jays-after-hours-blog

[jays-after-hours-blog]

can you do a feyd x reader when the reader watches feyd in the arena they just get so turned on by him fighting cus who doesnt bffr

After The Fight - Feyd Rautha x reader

Notes/Warnings: violence, gore, smut

Words: 1880

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist

He moves like water. His steps are the fluid, smooth surfaces of Caladan’s oceans and grand lakes. The sharp movements of his arm when he lashes out to sink a blade into his opponent’s flesh are as powerful and consistent as the waves that crash against your homeworld’s shore. He does not waver. There is no jerk or shakiness or unsteadiness to a single maneuver. Not like the prisoners he fights. 

They are volcanoes. Simmering, bubbling with rage over what the Harkonnen’s did to the planets and people they love, until they explode. There is no control to their attacks. They slash their weapons chaotically—lava irresponsibly reaching in all directions just to see what it might hit. Closer to untrained children than men, some of whom were considered great warriors before the demise of their Lord and Lady’s reign. 

It is these fights that prove bravery is often fickle. Powerful that quality of fortitude is when supported and surrounded by other military men, but alone, a man’s bravery can weaken. Years of fighting experience and knowledge fade in the face of solitude, and out of panic, those men grasp onto anything. An unwise play to make when dueling your husband. 

Feyd is too calculated to lose to those who cannot keep their wits about them. He can battle three, four, five in a day and will not come close to failure. If a weapon meets his skin at all, it is known by both spectator and prisoner that it was a lucky strike and unlikely to happen twice. And watching him display his skill, knowing he will always prevail—it turns you on. 

You sit high in the stands of the arena, a private spot for the Lady of Giedi Prime, with a pair of obsidian-encrusted binoculars held up to your eyes as you rub your thighs together. He’s on his sixth. There are beads of sweat on his brow from the blinding sun, sweat that you know will be coating his chest when you eventually get his armor off of him, but he shows not an iota of exhaustion. No labored breaths. No faltered steps. 

Your lips part as he drops his blade from one hand to the other and shoves it between the prisoner’s ribs. The prisoner gasps, his eyes widen, and then his body goes limp and crashes onto the sand. The crowd cheers. Feyd holds his bloodied blade over his head in victory. A droplet falls from the tip of the sharp metal and lands on his cheekbone. It trails down to his chin, carving a red river into the pale plain of skin. 

When he stomps out of the arena, it is with authority. A man who knows how impressive he is, whose heavy steps leave behind distinct imprints in the sand as if to remind everyone he was there and he was the only one to walk away. He disappears through one of the grand doors, his body draped in shadow as you rise to your feet. Lifting your skirts just enough to avoid tripping on the material, you rush past your attending guards and descend the staircase. 

You know where he is. It’s where he always is after a fight, and you don’t delay, not slowing for a single second on your trek to the training room. 

By the time you enter the room and quickly shut the door behind you, the top half of his armor has already been discarded. His skin is covered in a thin, shiny sheen, and you stand frozen, allowing your eyes the chance to devour every glistening muscle. A tingle shoots along your spine, plunking off each vertebra on its way down. 

You will never get over having the physical embodiment of a marble statue right in front of you—a chisled figure that belongs to you, that is reserved for you and only your touch—just as he claims he will never get over the feel of your soft flesh in his hands when he thrusts inside of you. There’s an appreciation for one another that has been there from the very beginning. An admiration. It is what bonded you on the evening following your wedding reception. 

Before that night one month ago, you’d known nothing of him other than what you’d heard from rumor; you’d not spoken a word to him outside of your vows that had taken place hours prior. But alone in your bedroom, during your first moments of peaceful silence as husband and wife, you found comfort, connection, a link between you that you already knew would be unbreakable. Both disrobed, you stared at one another from across the room for minutes that lasted for ages, neither of you rushing as you scanned the inches of each other's faces and figures. And then, in unison, something snapped. You met in the middle, mouths melding, hands everywhere, bodies landing atop silken sheets as you fell into bed. 

