the trio “Snuggle Squad Alpha,” and Kk just followed Carmen around with dramatic gasps like she’d walked in on something scandalous every time they were in the same room.

“I hate everyone,” Carmen muttered, dragging her hands down her face.

“Aw,” Azzi said sweetly, popping up behind her. “You’re just mad we made the floor look so comfy.”

“It was comfy,” Paige added from across the room, balancing her knife on one finger. “Until you drooled on my jacket.”

“That was Azzi!” Carmen snapped, pointing.

Azzi blinked innocently. “Wow. Betrayal at dawn?”

“Wow,” Mia chimed in. “They’re already fighting like a couple. This is escalating quickly.”

“Okay,” Carmen said, standing up. “Can everyone just—can we all forget this happened?”

“Nope,” Nika said immediately. “It lives in my brain forever. Like a tattoo, but messier.”

“Weapons?” Paige offered dryly, lifting her knife. “I vote weapons.”

Azzi raised a hand. “I vote snuggling again. It was warm.”

Carmen stared at both of them like they were a very vivid nightmare.

“I swear,” she groaned, stomping toward the bathroom door. “Next time I’m keeping watch alone. On the roof. With a shovel.”

Kk called after her, “Take your girlfriends with you!”

Carmen slammed the door behind her.

Inside, the rest of the group cracked up.

Azzi turned to Paige with a grin. “Think she’ll calm down?”

Paige shrugged, that little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “If not, we can always lure her back with affection and dry snacks.”

“Perfect,” Azzi said. “She’s weak for granola bars.”

From outside, Carmen’s voice rang through the thin wall:

“I CAN HEAR YOU!”

-

4 Weeks Later

-

Carmen had finally come to terms with a harsh reality: the house was full of athletes, which meant they were hungry. Constantly. And after three weeks of pretending they’d be fine, it was obvious someone had to go out and restock if they wanted to stay alive.

That someone, of course, was her.

She was tearing the house apart looking for a missing sock when—

“Yo, Carm!”

She popped up from under the couch, hair wild, eyes locking on Kk in the doorway.

“What?”

“Uh… so we’re out of corn, chips, meat—and we’re getting real close to running low on water.”

Carmen groaned. She’d seen this coming, just not this soon.

She stomped into the kitchen, yanked open the cabinets, and cursed under her breath. Kk wasn’t exaggerating. The food they’d hauled back from the mall, plus whatever was in the house before they took it over, was nearly gone.

She stared into the shelves for a beat.

Then yelled, “OH, HELL NO. GIRLS!”

Her voice echoed through the house, loud and sharp. Even Kk jumped.

One by one, they started filtering in.

Azzi appeared first, hoodie half-on, yawning. “Someone die?”

Paige followed with her knife already in hand. “Do I need this, or is Carmen just spiraling again?”

Emani leaned against the wall, eating the last granola bar like it was gold. “We rationing now or…?”

Mia flopped onto the counter like this was theater. “What’s the crisis today, Commander?”

Nika strolled in next, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. “She saw the snack shelf, didn’t she?”

“I live with animals,” Carmen muttered, motioning wildly at the cabinets. “We’re out of everything.”

“Everything?” Ice repeated, poking her head in with Nyla behind her. “Like… even Hot Cheetos?”

Nyla deadpanned, “If the Cheetos are gone, we riot.”

Azzi opened the fridge, then closed it again like it personally offended her. “She’s not wrong. It’s looking sad in here.”

“What about the water?” Kk asked as she lifted up a half empty jug.

“Can’t we just use the tap?” Nika asked as she looked at Carmen.

Carmen looked toward the sink and went to turn it on.

Nothing came out.

“What the hell?”

She tried again.

Nothing.

“Oh fuck,” She groaned, throwing her head back. The fucking water got cut off. What’d she expect? This is still a house, after all. With fuck ass bills.

Paige crossed her arms. “We need to do a run.”

Carmen was already grabbing her bat and backpack. “I’ll do it.”

“No one goes alone,” Azzi snapped, stepping closer. “That’s the rule.”

“I made the rule,” Carmen shot back. “And I’m breaking it.”

“Not happening,” Paige said flatly.

Carmen glared. “I can move faster alone. I won’t risk all of us out there. If I get caught, it’s just me. If we all get caught—”

“Damn,” Emani said under her breath. “She’s pulling the martyr card today.”

“I’m pulling the survival card,” Carmen snapped.

Mia gave her a lazy salute. “May the odds be ever in your emotionally repressed favor.”

Kk raised a hand. “Can I request Oreos?”

“No!” Carmen shouted.

Azzi still looked ready to argue, but Paige stepped forward, steady and quiet. “Let her go.”

The room fell silent.

Carmen gave them one last look, jaw tight. “I’ll be back in two hours. Don’t touch my hoodie. Don’t rearrange the weapons. And if you eat the last fruit snack—I’ll know.”

With that, she swung the door open and stepped into the street.

-

Carmen had planned to be fast. In and out. No drama.

But the world didn’t work like that anymore.

The corner mart was half-collapsed, sagging like a dying animal beneath the weight of silence and dust. It crouched behind a long-abandoned gas station, the windows shattered, the roof peeled open like a wound. Weeds clawed up the cracked pavement out front, and a dead bird lay curled near the curb, picked clean.

Carmen slipped in through the back. The air inside was stale—old rot and mildew clinging to every surface. Shadows clung to the corners. The buzzing of flies was loud enough to make her skin crawl.

The front had been picked clean—shelves overturned, glass everywhere—but in a back aisle she found a hidden trove: a stack of dented canned food, a few crumpled cases of bottled water.

