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uniquevoidflowers · 7 months

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This is a fic based off of @kikker-oma's whumptober art!!! Please go check that out first!

Wind walked up to the captain, fists clenched as he tried not to sob. He stood there for a few seconds, glaring at his older brother. “Something on your mind there, sailor?” Warriors croaked.

Wind’s shoulders shook as his fist tightened even more. “You’re a liar.” He spat.

Warriors took a shaky breath. Wind didn’t acknowledge him, caught up in his own anger. “Sailor, please—“

“SHUT UP! I-I thought he would be okay!” Wind screamed.

“He will be.” Warriors mumbled.

The sailor couldn’t stop the tears that flowed down his face. He didn’t know exactly why he was so angry, maybe it was because Warriors couldn’t be telling the truth. Wind had seen the state of Time, the old man that he had clung to constantly for warmth and safety. “How do you know t-that?!” Wind hiccuped.

Warriors was trembling, the rod in his hands shaking. “He can’t die on us…he just can’t…”

“I KNEW IT! You…You don’t have a real reason…!” Wind screamed and stormed off.

“Sailor w-wait!” The captain called, pain laced into his voice.

The kid didn’t listen and walking became full-blown sprinting as he rushed into the forest. Tears flew out of his face and made his vision blurry and then he stumbled to the ground, catching himself with his hands. His hands and knees stung as he rubbed his hands together gently trying to alleviate some of the pain. “Please Hylia if you’re hearing this…let Warriors be right…let Time…” He broke off at the end.

The sailor never really prayed but he was willing to if it meant the old man would survive. He curled into himself and swallowed back sobs.

(“NO!” Twilight cried out and everyone jerked around just in time to see the old man slam into the ground.)

He buried his head into his arms.

(“Pay attention sailor!” Someone yelled at him and he deflected attacks from enemies, pale from the words he heard spilling out of the captain’s mouth.)

Silence rang in his ears as he tried desperately to shove the images out of his mind.

(Once the dust settled the sailor couldn’t help but run to see what had happened and he found Time lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His breath caught in his throat.)

“N-no…” He whispered to himself.

(Someone grabbed his hand and pulled him away as Warriors yelled Time’s name over and over again. He struggled against whoever was holding him but they had a tight and firm grasp.)

His wrists were sore suddenly.

(“What’s going on?!” Wind screeched. “Time got hurt but Warriors is healing him. Everything will be okay.” The someone tried to soothe. “Stop talking to me like that!”)

The anger in his heart only grew, at the tones that everyone was using with him. He was a hero dammit.

(“I want the truth!” Wind urged. No one answered. “PLEASE!” He yelled.)

He shuddered.

(“We need to move, quickly!” Warriors shouted, scooping the old man into his arms. Wind’s blood ran cold at the sight of the Hero of Time.)

“Wind?”

“L-leave me alone.” The sailor rasped.

Arms wrapped around him instead and he saw the captain there, eyes shining and a heartbreaking frown on his face. Wind felt something in his heart that he didn’t quite recognize. “I’m tired of you guys treating me like a little kid.”

“We’re not trying…it’s just…hard not to.” Warriors sighed.

“How so?” Wind asked, and his voice is so small, barely audible.

“If you saw, say, Legend as a kid, younger than you, and he was about to see this gory mess of a man that he loves, would you let him?” Warriors asked.

That…actually made a lot of sense. “No.” He murmured.

The captain sighed with empathy. “We’re doing our best to help Time, okay?”

“I know…I’m sorry…” Wind wailed and held tighter unto Warriors.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay, I promise.” Warriors soothed.

Wind let the captain guide him back to camp where he saw Time in bandages, lying limply on a bedroll. Hyrule was passed out next to him. The sailor put a hand to his mouth in dismay. Warriors sighed deeply, catching a glimpse of what Wind saw and then pulled the kid away towards a different bedroll. Wind had just realized the sky was dark, and it was nighttime. “Good night sailor.” Warriors whispered.

“Night.” Wind smiled slightly and crept into his bedroll, grateful for the warmth it provided him.

________________ -/- _________________

“NO!” Twilight cried out and everyone jerked around just in time to see the old man slam into the ground.

He froze, what-ifs running through his mind. “Pay attention sailor!” Someone yelled at him and he deflected attacks from enemies, pale from the words he heard spilling out of the captain’s mouth.

The battle continued, Wind fighting and giving the occasional glance at the unmoving Time. Once the dust settled the sailor couldn’t help but run to see what had happened and he found Time lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His breath caught in his throat. “Time?” He whispered.

Someone grabbed his hand and pulled him away as Warriors yelled Time’s name over and over again. He struggled against whoever was holding him but they had a tight and firm grasp.

“What’s going on?!” Wind screeched.

“Time got hurt but Warriors is healing him. Everything will be okay.” The someone tried to soothe.

“Stop talking to me like that!” Wind demanded, trying again and again to free his wrists.

“I want the truth!” Wind urged.

No one answered. “PLEASE!” He yelled.

“Wind—“

“We need to move, quickly!” Warriors shouted, scooping the old man into his arms.

Wind’s blood ran cold at the sight of the Hero of Time. Everything was burned into his eyes, and he wanted answers. He wanted to know everything that had just happened. Why were they ignoring him? His throat felt dry as tears streamed down his pale face. There was an uncomfortable silence as they rushed to find a place to stay or set up camp, the only sounds were rain pouring and boots hitting the drenched ground. Wind didn’t dare speak up, he didn’t want to be babied even more. He caught another glimpse of the old man and realized just how awful it was. There were arrows sticking out of his back and a stab wound in his chest. Wind had trouble keeping full-blown sobs from arising.

________________-/-________________

Wind awoke with a gasp, and looked around to see the one and only captain on watch. He saw everyone else sleeping soundly in their bedrolls. Warriors eyes had no light in them, he just stared at the crackling flames. “Captain?” Wind murmured.

Warriors startled and looked over. “Hey, you should be asleep sailor. Is everything okay?” Warriors asked, concern clear in his features.