Feyd turns his head to look at you. As he pulls on the clasps of his wrist cuffs, amusement is in his irises, a smirk curling his lips as he hands one cuff to a servant you hadn’t noticed until now, and then the other. With a wave of his hand, the servant then retreats to the edge of the room.

Twisting to face you fully, Feyd crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge, making your mouth go dry. Your tongue is sandpaper; throat gritty when you try to swallow. 

“Come here,” is a low timbre, and you obey the order.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, and you can’t take your eyes off him. He’s too entrancing, even more so when you’re up close and can see the lines of sweat that have dried on his chest and abdomen, his body too warm for the droplets to survive the whole way down his torso. 

He sucks in a breath as your fingertips rest on his stomach, dipping into the valleys between the hills of defined muscle as they travel up and up to his pecs. Your palm flattens and slides over his collarbone and shoulder and along the column of his neck. Gripping his jaw, you ease his head to the side. 

There is not a flaw on your husband’s face, which makes the prisoner’s blood stand out all the more. You bite your bottom lip, and then, standing on your toes, you lean in and trace the trail of red with your tongue, licking one long stripe from chin to cheekbone. 

A groan reverberates in Feyd’s chest. His hands fly out and clasp onto your hips. You move your thumb aside and press your mouth to his cheek, then jawline, his adam’s apple bobbing when you reach his throat. 

When you pull back, his gaze meets yours. Blue irises flick from one of your eyes to the other and back. For a moment, he only stares down at you in awe, like this is the first time you’ve ever acted this way, or the first time the salt of his sweat has coated your taste buds. 

Then a switch flips. 

“Get out,” he says, the order echoing throughout the space.

With hurried steps, the servant skitters out of the room just as Feyd bends at the waist to tuck one arm under your knees, supporting your back with the other as he lifts you into the air. Lips find each other. Heat flows through your limbs. He turns, and in a few strides, he has closed the distance to the nearest table.

Without breaking the kiss, he sets you on the flat metal surface, wasting not a second bunching your skirts up to your waist to reveal your bare thighs. The warmth of his palms overpowers the chill of the air as you blindly paw at his pants, reaching behind the material to pull him free. Your hand wraps around him, and your gasps clash. His forehead rests on yours. That warmth moves to your cheeks as he cups your face and draws your lips to his again, but when you start to stroke him, the softness of the kiss turns into desperate hunger. His hand drops from your face to envelope your neck, lightly squeezing and then skimming down your chest to the neckline of your dress. With one sharp yank, the fabric gives way. You practically whimper as thumbs brush across your hardened buds before he continues along the curves of your waist to your hips. The vice-like grip is almost painful when he jerks your entire body to the edge of the table so he can push himself inside you.

As he sinks in to the hilt, your head falls back. Lips dot around your neck until they reach the spot just under the curve of your jaw. The delicate skin is abused by licks and nibbles.

“I love watching you,” you moan, and he chuckles, nipping the lobe of your ear with his teeth. “You’re so–”

The air is sucked right out of your lungs as Feyd bites down hard. “So what?” he then whispers, slowly pulling out and thrusting back in to hit that needy spot deep within your core. 

Your body goes limp. If not for the arm circling your waist, your spine would’ve met the cool metal. 

He hums. “So what?”

“So perfect,” you manage to breathe out. 

Feyd groans at your response, picking up his pace, his hips relentlessly slamming into yours until your body is tensing on the edge of release. When that tension finally breaks, flutters and sparks pour out of the fracture, spreading throughout you, reaching for the tips of your fingers and toes. As your walls tighten around him, Feyd grunts. His body jerks forward with the sound, head tucking into the crook of your neck and shoulder. Fists clench. A loud bang consumes the space when his knuckles put a dent in the metal on either side of your body. His hips stutter as he fills you, and then he stills, the only movement being the rise and fall of his chest with every recovery inhale and exhale. 