She stared for a second, wide-eyed.

“Thank God,” she whispered, dropping to her knees and yanking open her backpack.

Her fingers worked fast, stuffing cans and bottles inside, trying not to make too much noise. Her heart was racing—not fear, not yet, just adrenaline. The way it always did when she was out here, alone. Exposed.

And then she heard it.

Voices.

Not infected.

People.

Laughter, low and sharp. Footsteps crunching over broken glass.

Carmen froze, crouched behind the counter. Her hand hovered over a can, still inside the box. Her breath hitched.

One of them spoke—deep voice, muffled by distance. “Door’s open in the back. Someone’s here.”

Another voice. Higher. Mocking. “Think they left us any snacks?”

More footsteps.

Carmen’s blood went cold.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and crept toward the back door, eyes flicking toward the exit sign barely glowing above the frame.

Then—

Clink.

A can shifted under her boot, rolled off the edge of a shelf and hit the floor.

Everything stopped.

“Hey,” someone barked. “That came from back there!”

A beat of silence.

Then chaos.

“MOVE!”

Carmen bolted.

She tore through the back hall, boots slipping on debris, breath ripping from her throat. She heard them behind her—shouting, running, hunting.

She burst into the alley behind the store, nearly slammed into a dumpster, and pivoted hard. Her lungs screamed. Her legs burned. But she didn’t stop. Not when she heard them just seconds behind.

“Get her!” someone shouted.

She pushed harder, heart pounding like gunfire in her ears. She tore down the street, zig-zagged through rusted-out cars, ducked beneath fallen power lines. Her backpack slammed against her back with every step.

A crow took off from a rooftop, shrieking.

Carmen didn’t look back.

Not until she dove behind a rusted-out delivery van three blocks away, chest heaving, vision swimming with static. She crouched low, hand clamped over her mouth.

Silence.

No footsteps. No voices. Just the wind, sighing through the empty street.

But the quiet didn’t comfort her.

It made her feel watched.

She didn’t know if they’d seen her face. Didn’t know if they’d followed her and just weren’t making noise anymore. The kind of men who laughed while hunting someone didn’t give up that easily.

Her knuckles were white around the strap of her bat. She waited.

A minute. Then two.

Still nothing.

But her gut twisted anyway, coiled tight like a snare.

She wasn’t sure if she’d made it out… or just led them straight back.

-

Carmen stepped through the door, the familiar creak of the hinges making her flinch. The house was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that felt wrong, like the world was holding its breath.

Her bag hit the floor with a soft thud, but the sound felt too loud in the tense air.

“Carm!” Kk’s voice sliced through the stillness, but it didn’t put Carmen at ease. Her eyes darted toward the group—Azzi, Mia, Nika, and the others were all in the same room, watching her closely.

“Yeah,” Carmen muttered, forcing her voice to sound casual, though it felt like a lie. “I found some stuff.”

She dropped her backpack, but it felt too heavy in her hands. She wanted to rush through the motions—show them the food, brush off the tension, pretend everything was fine—but she couldn’t. Not now.

Azzi stood up from the window and walked toward her, concern clear in her eyes. “Found some stuff?” she asked, her tone soft but suspicious. “What happened? Did you run into trouble?”

Carmen stiffened, trying to keep her expression neutral. She couldn’t let them see. She couldn’t let them know how close she came to being caught, how it felt like they were just one step behind the whole time.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice rougher than she meant it to be. “Just a couple of scavengers. Nothing to worry about.”

Nika leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You sure?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been gone a while. Too long for a quick run, don’t you think?”

Carmen felt her heartbeat quicken, the pressure of their stares weighing on her chest. She couldn’t lie again. Not without giving something away.

“I’m sure,” Carmen said, her words coming out slower this time. “Really. Nothing happened.”

But Kk wasn’t convinced. “Carm,” she said softly, pushing away from the wall. “You look… I don’t know. You look like you’re about to burst. What’s going on?”

A beat of silence. Carmen’s throat tightened. She wanted to say something, anything, to shut them out. But her mind was racing, thinking about the men in the alley, the sprint she barely managed to make, the way she kept hearing footsteps in the distance, even now.

Her hands trembled slightly, but she clenched them into fists.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, a little more forcefully this time. “I just need a minute. That’s all.”

Azzi studied her for a moment, like she could see through Carmen’s walls. But then, slowly, she nodded. “Alright,” she said quietly. “But if something happened…”

“Nothing happened,” Carmen cut her off, her voice snapping a little more than she intended. “I told you. I’m fine.”

There was a pause, then Mia spoke up. “We need to talk about what comes next,” she said, her voice steady but grim. “We can’t keep staying here. Supplies are running out. We’re getting too exposed.”

Carmen’s stomach dropped at the sound of Mia’s words. She hadn’t been able to think about anything except the run, but now the weight of it all hit her. If she didn’t get herself together, if she didn’t figure out a way to move past this, they were all going to be in serious trouble.

“What do you mean?” Kk asked, her voice almost too quiet, like she was already dreading the answer.

“I mean,” Mia said, turning to the group, “We’re running low on everything. And now it’s only a matter of time before they start finding us.”

The air in the room shifted, a subtle, almost imperceptible change that made Carmen’s chest tighten even more.

Nyla, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “You think we should move?” she asked, her voice low, but her eyes wide with a quiet fear.

Mia didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced at Carmen, then back at the group. “We don’t have much of a choice. If those guys were out there, if they’re getting close… we can’t afford to stick around.”

Carmen’s breath hitched. If they’re getting close. The words felt like they were wrapping around her throat, choking her.