“I’m okay, just worried. What about you?” He asked, eyeing the man.

“I’m fine, we’ll get through this. Just like we did with the rancher.” Warriors looked away, recalling that episode.

“You sure?” Wind furrowed his eyebrows.

“Yeah. Go back to sleep sailor.” Warriors urged.

Wind wanted to press further, but he didn’t know if that would help the captain. So he sighed and defeatedly walked back to his bedroll. But there was something up with Warriors, and Wind had a gut feeling it was very bad.

#linked universe #lu wind #lu warriors #lu time #kind of #guys warriors isnt okay #also time survives dw #but he gives everyone a rlly good scare #my writing #linked universe fanfic

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emotinalsupportturtle · 6 months

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is David Tennant actually trying to kill me this year?

#2023 also known as the year i was emotionally devastated 90% of the time because david tennant decided to cry on screen #doctor who 60th anniversary #good omens #david tennat #14th doctor #crowley #doctor who #dw spoilers #i feel personally attacked #i felt that heartbreak in my bones #just LOOK at that face #thank god he is only there for 3 episodes #cause if this is what happens 30 minutes into the first episode i wouldn't survive a full run #david tennant #just realised I spelt his name wrong in earlier tags #whoops

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mariocki · 4 months

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Michael Craze pops up as Vince Kelly, a teenage runaway from a borstal centre, in Gideon's Way: Boy With Gun (1.23, ITC, 1966)

#fave spotting #michael craze #ben jackson #doctor who #gideon's way #1966 #boy with gun #itc #a relatively rare fave spotting! outside of his DW work‚ Mike didn't make a huge amount of appearances in cult tv‚ at least not many that #survive or are easily seen; he'd previously starred in Target Luna‚ a completely lost serial‚ but didn't return when the show carried on as #Pathfinders in Space (oddly‚ perhaps because of a change of director‚ every single returning character was recast) and beyond #there were also episodes of Dixon pf Dock Green and Armchair Theatre but these are also in all likelihood lost tv; others‚ like an ep of #Hammer's sci fi anthology Journey to the Unknown‚ are frustratingly unavailable to the average viewer (I was really hoping Network would #do something with JttU after they announced an agreement with Hammer but alas it wasn't to be)#mike would have been about 22 when filming this ep (around May '65) but was still largely playing juvenile parts as here #(his age isn't given but as a borstal runaway he's clearly intended to be a teen); this aired in feb or march '66 in most regions‚ by which #time he had presumably been cast in DW (or very near to it; he'd debut in The War Machines in June of that year)#DW would act as a sort of transition for Craze from youth parts into adult roles (i mean Ben's own age is debatable but I'd say he's surely #meant to be at least 18?). there'd be some more guest spots and a few horror films to come (he was a regular collaborator with Norman #J. Warren) but he doesn't pop up with the regularity of many other Who companions so this was a lovely little surprise (zero memory of him #being in it from when i first watched years ago)

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cryptic-queer-cryptid · 7 months

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look. not to get sappy on main but like.

call it cringe call it silly call it whatever you want but do you know what it felt like to be a depressed teenager and hear the doctor say “do you know, in 900 years of time and space, i’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important before”?

cause let me tell you, hearing that… there are whole years of my life that i barely remember because of my depression. chunks of my time on earth that i’ll probably never get back. but i do remember watching that damn special because it meant something to me, even in that fog.

#emotional about dr who tonight #dr who #doctor who #prof rambles #my life #mental health #no but see the dw marketing team knows their audience. the writers know their audience the actors know their audience #this shows been going on for a damn long time and there is a consistent trend of like. people ages 9-25 who are extremely depressed #not that there aren’t other fans obviously but that is a Large demographic and it always has been to some extent #i have friends parents who were into dr who in the 60s and 70s and that was a big demographic even then #and anyway my point is: they put that line in there for the fans because they knew it would mean something to hear the doctor say that #and that just like drives me crazy like the. i guess the inherent kindness of having a beloved character say something that’s in character!!#but like also very much vague enough to apply to the audience #it’s like having kirk say ‘hang on tight and survive. everybody does’. and that always sustained me as a depressed child #because i watched star trek tos religiously and still do #anyway #shoutout to showrunners and writers and marketing people and actors and everyone who makes a show #for seeing their fanbase of young mentally ill people and saying here #have this character that is amazing and that you love say this really motivational and loving thing #idk it’s nice #and just a good line in general #yeah #that’s all #byeeeee living up to my prof RAMBLES tag

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variousqueerthings · 5 months

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actually you know whose reaction I'd be really curious about, potentially coming across fourteen in the shops? Francine!

#francine jones #martha jones #the doctor #dw #doctor who #the (second?) last time they saw each other she nodded to him #and i tend to interpret that as a mix of 'thank you for talking me down' 'hey we survived hell together' and 'thank goodness #martha is coming back to us and you and i both know it's the right thing even though i know you're a fucking mess too but also pls go'#not in the sense that martha was trapped with ten but that ten maybe Could have convinced her to stay potentially #or even just that francine was afraid that ten might do so/martha could possibly choose ten over them #also just that in some ways the jones fam saw the doctor and the master being An Terrifying Other Species moreso than most #there's that relief when martha comes back like they weren't sure she'd be walking back inside #so they dont end it on Bad terms technically #but also potentially... sees fourteen and it's a trigger? sees fourteen and is afraid for martha?#sees fourteen and assumes the end of the world is coming back? sees fourteen and is just... oh... hoped id never see you again #sees fourteen and it's an awkward british 'how have things been? good. you? yeah good. got a garden now. oh that's nice'#(was francine there when martha was on that joint call -- she was wasnt she?#i cannot remember if there's any Looks between them there that indicate how she feels about ten at that point)#anyway i think francine should've been in martha's final scene i think francine was the most important part of martha's life #that symbolised the ways that ten had affected that life #and seeing how francine potentially felt after end of time would have been such a strong indicator of how that story ended there #the tenth doctor #the fourteenth doctor #doctor who spoilers #dw spoilers