“Never stop coming to me,” he says, spine shuddering from the soft scraping of your nails up and down his back. You raise a brow. His head lifts. “I want you after every fight.”

You almost snicker at the seriousness within his gaze, because since when he has ever needed to insist on having you? When has he not had you as he pleased? When have you not taken him as he has taken you at every opportunity? That is what the two of do, especially when mind and body are at their most raw, bared selves. In those moments, your brain is drained of anything other than thoughts of him, and all that is left of his energy is what he can give to you, and you both are never more in that mental and physical state than just after you have watched him acheieve victory in the arena. To secure your future attention with his current demand is unnecessary, borderline redundant. 

But you don’t tell him that. You chalk up his forgetfulness to the fogginess that follows orgasm, and say, “Then you shall have me,” before sealing your lips to his. 

---

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you liked it, let me know :)

[jays-after-hours-blog]

What's gayer? Two men having sex, or whatever the fuck was going on with that guy who tried to dismantle Data and forced Picard to prove Data's right to agency in a court of law, gazing admiringly at the android all the while, talking about how much he wanted to take him apart to understand him further, who after the court ruled against him blushed and gazed after Data in the distance, whispering "he's remarkable" in the first instance of recognizing Data's personhood and, perhaps, more deeply understanding his own feelings in regards to the passion to which he's chosen to devote his life?

[jays-after-hours-blog]

this tweet is literally never not on my mind

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best m/f dynamic is a flamboyant bisexual show-off desperately in love with an extremely practical girl who’s difficult to impress 🤩

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I did say somewhere I’ll do some date everything art

so... hector..he’s too adorable when u actually see how he look like-

(Yandere warning!)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[jays-after-hours-blog]

"What were you doing at the devils sacrament" jarking my whole thing off. Next quiestuon.

[jays-after-hours-blog]

🖤 “Careful, Or I’ll Think You Like It.”

Victor Zsasz x You (violence, language, suggestive tension)

summary: bar fight, possessiveness, stubborn tension, he acts — you react — and neither of you walks away clean.

The bar smells like piss and whiskey. Just how Victor likes it.

You’re sitting across from him, drink in hand, legs crossed, mouth doing that thing that makes him want to do things he probably shouldn’t in public. Your laugh cuts through the low hum of sleaze and broken neon.

And that’s when it happens.

A drunk — some nobody who’s had one too many and probably didn’t have much to lose to begin with — calls out your name.

Not just your name.

Your name, followed by something gross.

Laced with suggestion.

Disrespect.

Stupid.

Victor’s jaw ticks.

Your eyes snap toward the sound, then back to Victor. You already know.

“Don’t,” you mutter.

He doesn’t even look at you.

Just gets up, smooth as silk. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t warn.

Walks across the bar like he’s bored.

One punch.

Just one.

A crunch of bone. A scream. A body on the floor.

Victor wipes his bloody knuckles on the guy’s shirt, steps over him, and comes back like nothing happened.

You meet him halfway, rage and something else flaring in your chest.

“What the fuck, Victor?”

He stops in front of you, unbothered, mouth curled into that lazy, amused smirk.

“Guy forgot whose table you were sitting at,” he says, like it’s nothing. “I reminded him.”

Your spine straightens. “You don’t own me.”

“Didn’t say I did.”

You glare. “I can take care of myself.”

“And I can break noses. Looks like we both have hobbies.”

Your mouth opens — to argue, to yell — but you freeze when his eyes flick down your body and back up again, slow and shameless.

“Jesus,” you mutter, shoving past him.

But he follows.

He always does.

Outside, the air is sharp. The alley’s quiet. His footsteps fall heavy behind you until you’re backed against the brick wall, chest rising, jaw tight.

“You’re pissed,” he says casually, hands in his pockets. “But not about the punch.”