Azzi, too, was watching her carefully, as if she could read the tension in Carmen’s body. “We’ll do whatever we have to,” she said. “If it’s too dangerous here, we leave. We find somewhere else.”

Carmen’s pulse raced. She was shaking now, just slightly, but enough that it felt like the whole room could see it. The thought of running, of leaving everything behind, gnawed at her insides. The fear from her run earlier was still fresh, and the paranoia had burrowed deep. She hadn’t even told them about the fear that was still gnawing at her—had they followed? Had they seen her face?

She forced herself to stand a little taller, to try and mask the unease in her bones. “We’ll be fine here for now,” she said, but even to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow. “But we’ll figure something out. I’ll go out again tomorrow. Get more stuff.”

Kk took a step forward, her gaze unwavering. “Carmen,” she said, her voice low, “I’m not asking you to go back out there. If you think they’re following us, we leave now. No more chances.”

The group turned to look at Carmen, waiting for her to make the call.

Carmen’s thoughts swirled—should we go now? Should we leave before it’s too late? The idea of abandoning the house felt wrong, like they were losing control of everything. But staying here, waiting for whatever came next… that was just as dangerous.

“I’ll go check it out tonight,” she said, her voice firm despite the doubt that twisted in her gut. “I’ll see if anyone’s tracking us.”

They all exchanged glances. No one said anything for a long time.

Finally, Mia spoke again, her voice tense but resolute. “We need to decide soon. If we stay, we stay for good. No more second chances.”

Carmen’s heart sank. She nodded, but her mind was already racing with the weight of what she might have to do.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. And the worst part? She didn’t know how much time they had left before everything came crashing down.

-

The house was quiet—too quiet.

Carmen slipped on her boots without a sound, gripping the handle of her bat like a lifeline. Everyone else had gone to bed, or at least pretended to. She didn’t trust sleep right now. Not with the way her nerves kept prickling. Not after what she saw—what she heard—at the store.

She stepped out into the night, the air sharp and heavy. A low mist curled along the ground, softening the edges of the world and making every shadow look like a person waiting to move. Her breath came out in short, controlled bursts as she moved along the fence line, scanning for movement, for sound—anything.

She checked the alley first. Nothing.

Then the street. Abandoned cars. Cracked pavement. A flickering streetlight that made her want to run.

Still nothing.

She crouched low near a mailbox, eyes locked on the end of the street where the houses turned to black. That’s where the sound had come from. Distant footsteps. A metallic clank. A cough.

She waited.

Her heartbeat was a drum in her ears.

And then—movement.

Just for a second. A shape stepped into view near the corner house. Tall. Slouched. Human. Two of them? No, three. Talking in hushed voices. One of them pointed in the direction of their house.

Carmen’s stomach dropped. She ducked back, heart hammering. They were here. They’d followed.

She stayed low, inching her way back through the side yard, not even daring to breathe until she slipped through the back door and quietly locked it behind her.

Then she backed away, eyes wide, pulse out of control.

They had to go. Tomorrow.

[plsdontseemeeeee]

Safe are the Ghosts Lay me in the meadows ...

pt 7/ ????

Summary: In post-apocalyptic Jackson, you work as a medic and navigate tense relationships—especially with Ellie and your father, Joel. Despite the past, grief, and unspoken wounds, you figure out how to continue in a world that seems to love nothing more than ruining your life. - based of the HBO television series, currently in Episode two

currently showing: Heh, what is this you may ask? PROCRASTINATION GUYS I DON'T WANNA GO GOLFING SO THEREFORE JOEL NOW GETS TO BE LIKE HUH OK IG STARSHINE HAS A GF NOW?? that's all

Authors note: um... so I had a tumblr since 2023 and I somehow deleted it...so reposting my latest series.

Parirings: Joel & daughter! reader, Ellie x Reader (it will happen just give it TIME) Abby x reader (very minimal, just like harmless lil crushes)

“Head high.”

Her voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and breathless, snapping you out of the fog clawing at the edges of your mind. Her fingers gripped the collar of your coat with more force than necessary, tugging it straight—tight—until the pressure made your knees tremble.

Her hands didn’t shake. But her voice did. Not enough for anyone else to hear it. But you did. 

“You be strong,” she said again, eyes locking with yours, wild and wide with fear she wasn’t letting rise to the surface. “You’re strong.”

And for a moment, you weren’t in a barn or a battlefield or the middle of a storm. You were just a kid again, looking up into a face that had always made things better—Tess, jaw clenched like she could hold back the world with her will alone, eyes burning because she couldn’t afford to cry. You nodded, throat too tight to speak. She didn’t need a reply. She just needed to know that you'd walk out of there with your spine straight and your eyes forward—even if the ground was shaking beneath your feet.

“Momma—” The word slipped from your mouth before you could stop it. Small. Broken. That old name—buried under years of ash and grit—rose up like a ghost in your throat.

Tess shook her head before you could say anything more, pressing her hands to your arms with a force that rooted you in place. Her grip was firm—unchangeable—but you could feel it. The tremble beneath her skin. Not from weakness. Not from fear. But from urgency. From knowing what came next and not being able to stop it.

Her breath was shallow, uneven. Her eyes—red at the edges, ringed with sweat and smoke—searched your face like she was trying to memorize it one last time. Like she was holding onto the sight of you the way you’d once held onto her hand as a child—tight, unrelenting, like letting go meant the world would slip through your fingers.