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nightmanatee · 1 year

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the end of time part 2 vs the power of the doctor

#thasmin #13th doctor #10th doctor #doctor who #dw #jodie whittaker #david tennant #i love the softness of 13th doctor acceptance #and (personally) she had so MUCH MORE to crave for #she's had more to lose #than 10 did in that ep #bc potd ending feels like 'ha i've tricked the time itself' moment #whilst with the end of time you know it's 10's last ep and it's his last moment #but yeah anyways i love the acceptance of 13 #and i feel like yaz (me as well) wouldn't be able to survive if 13 was like 10 #in this scene #blaming wilfred mott #calling him not special sdlkfjsdf #like i KINDA GET IT #but also i'm glad this scene was so soft instead #and that she's spent her last moments with yaz prioritizing HER to anyone and anything #anyways #the power of 13 is not only the fact that she is loved #but also the acceptance of what's been and can't happen

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quietwingsinthesky · 2 months

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i think about even taking things from the people around them they love and making them a part of themself, and i am filled with joy. and then i think about them picking up the master's habit of tapping out a drumbeat rhythm and replicating it as their own nervous stim, and i feel ill.

#i keep trying to explain what the fuck is going on between those two but i just keep landing on It's Complicated.#and it's not love. it really isn't. but. whatever it is. it's enough that the master is a part of them in ways they can't remove.#in ways they have only ever before allowed the influence of people they do love.#even talks about their hearts despite only having one and they refuse to wear shoes fancier than sneakers because of the doctor #their handwriting looks like donna's. if a good bit messier. and there were only so many times they could hear her go 'oi!' before they #began echoing it.#they bite their tongue between their teeth when they smile like rose did. they try to hug people the way jack harkness once hugged them.#all of that. all of that.#and also. when they're upset. they tap out a drumbeat. and no one in the world would recognize it as such except the person they stole it #from. and the doctor. who heard what it's echoing once and knows what it means.#it's not a conscious thing. it's just a part of them now. ough.#dw oc #(even voice) i survived being stuck in a time war pocket dimension with a murderer as my tardis roommate and all i got was this shitty stim

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vveakfish · 4 months

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#chvm bvcket #𓆟 #i have a new job which is great because i do need to be employed in order to pay rent and like #Survive and all that junk #But it also sucks bc every time i leave work im like #‘wooo !!!! i can do creative things when i get home!!!!’#and without fail #every time i get home i just… immediately lose all brain functioning #I WANNA WRITE!!!!! I WANNA DRAW!!!!!!#but my brains like ‘stare at the ceiling for hours instead‚ okay :)#i hate it here #retail hell wants me DEAD #(also i like making my vent posts like this a lot #theres no post. shhhh nothing ti look at dw abt it

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warlordfelwinter · 2 years

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the face of boe: know this time lord, you are not alone

the doctor, thinking about which other time lord would be cockroach like enough to survive:

#i just hope that the doctors internal reaction to seeing that the master survived the time war too was just #'oh it WOULD be you'#'the face of boe was wrong theres no one else' girl you WISH #also the way the doctor romanticizes gallifrey now breaks my fucking heart #spent so long running from home and now what he wouldnt do to be able to go back #fel's dw

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kpopnstarwars · 2 months

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Atonement: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: fic i wrote with @triluvial 's lovely idea

tw: 18+, smut but pretty soft, oral (f recieving), so so so so much angst, fluff after tho dw, swearing, hints of sa and pedophilia from the baron, baron is also creepy to reader but not explicitly, u gotta bear with my yapping in the beginning but it gets good i promise, inkpie

wc: 3.9k

headcanons for this universe

When you married Feyd-Rautha, you were warned of many things. His cruelty, both in and out of the bedroom, his bloodlust, his uncontrollable rage, his violence, his complete and utter lack of mercy. They told you he was psychotic, he was a cold blooded murderer, he was insatiable and that you’d be lucky to last a year with him, and yet, they never cautioned you of his sheer, unerring indifference.

Before your marriage, you fancied that he’d be like fire; raging, searing to touch. You went as far as to wish to tame his inferno. Late at night, when you could not sleep and doubt wreathed your thoughts, you also considered that he’d be like ice, like the colour of his piercing eyes, glacial and cold, devoid of anything soft or sweet.

As a child, you saw him fight in the arena. There he blazed with passion, his victor’s smile a cruel curve upon his face, his knife blade stained dark with fresh blood: he was mesmerising. At that time you were beginning to understand that your future had been sold to this violent man, and you resented your parents for it - now you realise that it went deeper than that, that it was rooted in generations of religion, of whisperings of the Bene Gesserit. Still, even then, you found the way he burned intriguing, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

But you were wrong. He turned out to be neither fire nor ice, just stingingly, dismissively apathetic. His eyes slide right over you when he happens to pass you in the corridors, as if you’re lower than a servant, lower than the rare rats that survive Giedi Prime’s conditions. You suspected your marriage would be painful, wedded to a man such as he was, but you didn’t think it would be this damn lonely.

You wished he hated you.

That way, at least you’d mean something to your husband. At least then vehement, savage emotion would rise within his gaze whenever he looked at you, not that horrible, polarising blankness. You wish you disgusted him, because then he’d at least he’d speak his mind - you had learnt that he spoke with brutal honesty, uncaring of the consequences.

Maybe to him, that’s all you are. A consequence of being high born, of being the na-Baron. You mean nothing to him, and he treats you as such; to him, you are less than the speck of dust on the floor, less than a grain of sand in his beloved arena.

It’s not that you wish for him to dote on you, nor love you or devote himself to you. You just wish he would look you in the eye and feel something; you’d rather him stare at you in revulsion and call you names that you can’t even think up yourself than the dead, lifeless detachment that clouds his face when he sees you in your shared chambers.