“I don’t need you stepping in like some—some psycho white knight!”

“I’m not a knight, baby,” he laughs. “I’m just the guy who saw that drunk bastard eye-fucking you and thought, ‘Nah. Not tonight.’”

You scoff. “I can handle that kind of attention.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But did you want to?”

You open your mouth, close it, clench your fists.

He leans in.

“Careful,” he whispers, “or I’ll think you liked it.”

“I didn’t,” you snap. Too fast. Too sharp.

He grins wider.

“You keep saying that like it means something.”

Your back hits the wall as he gets even closer, his body almost touching yours, heat radiating from him like a goddamn furnace.

“You liked that I hit him,” he says, low. “You liked that I didn’t hesitate. That I didn’t ask. That I just… took care of it.”

“I like being in control.”

“And yet,” he says, brushing your hair back with two fingers, “you’re letting me get this close.”

Your breath catches.

“You could’ve stopped me.”

You don’t.

“You still can.”

You don’t move.

He leans down, voice like smoke.

“Say the word. I’ll back off. Walk away. Let you pretend you don’t want me rough, don’t want me mean, don’t want me to ruin your night in a way you’ll feel for days.”

Your fingers grip the fabric of his shirt.

“Victor—”

“Yeah?”

“…Don’t walk away.”

His smile turns slow. Dangerous.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

⸻

back to masterlist

[jays-after-hours-blog]

5 and/or 9 for Data???

9 - finding you crying

is immediately confused and asking questions. what has made you so sad? can you explain why this has had such a dramatically negative impact on your emotions? data's first reaction isn't to soothe you or comfort you - it's to find information and act on the facts given to him.

but he'll get there eventually. data doesn't need to be able to experience sadness to know it's a very unpleasant feeling to have. and he doesn't wish for you to suffer. so data will try his best to comfort you, drawing on all his previous knowledge and experience to offer as much help as possible.

sits down beside you. stiffly puts one of his hands over yours, but he quickly just wraps an arm around you once you lean against him. gently pressing his cheek against your head while his hand strokes the skin of your arm. data continues to speak - you weren't really answering his questions to his satisfaction, so he just starts talking about his day. a joke geordi told that he didn't understand. advice he overheard counselor troi giving which he couldn't begin to unravel. a line from a story captain picard mentioned offhandedly that held such emotion that data was, in fact, going to ask you to explain it to him later.

you still weren't speaking much. just sniffling quietly as data spoke, and he wondered whether he was helping or not. he shifted slightly, meaning to pull away and offer to bring someone else who could offer comfort much more easily. but your arms wrap around his middle. you shake your head against his shoulder. data notes that you don't seem to be crying anymore.

"just stay, data. please."

he nods his head instantly. brings you in a bit closer because the proximity seems to be working. and data goes on to talk more about his day - even succeeds in pulling out little details from you here and there. he can help solve the puzzle of your sadness later. but for now, data comforting you seems simple enough.

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Hi scandalabralings

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[jays-after-hours-blog]

Tumblr as the loud, alt, gnc nerd with coloured hair, a ton of Pride pins, and lots of merch

Ao3 as the quiet, unassuming book nerd that's secretly freaky as fuck

Does anyone else see my vision

[jays-after-hours-blog]

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No thoughts except hector's stubble scratching against your thighs as he worshipps you ♡

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Hello hector nation... i have more but im testing the waters

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Heyyy!! It’s BEEN forever omg, but here are some recently sketches!!!<33 😝😝 I love this game so much omg I’m just obsessed bro

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I got into the object game….. I hate this freaky man….. (and because of that I had to get him out of my system!! Because I despise him!!! Believe me!!)

(I actually am very much in love with him (what does this say about me I wonder….(I’ll put some closeups while I think……)))

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And here I was thinking Hector would be a monstrous lil freak.....an amongus imposter moment, if you will.