“No, no…” she breathed, voice cracking in a way you’d only heard once before—back when you were sick, and she thought she was going to lose you. “You gotta go, baby. You gotta go—”

“I don’t—” you choked on the words, voice barely holding itself together, like your throat couldn’t decide whether to scream or sob. “I don’t want to—”

Your hands reached for her again, desperate, trembling, small. Just like you used to be when she’d pull you out of bed during raids or storms and tell you to be brave—when all you really wanted was to stay in her arms and let the world crash outside.

But this time, she didn’t pull you close.

“Nope,” Tess snapped, the word sharp and final like a slammed door. Her jaw clenched, her voice tight and cracking all at once—like it was holding back more than she was willing to show. Her eyes were glassy, rimmed with unshed tears she refused to let fall in front of you. “You don’t get to want right now,” she said, and each word cut into the air like a blade. “You go. That’s what you do. That’s what I taught you. You run. You live.”

She was already stepping back, her fingers slipping from your arms slowly—deliberately—as if she knew it would be the last time. Like if she held on any longer, she wouldn’t let go at all. Like she was tearing a piece of herself off and leaving it with you.

Then— “Oh my GOD!” Ellie’s voice cracked through the narrow hallway like thunder, wild and full of dread. She was pacing, hands in her hair, eyes darting like she couldn’t look at the truth head-on.

“She got bit,” she shouted, half to you, half to herself. “A fuckin’ bite! A— OH MY GOD!” The words echoed off the broken walls of what was left of the Firefly base, bouncing around the bloodstains and spent rounds.

Tess turned her face to the side, just enough to hide the bite on her neck, just enough to let the shadows swallow it. But you saw it. And she saw that you saw. “You go, go and grow up and you do all of the things I know you can do, go and survive, Starry,” she said, eyes locked with yours one final time, “Go.” her eyes go to Joel, “Go.” 

–

You sat at the piano, fingers grazing the keys as if some old memory was trapped beneath them, begging to be set free. The air was thick with silence, heavy with the weight of everything left behind. Above you, in the lofted bed, bodies lay curled into one another—old, rotted, still. The shape of what once was love, preserved only by decay. Potted plants, now brittle husks, lined the windowsill, their soil long dried and cracked. Outside, the gates still held—strong, defiant against the elements—but inside, the beauty of what had been built was beginning to crumble. Dust coated the armory in the corner, weapons untouched, once symbols of protection and preparation, now relics of hope long since buried. The walls bore the ghosts of art and expression, paintings faded, photographs curled at the edges, every corner whispering of lives lived fully and lost too soon. Art and beauty wilted. People died. Memory faded. But the blood—that never washed away. It soaked deep into the floorboards, immune to time. The arrow that once stood dull in its peace had grown sharper not by hand, but by the erosion of everything soft around it. What was left behind was not gentleness or legacy, but a sharpened edge, a quiet piano, and a world that kept forgetting.

“Hey.”

Ellie’s voice was soft—uncharacteristically so—and it came from just over your shoulder. You didn’t turn to look at her. You didn’t have it in you. Instead, you gave the faintest nod, enough to tell her she could sit. The bench creaked as she did, wood groaning under the weight of two people and too much grief.

Your fingers hovered above the piano keys again, unmoving now. Whatever memory had stirred in you earlier had gone quiet, buried again beneath the weight in your chest. Grief wasn’t new—not in this world—but this? This was something else. It wasn’t just death. It wasn’t just pain.

It was everything.

The loss of your anchor, of the only person who had ever made the weight feel lighter—even for a moment. The ringing in your ears hadn’t faded since that blast, a phantom echo that followed you even in sleep. And now this—this house, this sacred, hollow space that had once held warmth and purpose—was collapsing under time’s slow cruelty. The vines would eat it, the snow would break it, and the world would forget it.

Just like it forgot everything else. It felt like your whole life was crumbling in slow motion, and there was nothing left to do but sit in the ruins.

There was a long moment—just the hum of the wind through the cracked barn walls, the faint creak of the old piano bench beneath you both—before Ellie spoke again.

“Bill seemed like a cool guy.”

You snorted, a dry, broken laugh slipping from your chest before you could stop it. “Yeah,” you said, eyes still on the keys, “he was a jerk.”

Ellie scoffed beside you, her tone playful but soft around the edges. “Oof. Hope you said that to his face too, ‘cause otherwise you’re just talking shit about dead people.”

You turned your head just slightly, enough to catch the flicker of a smirk tugging at her mouth.

“Trust me,” you murmured, “he knew my opinions.”

Ellie leaned back a little on the bench, arms stretched across the top of it, looking around the room with that expression she wore when she didn’t quite know what to do with silence—restless, like she was trying to fill it without making it worse. Her eyes drifted up to the lofted bed, the still figures beneath the blanket, the dust settled thick like snow on the floor.

“Still,” she said after a moment, voice low now. “I dunno. It’s kinda… weird. Beautiful. In a morbid way. This place. A little slice of…i don’t know 1950’s sitcom-ism.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the keys again, your fingers twitching slightly like they wanted to press one, just one, to hear if the sound still worked. You didn’t. Not yet.

“Yeah,” you finally whispered. “They made it mean something. As much as they could.”

Ellie tilted her head. “You think they were in love? LIke…love, love?”

You let out a soft exhale—less a laugh, more like the air was heavy in your lungs. “Yeah. I think so. I think they were scared, and angry, and stubborn as hell… but yeah. I think they loved each other. And if they didn’t then fuck- could’ve fooled me..”

Ellie didn’t say anything to that. She didn’t need to. Her silence was agreement.

You glanced at her again, this time with something sadder behind your eyes. “It’s hard, you know? Watching the world end slowly. Over and over again. But they held their little piece of it, well, Bill did. Frank made it …well, he painted the room, the one I stayed in. They made it …something good.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, swallowing thickly. “They did.”