Feyd-Rautha has never laid a hand on you in violence; in fact he rarely touches you at all. The last, and only time he kissed was during the wedding day, and he makes no moves to be in bodily contact with you any more than he has to be. You are obliged to produce an heir from him, yet even in these infrequent encounters it seems as if it is a chore for him - he takes no pleasure in your body nor does he try to pleasure you, and he makes no sound when he takes you, staying as long as it takes for his seed to fill your womb before leaving without a word. On those nights, your thighs tremble as you stumble to the bathroom, only allowing your tears to fall once the shower water is searing on your skin.

During the first month of your marriage, you did everything in your power to please him. You thought maybe you weren’t pretty enough for him, maybe you were not desirable as a wife, so you always smiled at him, made an effort to fill the silence that pervaded the air around him, bringing up topics you knew he would enjoy, like the arena, like his love for knives and duels. To even that he would not reply, rebutting your questions with monosyllables or simply ignoring you. You stopped once he began to leave the room while you were mid sentence.

It is now your fourth month locked in this marriage with an uncaring man, and all you feel is bleak, crushing resignation. Somehow, Feyd-Rautha seems to take more interest in conversing with his brother than you.

You wonder if he has forgotten your name. He addresses you simply as ‘wife’ - that, and nothing more, the title leaving his lips like an accusatory curse, reminding you that if you did not serve a purpose to him, and if decorum did not restrain him, he’d have disposed of you by now, either by slitting your throat or simply abandoning you outside the palace grounds, not even bothering to end you himself.

The palace in question is lonely, but you feel the loneliest when you lay awake at night, shivering on your side of the bed as Feyd-Rautha slumbers to your right. Tears always prick your eyes during those moments, but you stifle them, afraid that you’ll rouse him with your crying; you do not know what you’ve done to garner his mistrust, but many times you’ve glimpsed the knife he keeps beneath his pillow, the cold blade glinting in the moonlight.

Often you wonder if he has a secret lover, and that is why he does not bother with you. You wake up sometimes and he is gone, but soon you realised that he would visit his concubines, especially after he had bred you. You would finish your shower, unable to wash off the feel that you were dirty, you were just an animal, a mindless thing to produce an heir for him, and he would be lounging in the antechambers of your quarters, ignoring your presence with the three harpies wrapped around him, whispering in his ears and caressing his moonlight skin. They accompanied him everywhere he wished, even in public, and to begin with, you felt humiliated that he would so explicitly show that you were not to his satisfaction.

Now, it just makes the solitude even worse.

You find solace in no one. More than once, you have walked in on the servants laughing behind your back, and as it became evident your husband was uninterested in you, they did not hide their mocking. The Baron’s other nephew you hardly saw, and the Baron himself terrified you: there was something in the way that he stared at you, his beady eyes glittering from where they were set deep within his putrid flesh, that made you feel more soiled than even after Feyd-Rautha took you.

So you remain isolated, speaking only when spoken to, drifting through the palace’s wide, dark hallways like a ghoul, a mourning spectre. You can barely remember your life before, just wisps and fleeting flashes of colour that ridicule rather than comfort you.

To Feyd, it is obvious who you are. A spy, commanded by his uncle to report every single one of his doings to you; he cannot slip up once around you, cannot reveal his weaknesses, that he is desperate to be loved, to be seen as someone whose only use is not war. He sees the way his uncle looks at you, hungry for information you do not have because he does not impart it, the way the Baron comments on you and the way you flinch at his words, pretending that you do not report to him.

Feyd is determined in his resolve to give nothing away. His uncle has held power over him since he was young, he refuses to give him even an inch over him now. He still has nightmares of it, which he wakes up from with his pale skin sheened in clammy sweat, clammy like the hands of his uncle.

Sometimes, he sees the tears in your eyes after he fucks you. The first time, he almost stopped, almost asked you where it hurt, but you turned away before he could, acting, always acting; acting when you smile graciously at him, acting when you ask him what his favourite type of blade is, what his favourite form of swordsmanship is. You are good at pretending, but of course you are - his uncle is the Baron, a man who bathes in power. No doubt he would get only the best of spies.

Tonight, you are not where you normally are. At this hour, you are usually asleep, or feigning it in the very least, curled up small on your side of the mattress, yet the bed is still made, the sheets unrumpled and smoothed down as they were this morning. Feyd thinks that maybe he might catch you reporting to his uncle, so he strides out of your shared chambers, pausing in the doorway to listen carefully; as a boy, he hunted in forests that have now been chopped down and industrialised, but he has maintained his keen ears long after the last wild plant on Giedi Prime’s surface choked on the fumes of pollution.

There’s a soft noise, barely perceptible, that echoes down the corridor to his right. Silently, he tracks it down the labyrinthine passages of the palace, servants scurrying out of his warpath, bowing their heads to him - he wonders if they too report to his uncle, if they travel now to his quarters to inform him of his beloved nephew’s whereabouts.

Feyd wishes he and Rabban were brothers first before rivals. Then he could have someone to rely on, someone who he trusted in this palace built on lies.

Pausing, Feyd cocks his head. You huddle in a crumpled heap at the end of the corridor, your knees hugged tightly to your chest, head low as if under a crushing weight. It occurs to him that maybe the Baron was displeased with your efforts to gain information and made it known to you - a pang of pity tugs at him, for he knows what his uncle’s wrath is like. At least you have been spared from the sole thing worse than that - the Baron’s thirst.

‘What are you doing, wife?’

Your head snaps up, Feyd-Rautha’s unfeeling voice kindling a rare burst of temper from you. Is it not evident to him what you are doing? Or is he just too blind to see the tears streaking down your cheeks? Your words are injected with venom when you speak, and you hope that it stings him for leaving you alone in this cold, dark place.

‘So now I am of concern to you?’

Feyd is taken aback by the indignant arch of your brows, the resentment displayed in your eyes. It takes him a moment to register the harshness lacing your voice - you have never addressed him in this way - and another to digest your words. There’s a bleakness in your wet, tear stained face as you stare up at him, and shock too, as if you did not expect yourself to speak against him this way.

Something clicks into place.

Feyd recognises that look in your eyes. He recognises it, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times before; haunted, harrowed, lonely. He remembers nights when he trembled beneath the cold sheets of his bed, when he was small enough that he felt like he was drowning in the black satin, his eyes wide as the fabric seemed to wend around his limbs, tying him there as he lay fearful of everyone, fearful that his uncle would summon him. Even young, he was so terribly aware of not knowing who he could trust and who would turn to the Baron, bearing information like knives to split open his childish skin and spill his guts on the freezing stone floor.

It broke him. He is barely a shell of a sentient being, repressed emotions wreathing like ghosts around his frame, his eyes hollow, his heart decaying. In his fear, he was blinded, and he pushed you to the place where he had been all those years ago, so terribly, terribly alone - you are stronger than him, for lasting this long.

Sharp, plunging, dread sinks in his stomach, weighs down his soul; he has done unspeakable things to you, treated you like a dog, like a whore - worse. How can you look at him without hatred in your eyes, spite?

Bile rises in his throat, his heart seized by a dark, burning anger. He has done this to you, he has slashed your skin and left you bleeding, and yet all you did was try to please him. In an effort to save himself, he trampled you under foot; in order to keep you out, he left you surrounded by shadows. Feyd has never hated himself so much, has never despised who he has become with this much furor.

Slowly, he crouches before you. Eyes wide, you shrink away, misreading the direction of his rage, flinching when he reaches out a hand. Pressing your back against the wall behind you, you turn your head away from him, fear causing tears to spill down your cheeks: he sees the way you will the stone to swallow you up, knows the feeling.

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ you choke out, hands trembling uncontrollably.

Something deep within Feyd’s soul withers and dies at your words. Forcing his jaw to unclench, his hands to release the fists they held, he shoves down his anger. The fury is for later, for when he has made things right - for now it is you that is his priority. Too late, a voice whispers in his ears, too late, too late, too late -

Gods, he deserves to burn at the fucking stake for this. He deserves eternal hell for this, he deserves worse. He is a fool: a blind, blundering fool, stuffed to the brim with paranoia and cynicism.

He sucks in a breath. ‘I will not hurt you. You have my word, whatever it is worth to you. I - I have made an irredeemable mistake, I - ’

After his first sentence, you have not heard him. Tears of relief soak your face, and you whisper needless apologies for them; it is an arrow through his heart that you fear him so - yet the pain is where it is due, justifiable for the way he has shamed you, belittled you.

‘May I - may I touch you, my wife?’

You do not know why you nod in reply of your husband’s strange request, but the moment you do, strong arms pull you into a solid chest, and a sob leaves you - he is so warm, warm enough to banish the seeping cold embedded in your bones, warm enough to let your sorrow flow anew, soaking his shirt as your hands bunch in its fabric, so that if he is cruel enough to leave you here, at least he will have to fight to do so. You have not been held in a long time.

Each of your shuddering sobs is a knife blade twisting in Feyd’s spirit. He lets the pain wash over him, clings to the way you burrow into his arms, a kind creature in the embrace of a monster. At one point, in the throes of your crying, you beat at his chest, telling him that you hate him, and he takes it with a bowed head, stroking your hair and holding you tighter once you exhaust yourself; this is only a fraction of his atonement.

You fall asleep in his arms. He carries you back to your quarters, and only once the door is closed behind him does he let his tears mingle with yours. Keeping you cradled to his chest like a child, he pours a glass of water for you to drink in the morning, knowing you will be dehydrated; he sets it on your bedside table before laying you down on the mattress.

You don’t let go of him, even in your sleep. His heart clenches, tight in his chest, and he drops a kiss in your hair before lying down beside you.

He believes he will love you, if you will let him.

Consciousness leaks slowly into your mind, and you blink, squinting through the beam of light that filters in through the curtains. From your months spent here, you’ve realised that Giedi Prime’s atmosphere is normally churned up with violent storms and choked with pollution, so this ray of sun that falls against your pillow, warming your face is far from unwanted - nor is the pale forearm tucked around your waist, firmly so, but not trapping you either.

Your husband’s chest fits snugly against your back, his breath warm and steady against your skin; his fingers splay out across your stomach, gentle, communicating so many things that were left unsaid. Vaguely, you remember falling asleep, nestled against his chest, tears drying on your cheeks.

When you roll over, you’re unsurprised that he’s already awake. With blue eyes softened by the sunlight, he regards you, fingers settled at the small of your waist. Something clouds his gaze, and he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows.

‘I owe you an explanation.’

You wait silently, unperturbed by the way he clenches his jaw. He vowed to you last night that he would not hurt you, and you trust that. Wordlessly, his lips open, then close, and you patiently watch him, far too well acquainted with how this man struggles to let down his guard - even now, you cannot read the twisting of his features, the way his eyes squint as he looks at you.

‘I - I thought you were a spy sent by my uncle,’ he finally confesses. ‘My uncle… when I was younger, he,’

Reaching out, you cup his jaw in your hand, running your thumb along his cheekbone until he relaxes. You see the battle in his eyes, to let go, to tell you the knowledge that he thinks you deserve, but you see with it the years of hurt, of solitude. Something hopeful, something beautiful blossoms within you - the realisation that this wounded beast before you is someone that you could grow to love; you want him to bare his scars to you, those that are long healed and those that still seep with blood.

‘All in good time, Feyd,’ you assure him quietly.

He sighs, touches his lips against your palm. ‘I am sorry, my wife.’

Slipping your hand down to grip his shoulder, you lean closer towards him so you can kiss him. An anguished sound leaves him, and you see clearly how he realises that he has wronged you, how it pains him, and yet how the taste of you awakens something tender within him - you marvel at it, that it has survived, buried within him for so long. Perhaps he will let you love him.

Feyd is neither forward nor insatiable in the way he kisses you. In fact, he pulls away first, moving to get up from the bed despite the way your hands grip his shoulders, and you almost doubt that he wants you before you glimpse the longing in his eyes that lingers before he pushes it down. You wonder if this man knows how to make love or if he just knows how to fuck, you wonder if he feels the same molten feeling in his stomach that you feel and that is why his movements are tinged with nerves as he gently escapes your grasp. It is clear to you: he does not want to scare you.