You pressed one key finally. A soft note echoed out—haunting, hollow, still alive. It faded into the stillness like a breath. You didn’t look at Ellie. Just sat in it. Let the sound settle.

Then you smirked slightly. “He once tried to set me up with someone, you know. Technically it was Bill’s idea, but he made Frank swear up and down it was his. A girl,” The words faltered on your lips, as you could feel Ellie’s gaze shift on you, a girl was what they thought you would want, as a girl so you clear your throat, “Another smuggler’s kid.”

Ellie blinked. “Wait—what?”

You grinned, just a little. “Swore we’d ‘make a practical pair.’ His words.”

“And?”

You shrugged. “She hated my guts. Called me a bleeding-heart knife freak.”

Ellie barked out a laugh, too loud for the room, but you didn’t mind. “Sounds like your type.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really, I’m picturing it now—very intense, very stabby courtship—”

You were laughing now too, and it cracked something open in your chest. Not grief. Not exactly.

–

You barely had time to scramble upright, legs fumbling beneath you, vision blurred with tears that stung more than they cleared. The noise was deafening—growls, snarls, chaos—and then Joel’s hand, rough and familiar, grabbed your arm in a vice grip and shoved you out of the way.

It was instinct. Reflex. Love.

He barely got you clear of the charge before the thing crashed toward you, all limbs and shrieks and rot.

What had once been a boy—just a kid. Maybe eight, maybe younger. Now twisted. Snapping teeth. Hands like claws. Eyes gone. Just hunger.

You hit the ground hard, the breath punched out of your lungs as your knees slammed into the packed dirt and crusted snow. The impact sent a jolt up your spine, and for a brief, disoriented second, all you could hear was the dull thud of your body meeting earth and the high ring of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Then—pain.

Immediate. Sharp. Wrong.

Something latched onto your ankle with a force that stole not just your breath, but your sense of reality. One second you were on the ground—alive, moving, thinking—and the next, you were being dragged. Your hands scrambled across the frozen dirt, fingers clawing for anything to hold onto—twigs, broken stone, splinters of what might’ve once been a barn beam—but the snow gave you nothing. Nothing.

The grip on your leg tightened, claws digging through the leather of your boot and catching skin. You felt it break. The tearing. The pressure. The shock.

And then the scream ripped out of you—raw, loud, animal. It wasn’t words. It wasn’t thought. It was the kind of sound that came from deep inside your chest, where instinct lived and logic didn’t matter. Your throat burned with it, tears stinging your eyes as your entire body fought against the pull—against the thing dragging you back into the dark.

You could hear it behind you now—snarling, breathing, moving with that frantic, erratic twitch that only the infected carried. The sound of nails skittering on wood. Teeth gnashing air. The wet slop of something ruined and reanimated.

“DA—”

But the word didn’t even finish.

A gunshot split the air like thunder.

Everything rang. High-pitched, sharp, wrong. Your vision blurred further, not from tears now—but from blood.

Warmth dripped down the side of your face, sticking your hair to your cheek, crawling down your neck. You didn’t know if it was yours. Didn’t know whose it was. All you could hear was the high screech of panic in your ears and the faraway sound of yelling—muffled, like underwater.

Joel. You knew his voice even through the ringing. Yelling your name. Yelling something else.

And your eyes—wide, stinging, bloodied—barely had time to register what you were seeing.

Henry.

He stood there, frozen in place, gun trembling in his hands, arms locked like a man holding the sky on his back. His face was cracked open in shock, in disbelief, in the kind of grief that doesn’t make a sound because it can’t.

And at his feet—

Sam.

Oh… Sam.

He’d turned. He’d turned, and the moment it happened—just a flicker, just a blink—Henry had moved.

He shot him.

He shot his little brother.

Because there was no other choice.

Your breath hitched, caught sharp in your chest like glass. Barely even sitting up, your blood falling down the side of your face, warm despite it all running like ice.

BANG.

The second shot.

You flinched hard, arms rising like they could protect you from it, even though it was already done. Even though the room had already gone quiet.

Henry’s body hit the floor before the echo even faded. And all you could do was stand there. Bleeding. Shaking. Watching.

Helpless.

Joel, since that day, normally stuck to your left side, where the skin of your ear had been torn.

—

“Abigail.”

“Sparrow.”

Her voice cracked through the chaos like it had been waiting years to say your name. And maybe it had.

Your legs started moving before your brain caught up, your body carried by something deeper than instinct—something ancient, something aching. You pushed off the ground, boots slamming against warped wooden steps as you climbed the rickety staircase two at a time, breath fogging in the freezing air, the cold suddenly nothing compared to the heat blooming in your chest.

You met her at the top—right there, on the landing—like the world wasn’t ending below your feet. Like the horde of infected pounding at the outer doors weren’t real. Like the wind wasn’t howling through broken beams behind you. Like none of it mattered.

Because she was there. Standing at the top of those splintered stairs like a ghost made real—after all this time, after you had convinced yourself she’d either forgotten you or died somewhere out in the cold. You’d pictured it a thousand ways: her gone without a trace, swallowed up by infection or raiders or the cruel indifference of the world. It was easier to believe she’d been lost than to imagine she’d simply moved on. That she'd let you become one more fading thing in her rearview. But she hadn’t. She remembered. She came.

Even through blizzards and blood and sirens that never stopped wailing in your head, she came. You remembered the way her laugh used to cut through the dark like a spark, the way she once held your trembling hands in some ruined schoolhouse basement and told you it was okay to cry—but then she left. Or maybe you left. The details blurred, both of you torn in different directions by war and circumstance and survival. Still, she found you. Not by chance—by choice. And that mattered more than the horde at your back or the frost clinging to your lashes.