‘Must you go?’ You ask, tugging at his fingers.

He tilts his head. ‘I don’t know if you want me here, after what I have inflicted upon you.’

A streak of bravery takes ahold of you. ‘Please, Feyd, I want you.’

You delight at the fire that ignites in his eyes upon your words. He wastes no time in returning to your side, dropping a sweet tasting kiss to your lips before taking your chin in his hand, eyes searching yours as he sits between your thighs.

‘Tell me if you want to stop,’ he says. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ you echo, blood heating your cheeks.

Feyd kisses you again, giving you time to rescind your reply if you want, but you just tug at the hem of his shirt, drinking in his sculpted chest when he pulls the black cloth over his head. Delicately, he trails his lips down your skin as he undresses you, his broad hands warm where they encircle your waist, holding you flush to him as his calloused palms explore your body, skimming over your spine and caressing your breasts before settling on your thighs and pulling them open.

You’re terribly aware of how wet you are when his eyes settle on your pussy. Instinctively, your knees tip inwards, your face growing hot at the hunger in his gaze, but his broad shoulders block your legs from closing, followed closely by his hands which gently push them back open. He smiles at the blush high on your cheeks, rubbing his thumb over your ankle in order to put you at ease.

The sound you make when he pushes his fingers into your cunt and curls them almost makes Feyd moan. You tremble for him, bashful, and he can feel himself rock hard against the mattress, aching for the tight clamp of your velvet walls. He wants to bury himself between your thighs, and so he does, your sweet slick exquisite on his tongue - he presses kisses like butterflies to your thighs, your hips, worshipping you as his fingers pump in and out of you to the same pace as your heaving chest.

You look beautiful, gilded by the sunlight, lower lip trapped between your teeth, but he doesn’t miss the way you grip the sheets with one hand, the other clapped over your mouth, panting as he pleases you. Stroking your thigh, he pauses, licking your slick off his lips.

‘Let me hear you,’ he bids.

You blush again but obey him, tremors wracking your body as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over it until you throw your head back, eyes rolling as you come, your honeyed moans and hot release exquisite upon his senses. He wants more, needs more of the taste of you, but you tug at his shoulders, whining for his cock, and he’d rather die than deny you.

The way you say his name when he buries himself inside you sets his soul on fire. You look beautiful beneath him, shaking and whimpering from the hot pulse of his length, clawing at his shoulders until he wears red marks that he’s proud to bear, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you. It seems you cannot get enough of him, and Feyd is more than fine with that because he finds himself addicted to the feel of you under his hands, begging him for more.

Feyd remains entranced long after he comes inside you, with you, your cunt spasming around him. You draw close to him, intertwining your legs with his as he kisses your face, your neck, your chest, making sure he has not hurt you, making sure you are sated. Curling your fingers under his jaw, stopping him, you look him in the eye and smile before kissing him, and he finds himself mesmerised again by you.

He is certain you will let him love you. He is yours.

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sayoneee · 4 months

Text

☆ CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT

“i want to wear his initial on a chain 'round my neck, not because he owns me, but because he really knows me” - taylor swift (1.6k)

contains: luke castellan x daughter of ares! reader. secret relationship: the three times u guys were almost caught and the one time u were. pre-tlt.

kashaf’s note: working on requests as well so dw!! again. i just like this 1 lyric from this song <;/3

MORNINGS AT CAMP half-blood were both weird and normal — at a summer camp for kids with godlike abilities, you’d think that maybe they’d be cut some slack from all the monsters they’ve had to evade and maybe be allowed to sleep in some days, but no, life at camp half-blood was a regular survival of the fittest regime.

or: eat, or be eaten, as you liked to remind your cabin.

maybe that was why you were notorious among ares cabin, but to the rest of camp half-blood you simply embodied an other-worldly discipline, more of a tactician than anything, when compared to the rest of your half-siblings.

“hey,” clarisse says in an undertone, nudging you as you take your designated seat beside her, “where were you last night?”

your hand stilled as you picked up your goblet, shrugging your shoulders as the once-boisterous table came to a stand-still, eager to discover their shrewd head counselor’s indiscretions, hoping for something to loosen your high esteem for them: everyone remembered the time the entire cabin was put on cleaning detail for an entire month to repent for the mistakes of one.

your penchant for collective punishment wasn’t at all well-received among your half-siblings, but well, no one had really challenged you on your position yet, so.

“in bed,” you said, slowly, taking a sip, “why?”

clarisse shrugged, spearing a carrot from your plate, masking her annoyance with you — out of all of your half-siblings, camp half-blood, even, no one could boast of a relationship as close as yours and clarisse’s, yet no one could be more opposite. clarisse was chaotic, you were contained; clarisse was ruthless, you were just.

“i dunno, i just saw two people on the roof of hermes cabin.”

“and?” you drawled, ignoring the blood rushing in your ears, as the rest of your cabin looked on gleefully.

“one of them was castellan,” clarisse paused, searching your face for a reaction — you were grateful for all the nights spent in hermes cabin, because if not for the stolls persuading you to play poker with them almost every time, your expression would’ve never survived under clarisse’s scrutiny.

“the other one,” clarisse pauses as if thoughtful for once, then pointedly stares, pointing her fork at you, “looked like you.”

the other cabins are also looking in your direction as the dining pavilion is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop, before the table finally registers clarisse’s words, resulting in so much whooping and jeering, you’d think ares cabin won the lottery.

you snag a bite of clarisse’s pancakes, each word punctuated by a bite, “what would i be doing with castellan?” you pause, feeling the table pause with you. wrinkling your nose, you continued, “i swear, next you’re gonna say you saw us making out during capture the flag.”

you grinned as the table erupted into laughter once more, this time by your design. while everyone else went back to their original conversations, you’re summoning the memories of last night.

how luke had wrapped his arm around your shoulders and attempted to woo you with myths about the stars, how you had laughed and called him corny. how the moonlight had illuminated his face in the moment, when he laughed back, drawing you in closer, with his usual snarky response of, “you love it though.”

clarisse snapped her fingers in front of your face, bringing you out of your reverie. she frowned, whispering, “you’d tell me though, if that was you, right?”

“yeah,” you nodded, trying not to feel guilty about lying — clarisse deserved the truth. but it went against your agreement with luke. you tried not to think about how you’re essentially picking a boy over your sister.

like all things camp half-blood, if not careful, could result in death — like capture the flag, but did that stop you, or anyone else for that matter, in taking it upon yourself to make winning a matter of life or death.

this week, you orchestrated an alliance with hermes cabin, because of their numbers and ability to launch unforeseen tactics, and hephaestus cabin, for their resourcefulness. it also didn’t hurt that the head counselors were your boyfriend and his friend, respectively.

you’re standing by zeus’ fist, discussing strategy with luke and charlie, while your respective cabins go off doing whatever it is to prepare, when luke’s sloppily-tied breastplate catches your attention.

before you’re fully aware of what you’re doing, you’ve already reached forward to grab it, while charlie stares at you like you’ve been cursed by athena and turned into medusa.

“so,” charlie says, slowly, “anything you guys wanna tell me?”

luke is silent, watching you work, while you’re too busy focused on fixing the breastplate to notice the knowing expression on charlie’s face, one you would’ve been irritated by if you had.

“nothing,” you say, nonchalantly, whirling back around to face charlie when you’re finished, while luke gets swarmed by the stolls, “these things just bother me.”

“in general, or luke specifically?” charlie grins, that annoying, all-knowing look is back, and although reluctantly, you can see what it is about him that has silena beauregard so hung over.

“in general,” you say as if it were obvious, as if you’re trying to convince a child that storks are the ones to deliver babies, and no, you’re not lying, (both statements hold the same level of ridiculousness), “it’s the adhd — makes it distracting.”

“uh huh,” he says skeptically, “i’ll take your word for it.”

you resist the urge to shake him and question him more, but before you can toughen up and just ask, “what do you mean?” he’s already turned away, and capture the flag is about to begin.

“what’s that?” annabeth points at the tiny “L” on your necklace as it swings to and fro, finally set loose from the captivity of your neon orange camp half-blood tee, hidden under your armor.

“what?” you glance down, dropping the sword in your hand to hastily tuck it away, all the while cursing both yourself and luke for being stupidly sentimental. (it was his idea after all, though, you’re not sure how or where he got the necklace from, but you didn’t really care if it was stolen — you wouldn’t put it past him, especially since he was a son of hermes.)

“was that for luke? are you dating him?” annabeth persists, eyes widening with question after question — nothing can satiate the curiosity of athena kids, especially not annabeth, not when luke castellan, her brother, is in the equation.

“no,” you say, trying to catch your breath from the sword technique you had just shown her, and the gaggle of younger campers who have now caught on, looking at you eagerly.

“no to what? no to the initial on your necklace being for luke, or no to you dating him?” another camper chimes in with a bright grin, probably a child of apollo, and you’re so close to shooting yourself on the spot.

“no to all of the above,” you grit out, really regretting being nice for one of the few times in your life, because no one had asked you, in particular, to demonstrate sword-fighting to these kids, luke could’ve done it, but where your boyfriend was concerned, you were too.

“then, how come you have an “L” necklace?” annabeth asks again.

“it’s my mom’s,” you lie, “i’m a year-rounder, so it reminds me of her — before all this,” you waved in the general direction of camp half-blood.

the campers ohh’ed in unison, but you knew annabeth wasn’t convinced.

you sighed, it could’ve been worse.

+4.

you’re not sure when or where the whispers that your boyfriend had returned originated, but after what seemed like eons of not seeing him, you couldn’t find it in yourself to verify the rumors before dropping your sword in the middle of training and sprinting toward half-blood hill to see him for yourself.

you ignore the calls of your name from your half-siblings, as you were kind of in the middle of demonstrating a technique, instead choosing to focus on more important things, like if your boyfriend was even alive.

when you finally do make it to half-blood hill, and catch sight of your boyfriend, with chris and charlie in tow, you don’t stop sprinting, uncaring for all of the whispers from the other campers as they look on.

when you finally do come in contact with luke, you nearly tackle him into the ground, as he drops his backpack behind the two of you, arms coming to wrap around you to secure you, as you mumbled, “i missed you, asshole,” into the crook of his neck.

luke laughed, the sound reverberating against your skin, and you get off him, taking a step back. he starts to say something, “i —” but is cut off by you grabbing his wrist, and tugging him over your shoulder, his back slamming into the dirt ground. distantly, you can hear the rest of campers gasp, before buzzing with excitement. ignoring them all, you put your knee on his chest, bringing your forearm under his neck.

“i swear to everyone, if you disappear like that again—” you begin, as luke cuts you off.

“i won’t,” he promises, grinning as you pull him up. luke slings an arm around your shoulder, and you finally notice the jagged scar running down his cheek.

he catches your gaze and stares at the ground instead, avoiding you.

“you look kinda hot now with the scar,” you settle for, you know you’ll get the chance to properly speak about it later, but for now, this’ll have to do.

a light pink dusts his cheeks, and luke, looking up at the campers gathered behind chiron, then glances back at you, smirking, “looks like you gave them quite a show.”

you glared at him, shoving him, “i’m going to kill you.”

luke shrugged, wrapping the arm around you tighter, “the damage’s done, now i’ll finally be able to hang out with my girl in peace.”

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bits-and-babs · 8 months

Note

Im so sorry I didn’t see this till after request were closed but so idk if you gon see this but, f!reader had her nipples pierced? I’m sorry but I feel like price would be obsessed with readers piercings like if she had a tongue piercing too? Manz would go crazy. Smut? Dw if not <33

✦ 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 6: NIPPLE PIERCINGS

cds!john price x recruit!reader | smut, 18+ | 1.2k words

summary: three months into your sas training course, chief directional instructor captain john price drills you on cold-water-shock survival.

cw: f!reader, cold water shock, power imbalance (recruit x directing staff), secret relationship, breast/nipple play, p in v sex, cream pie.