Her cheeks were raw from the wind, her jacket half-frozen, a cut blooming at her temple—but her eyes… her eyes were on you like she’d never looked away. Like she hadn’t let you go for a second, even when everything said she should’ve. And your name on her lips still felt like a promise. The embrace was short-lived, but in that brief moment it held a thousand unspoken things—years of silence, grief left to rot in the spaces between, the unbearable hope that maybe, just maybe, the other had made it. Her hand pressed to the back of your head, grounding you, fingers buried in your hair like she couldn’t believe you were solid, real. Your breaths came out sharp and ragged, gasping like you were both trying to breathe for the first time in a long time, like you were daring the world to correct you—to say this was a hallucination, a dream conjured by cold and exhaustion and too much missing.

But it wasn’t.

You pulled back at the same time, still gripping her arms like letting go would somehow undo the moment. And when you both got a good look at each other—really looked, through the blood and bruises, the snow in your lashes, the sheer alive-ness of it all—all you could do was laugh.

A shaky, breathless, disbelieving laugh.

“Hi.”

Her voice cracked, and her grin split through the grime on her face like sunlight. “Oh fuck—hi.”

Then, in proper Joel fashion, he cleared his throat—loud, gruff, and perfectly timed to cut through the moment without completely shattering it. Your eyes flicked toward him, and he gave you that look—half exasperation, half soft patience masked as urgency. You nodded once, still caught somewhere between disbelief and relief, and then turned back to her.

And almost without thinking—like your body needed one final confirmation that this wasn’t some cruel dream conjured by adrenaline and blood loss—you leaned in and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her forehead. It landed more on the edge of her knit hat than skin, but it didn’t matter. It was the weight of it. The intention. The grounding of it. She’s here.

You pulled back with a shaky breath, the cold still biting at your cheeks, and muttered, “Uh—what—we gotta go.”

“No shit,” Joel coughed.

“Dad—” you started, turning toward him just as he stepped past, boots heavy on the stairs.

“Sorry,” Joel said, not missing a beat. “Bonding moment—got it. Real sweet. But we gotta go, kiddo.”

He patted your shoulder as he passed, gentle but firm. The kind of touch that said he was glad you were safe—both of you—but now it was time to move.

He patted your shoulder as he passed—gentle, but firm. The kind of touch that said everything without saying a word: I’m glad you’re okay. I see you. Now let’s move.

“Um, right, um—Gale, my dad—Dad—” you stammered, adrenaline still chasing your words as you turned toward the unfolding urgency.

Joel gave a nod as he checked over Maple, running a hand down the gelding’s neck, eyes scanning for any injuries before gripping the saddle horn and mounting with a grunt, his body tense but focused, like he’d never once known a moment of rest but still kept moving forward.

“Joel,” he said as he shifted in the saddle, looking at “Gale” now—Abby—like he already knew everything he needed to. “Nice to meet ya, Gale.”

Abby faltered. Her body stilled, her mouth barely parting, the weight of that name crashing down on her like snow off a rooftop. “Joel?” she echoed. Not quite a question. Not quite an answer either. Just disbelief. Recognition twisting through the air.

You looked to her, voice softening instinctively—an old habit, the one you always reserved for when she looked like that. Like she was trying to do the math on a war she hadn’t signed up for.

“Mm. Ride with him.”

Abby stared at you like you’d just suggested she jump out a window. Her brows knit tight, jaw twitching, her eyes flickering between you and Joel like she was trying to see if you were joking—or just didn’t know. That look wasn’t just hesitation. It was exasperation. Shock. Maybe even betrayal. Like she was standing face to face with a story she’d buried and you were handing it a saddle.

You tilted your head, confused, the storm outside nothing compared to the tension that had suddenly rooted her feet to the barn floor. You were about to ask, what the hell is wrong—

And then the upstairs door exploded inward with a deafening crash, splinters and snow raining down. The shrieking that followed was inhuman—the sound of hunger without restraint. Echoing, guttural, close.

You didn’t have time to think. Didn’t have time to argue.

Without a word, you slapped your hand hard against the flank of Maple, the sound cracking through the barn. The horse bolted instantly—Joel cursing under his breath as he gripped the reins, catching Abby’s arm just as she jolted in shock.

And then they were gone.  Racing into the whiteout, hooves pounding against the frozen earth.You spun, already reaching for Birdie’s reins, heart thundering in your chest—not from the horde behind you, but from the unanswered question hanging in the air like a blade: Why the hell did she look at him like that?

(Anyway....comments and what not mean sooooo so so so much! toodles!)

[miorrtae]

NEWS FLASH ᥫ᭡ TAEYEON SMAU

NF 22

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The airport was chaos.

Flashing lights, shouting voices, and the constant buzz of cameras clicking filled the air as Y/N stepped through the arrival gate. Fans crowded behind barriers, their cheers echoing through the terminal, but all Y/N could focus on was the pounding in her head. She kept her head down, her mask covering the lower half of her face. But she had to put on a smile.

It was her first public appearance since the hiatus. And it felt suffocating.

The months away had been necessary—life-saving, really—but they hadn’t prepared her for this. For the way the world hadn’t slowed down. For how the pressure came crashing back the second she set foot on familiar ground.

Her manager walked ahead, parting the sea of fans and reporters with practiced ease. Security flanked her sides, guiding her toward the waiting van.

Almost there. Just a few more steps.

But then—

“Y/N! How do you feel about rejoining promotions?”

“Y/N, are you excited to be in GOT the Beat?”

The question cut through the noise like a blade. Y/N’s steps faltered for a split second, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag.

GOT the Beat?

Her heart pounded, a cold wave washing over her. She hadn’t heard wrong. The reporters weren’t speculating—they were stating it like fact.

Her manager glanced back, eyes widening slightly at the tension in Y/N’s posture. But Y/N kept moving, pushing through the last few steps until she was inside the safety of the van. The door shut, sealing her away from the chaos, but the words echoed in her head.

GOT the Beat.

Her breaths came quicker as she pulled her mask down, feeling the cool air hit her skin. Her phone buzzed in her hand—a slew of notifications, articles, fan reactions flooding in. But one stood out.

“SM Entertainment Confirms Y/N to Join GOT the Beat’s Upcoming Comeback Lineup.”

Her vision blurred as she read the headline again. And again.

They didn’t even tell her.

Her own company had announced her involvement in a project she hadn’t agreed to. Hadn’t even been informed about.

And worse—

Her stomach dropped as her eyes skimmed the article, her chest tightening when she saw the list of members.

Taeyeon.

Of course.

Y/N’s throat went dry. Months of distance, of trying to heal, of piecing herself back together—and now SM had thrown her right back into the lion’s den. Right back into the orbit of the person who had broken her without so much as a warning.

Her manager’s voice was gentle, almost hesitant. “Y/N…”

“Did you know?” Y/N’s voice was barely above a whisper, her fingers curling around her phone as her jaw clenched.

There was a beat of silence.

“They… they said they’d brief you when you landed.”

Y/N laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just bitterness. “Of course they did.”

Her manager shifted uncomfortably but didn’t say anything else. There was nothing to say.

Y/N leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes as her pulse pounded in her ears.

GOT the Beat. With Taeyeon.

And she hadn’t even seen it coming.

The van moved smoothly through the busy streets, but Y/N barely noticed. Her mind was too loud—drowning in the echoes of headlines, fan comments, and the bitter truth staring her in the face.

GOT the Beat. With Taeyeon.

It wasn’t just a project. It was constant proximity. Rehearsals. Meetings. Filming. Promotions. Standing beside Taeyeon on stage, pretending everything was fine while the weight of everything left unsaid hung between them.

How was she supposed to do this?

Her grip on her phone tightened as she scrolled through the article again, as if reading it a second—or third—time would somehow change the words. But they stayed the same. Cold. Unfeeling.

“Y/N will rejoin promotions as part of GOT the Beat’s upcoming unit activities.”

They didn’t ask. They didn’t warn her. They just… announced it.

A part of her had known this moment would come. SM wasn’t going to let her sit on the sidelines forever. But this?

Taeyeon.

Y/N’s jaw clenched as her thumb hovered over her messages. There was nothing from Taeyeon. No explanation. No warning. Nothing. Just silence—like always.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She shouldn’t be surprised. Taeyeon had perfected the art of avoidance. It was easier to leave Y/N in the dark than to face her. To admit what she had done.

“Do you… want me to reach out to the company?” her manager asked softly, breaking the silence.

Y/N blinked, her gaze shifting to the passing buildings outside the window. The thought of calling SM, demanding answers, felt pointless. They had already made their decision. What was she supposed to say?

“Take me out of the unit?”

They’d never agree. She was too valuable. Her return was buzz—an opportunity they wouldn’t let slip through their fingers.

“No,” Y/N murmured, her voice quieter than she intended. “It’s too late for that.”

Her manager didn’t push, but the concern was clear in her eyes.

Y/N’s fingers hovered over her phone again, this time over Taeyeon’s contact. The name stared back at her, a painful reminder of everything they hadn’t said.

Her thumb hovered, the urge to call, to text—to demand answers—gnawing at her. But what would that even accomplish?

Why didn’t you tell me?

Why did I have to find out like this?

But she already knew the answer.

Taeyeon was a coward.

And maybe… Y/N was tired of being the one to chase after her.

With a sharp breath, she locked her phone and set it aside, ignoring the heaviness in her chest.

Fine.

If SM wanted her back, if they wanted her standing beside Taeyeon again, smiling and pretending that nothing had happened—then fine.

She’d do it.

But this time, she wouldn’t be the one left broken.

This time, Taeyeon would feel every bit of the distance Y/N had been forced to endure.

taglist + @gtfoiydlyj @sewiouslyz @xen248 @mineige @yjiminswallet @saysirhc @pandafuriosa60 @yeri-luvr

[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."

[ominous-faechild]

CHARACTER VOICELINES:

WAVES OF MISFORTUNE

INCLUDES: mcs and supporting cast

VOICELINE: “I didn't come here to play games. I came here to win.”

CHARACTERS: ✦ Zarina Baudelaire ✦ Hugo “Cricket” Tinoco ✦ Benjamin “Benji” Aikawa ✦ Flavie (the amnesiac) ✦ Zhihao (the familiar) ✦ Yesval González

WAVES OF MISFORTUNE

“I didn't come here to play games. I came here to win.”

ZARINA BAUDELAIRE

Zarina: (words coming out slow, clear, and dangerous) “I said this once already, and I won't repeat myself again. {Do what I said} or, one way or another, I will make it happen myself.”

[if no response/especially a denial?]

Zarina: [strides forward, swiftly dodging any attacks against her, darting around them while snatching their wrists, quickly pinning them to the ground, and pricking them with the tip of a dagger that had been hidden in her sleeve]

Zarina: (coldly) “Last chance. Do or die.”

HUGO “CRICKET” TINOCO

Cricket: (awkwardly) “Ah... I'm not going to lie, this is, ha, unfortunate...”