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 7: INCUBUS ⇾

It wasn’t as though there hadn’t been sufficient warning, but three years of service in the British army was nowhere near enough to prepare your body for the brutal battering that SAS selection subjected it to. Your blisters had blisters, and your body pulsed with a bone-deep ache every time you managed to crawl into bed upon dismissal.

You had been sufficiently warned… About everything except this.

Freezing cold water drips from your nose as you hoist yourself out of the pool at the base of the waterfall. Cold-Water-Shock training was a standard part of SAS selection– the ability to control your own discomfort and maintain a level head whilst also teaching the fundamentals of surviving sub-zero. January weather meant temperature levels were unsurvivable past a handful of seconds, and you could feel why.

The process was simple. Fully submerge yourself into the icy depths before raising to the surface and keeping your chin above water. Next step; breathe. Regain composure and steady your breathing to fight the effects of cold-shock. Recruitment Staff would then ask you a handful of simple questions to assess competency before heaving you out of the water.

You’d passed, you felt, with flying colours. The savagery of the otherworldly Brecon Beacons had failed to shake your resolve, answering the questions with ease. Even now, drenched to the bone and involuntarily trembling, you maintained a strong eye contact with Chief Directional Instructor Price as he eyed you with a stern expression.

It’s momentary— barely there. You’d have missed it had you blinked. Price’s thick eyelashes, made damp by the sleet that had been battering the group all morning, dipped below your face. Sapphire blue irises glint in the low light when they zero in on their target. You hadn’t worn a bra this morning given you’d been forced out of bed at the arse-crack of dawn and expected to be in the van within five minutes… They’d left you little to no choice.

Regardless of this reasonable explanation, you suddenly begin to regret your decision to forgo the cover, Staff Price gazing at the way your grey t-shirt clings to your pebbled nipples and the exposed shape of the piercing balls either side of each mound.

“That’ll be all, 16,” he says, that raspy grit to his voice warming you from the inside-out. That fever encroaches on the apples of your cheeks when you realise he’s yet to pull his eyes away.

“… Yes Staff.”

✦✦✦

“You did that on purpose.”

John’s voice, husky and full, was surprisingly even considering how tight your pussy walls clenched around his thick, veiny cock. You wail quietly at the soft breath that dances across your assaulted skin, nipples so incredibly sensitive. Sucked and nibbled and licked, the tender skin screams when Price drags the flat of his tongue over your pierced nipple with a delighted hum.

“N-No—“ you choke out, the overstimulation of your nipples sending another shockwave of bliss down your spine. You know you’re squeezing him, because John ruts up into your fluttering pussy with a far less composed groan. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to!”

“You’re not foolin’ anyone, Love,” John murmurs, gently taking your pebbled nipple between his teeth and rolling it.

You see stars— swirls of technicolour dancing behind your eyelids with how tightly you squeeze them shut against the cataclysmic pleasure that seeps between your thighs. When John jerks his hips up again, you can hear how wet you are. It’s sloppy, disgustingly soaked, and Price loves it.

“Fuckin’— Hah-“ John moans against the supple flesh of your breast, wrapping his lips around it and sucking on the hypersensitised skin. This time, when you arch your back from the bed with a wail of his name, he begins a slow and leisurely pace with his hips.

Burying your fingers into the short-crop of his hair, you brace against the ticking bomb of your orgasm as it approaches. Each long stroke of John’s hips makes another disgustingly wet sound, your cunt greedily sucking him in and creaming around his throbbing dick as he flicks his tongue back and forth across your abused nipple. His other palm, battle calloused and rough, squeezed the other breast, thumb equally torturing your second nipple.

It comes in waves; cresting, crashing tsunamis rather than soft laps of the ocean on a beach. A prickling heat that singes away the Beacon’s icy cold from your toes and creeps up the inside of your thighs. Your heart slams against John’s lips, your hands pushing into the back of his head to keep him there while you chase what could only be described as liquidation.

“Ohmygod—“ you slur, and it’s as though the edges of your vision blacken. In truth, you’re not sure what you call him as you come apart on his cock, sobbing out a hapless string of garbled noises that don’t sound anything like his name. Toes curling either side of his hips, you fail to brace against the overstimulation that rips violently through you.

“Fucken’ ‘ell—“ he groans deeply, a guttural growl that seems to vibrate the atoms in the air around you. The deliberate, methodical thrusts of his hips suddenly pitch to a sloppy, desperate gallop. John’s hands grasp the bed sheets so tight you almost hear the threads strain against the pull.

He cums, coating the inside of your cunt with a rumble of your name that sounds so foreign to your ears with the afterglow buzzing in your eardrums. John continues to fuck you through it, taking pleasure in the way you squirm and squeal and cry until his cum seeps between your legs, coating the inside of your thighs with his seed.

Sharp, heaving breaths echo in his small quarters, and you’re almost certain that his fellow DS had definitely heard you this time. But when John places his damp forehead to yours, eyes closed as he relishes in the bliss of being so close to you for just a moment longer, you struggle to find it in yourself to worry.

“You should wear a bra,” John mumbles, pressing a kiss to your lips— but missing in the haze of post-orgasm-bliss and settling for a peck on the corner of your mouth.

“Why?” You muse, still a little breathless as he works his lips down your chin and over your jaw. The gruff, burly Chief of Directing Staff was so affectionate when the door was closed. You knew that this thing you had going on was more serious than a thing when you stopped being anxious about getting caught and being kicked off the course— instead stressing about John offering his tenderness to another recruit. “If this is how you react to seeing me with a wet shirt and no bra, I’ll dunk myself in that water every damn day.”

In a moment of sobriety, John pulls back to look you in the eye. His aquamarine irises hold a heavy seriousness that makes your breath stall for a moment, afraid you’d said something out of line.

“Love, I completed that whole trainin’ session with a rock hard cock.”

A beat.

Just before peals of laughter burst from you. John rolls his eyes, turning onto his back on the mattress. Still, he’s unable to bite back the smile that pulls on his lips.

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

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@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh

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