Cricket: [takes a slow, deep breath; then stands up straight, takes a swift step forward, and spins his staff in the air to point it at the person]

Cricket: (voice uncharacteristically cold, but slightly uneven) “I don't want to do this, but I will. {Help/tell me}, or I will have to force you. We can start the easy way, and make it harder as necessary. So. Is {a truth spell/basic threat} going to be enough, or do we have to start with something more painful?”

FLAVIE (THE AMNESIAC)

Flavie: [lets out a slow, unsteady breath as her form wobbles, transforming into water, stretching around, and variably returning to flesh and bone... while a storm simultaneously starts forming in the sky]

Flavie: [finally, narrows her eyes on the person to pierce them with a sharp glare]

Flavie: (voice thick, but threatening) “So. Let's get this straight: you're {doing something I think is highly immoral}!? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?”

Flavie: [stomps forward, pulling her dagger from its sheath at her hip to point it at their throat... while their body magically locks up; every available bit of water around them swells and jumps forward; and they're suddenly trapped in the grasp a solid water fist]

Flavie: [snarling; voice dangerously low) “Here's how we're going to go about to fix this, and you'll earn your redemption. [Proceeds to give instructions].”

Flavie: [sits back, still snarling, but lets out a slow breath as she sheathes her blade again and puts a dark, threatening grin on her lips]

Flavie: [... and face flickers in surprise as she notices the fist of water gripping them]

Flavie: [forcibly shakes her head, taking a deep breath, bringing the malicious grin back to her hips, and locking eyes with them one final time]

Flavie: (fake, sarcastic warmth in her voice) “so!” [brings her hands together in a clap] “You're going to do that if you'd like to continue living!”

Flavie: [dropping the grin and letting her voice go low and cold again)

Flavie: “Understood?”

BENJAMIN “BENJI” AIKAWA

Benji: [lets out a slow, heavy sigh; working his jaw, rolling his shoulders, and rubbing the back of his neck as he looks around anxiously]

Benji: [swallowing hard, quickly stands up straight to pierce them with a sharp look and pace forward, closing the distance... and activating his glamour]

Benji: (voice low) “You are going to {think/feel/do this}, and afterwards, you are going to forget about everything related to my magic. Got it?”

Benji: [they don't have a choice. They understand, and will be compelled to follow instructions... whether they previously would've or not.]

ZHIHAO (THE FAMILIAR)

Zhihao: [sassily trailing in a seemingly random pattern, his gait as close to a sashay as a fox can manage... though, he's subtly tense, and poised as though ready to strike at any moment]

Zhihao: (speaking sharply, with a disembodied voice) 'Did you really think that, just because of my form, because of my host, or aura, that I have no power? That I can't do anything?'

Zhihao: [stops pacing to flip and face the person he's speaking to, standing up tall—and letting his hidden tails show as he bares his teeth]

Zhihao: (still sharply, but with a hint of amusement) 'Well, let me introduce you to my favorite saying:

Zhihao: 'knowledge is POWER.'

Zhihao: [swipes his paw over a spot which had previously held nothing—and a sudden flash of light exposes a spell circle he'd drawn while pacing. With the that, he's activated a spell that's an instant win condition for him, one way or another... because he's always prepared.]

Zhihao: (disembodied voice bitter and mocking) 'And, oh, look at that. The poor, weak, defenseless fiend, the familiar of a weak anchor... has already won. Because you didn't consider him a threat, or think to look too closely at what he was doing.'

Zhihao: [lifting his chin and disappearing his tails again; dryly) 'I'd say "I hope this teaches you a lesson", but... I don't. I rather hope you never get in {Benjamin's} way again.'

Benji: [picks him up, quickly wrapping him in a careful hug] Benji: (voice weak, but grateful) "Ha... thanks, guy." Zhihao: Zhihao: [tense at first, but slowly slumps into him] Zhihao: (telepathically) 'Of course, {Benji}. Now, let's get out of this place, yeah?' Benji: [fakes a scoff, but hugs him a bit tighter] 'Obviously. Like I'm going to stick around a joint like this.' Zhihao: (teasingly) 'You've made worse decisions.' >;D Benji: [intense eye-rolling intensifies—]

YESVAL GONZÁLEZ

Yesval: [lets out a slow, heavy sigh, rolling their eyes]

Yesval: [... and closes their eyes, taking in a deeeeeep breath—]

Yesval: [and finally snaps their eyes open, instantly summoning gales of wind around both themself and the tragically misfortunate—and likely straight-up moronic—person who just pissed them off]

Yesval: [personally anchored to the ground, but the vortex around the other person zips them forward to plant them in front of Yesval, who steps forward into the air to glare at their nose]

Yesval: (voice near-monotone, but ever-so-slightly sharp) “I will draw the air out of your lungs and leave you to suffocate in your own cloud of miserable vacuum if you don't cooperate right. now.”

Yesval: [and, to prove their point, sucks the air straight from their body and leaves them suffocating for a moment... before releasing both the air bubble around their head and the vortex around them, letting them fall limply to the ground]

Yesval: [simply sighs slightly, gently returning to the ground themself and looking at their own fingernails]

Yesval: [... and hesitantly looking back at them with a slightly impatient expression]

Yesval: (deadpan) “Understand?”

this is a thing i'd wanted to do (and wrote out lol) a long while ago. it's been sitting in my drafts because i'd wanted to do one of them for all of my stories and post them all together, but, uh...

just take the waves guys y'all lol

(i'm sure you prefer it like this, anyway, lol)

dividers by @saradika

[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.