#just warming up for other drawings I need to do

[keferon]

Ahhhhhhhhh! The TF mecha Deadlock and human Ratchet drawing! I just saw it before sending this. His squishy! But yeeee! Continuing from the last one I wrote. Just pulled ideas from other posts you and others have done in this TF mecha universe. This is fun! :P

****

Ratchet's living quarters is much like the hanger where his lab is. An open area with some dividers up to make separate rooms. Scaffolding and catwalks line the wall and stairs are at each corner of the hanger. The interior is smaller when compared to the lab but the ceiling is much taller, allowing Deadlock the ability to sit up right comfortably. It looks like a little maze to Deadlock who can look down from above. Out of the five rooms in this hanger turned living quarters, Deadlock can't see into three of them. Ratchet's berthroom, the kitchen, and washrack all have ceilings to them. Ratchet's office is connected to the sitting area. Being the largest area in the hanger Deadlock has taken over the sitting area to recharge and heal in. Being the Chief Engineer no one has questioned Ratchet for having Deadlock in his hanger because Ratchet always takes work home with him. Also don't question Ratchet.

A click from the main entrance door has Deadlock stir from his recharge. Old instincts and habits have made him a light recharger. He opens one optic, a red glow fills the room. Blinding bright and staticky at first but dims and clears as his visual boots up. He see Ratchet opening the tiny entryway to slip out. He rumbles knowing it is way to early for Ratchet to head back to his lab. Ratchet had maybe, at most, gotten two hours of recharge. Deadlock gives a rumble/grunt again, this time it sounds more like a wheeze as he starts to shift to grab his little squishy who has already opened the door and stepped half way out. He is using the door to make himself unsnatchable not without breaking the thin metal.

Number one rule while in Ratchet's domain: Don't break Ratchet's things, he NEEDS them. The objects Ratchet chuck do not/can not hurt him. The disappointment and tired frustration however does hit something deep in his war worn spark. "Power back down kid. Just leaving for an emergency meeting. When I get back I'll check your intakes and engine. It's rattling and straining hard again." Ratchet says in a deep rougher voice used only when he wakes from recharge. The door click behind the human not giving him time to reply in his drowsy state. He rubs his fresh welded wounds and with a unhappy grunt curls loosely back around what Ratchet calls a lazy-e-boy chair and entertainment center.

ALL DAY! All day Ratchet has been gone. Deadlock should be use to Ratchet's long work days. But Ratchet didn't fuel before he left, he hasn't recharged in a long while. Two hours is not a recharge. Not for him, not for Ratchet. He is worried, it oozes out and around him from his EM Field like a shadowy murky cloak. His audial fins are pinned down and back as far as they can go. Ratchet looks so worn down. Overworked and shoulders heavy with responsibly the Cybertonian knows the bioengineer should not have to bare. The tv is on to use as a distraction but it no more then background noise as his proccesor runs through scenarios of what could be keeping Ratchet this time.

The door lock clicks and Deadlock instantly perks up. His EM Field fizzles away from gloomy to a more warm and bright mood. "Ratch-" He stops immediately when Ratchet comes through the door. Deadlock rakes his claws into the concrete floor and his field starts boiling with the energon in his lines. Ratchet is bruised and bleeding. The humans forehelm and knuckes are covered with fresh and dried blood. His glare intensifies as Ratchet closes the door and slumps against it with a grumble. Ratchet grunts as he takes off his shoes and dirty jacket. Deadlock's helm is filled with static and his spark heavy and spinning way to fast. He can taste energon on his glossa thanks to his fangs. Rage is not what is taking over his sensors and proccesor. Something more like a deeply rooted need, something instinctually feral burns hot in his frame. "WHO'D DARE-" Ratchet holds up a hand and makes a hushing noise, Deadlock snarls engine rattling harder to keep up with his burst of energy and restrained energon lust. His limbs shaking with just as much restraint. The only thing keeping him from ripping the hanger down is Ratchet's hunched form at the entry way. When Ratchet looks up at Deadlock his jaw snaps shut, denta slamming hard against each other with a harsh clank. The fragger looks amused! Tired, frustrated, and hurting but Deadlock knows that look. Those lips are ever so slightly turned up into an amused smirk, "R a t c h e t." Deadlock hisses out passed his denta audial fins pinned back.

"Relax, before you blow a fuse. You should see the other guy. These are just scratches Drift." The fragger chuckles wiping some blood from his lip with his thumb. That does something to Deadlock that he will not acknowledge right now. His spark flutters and pulses harder, EM Field a confusing mix of emotions that Ratchet can't feel, "I had a disagreement with some of the others in command while another sister base visited. I am fine. Been in more then one scrapping in my time." Ratchet hums as he limps into his office, Deadlock claws at the floor again. "I did not party and study my whole younger life away just to get my PhD in biomedical engineering and be told how to do my job. I may have got a tad heated." He chuckles again at Deadlocks snort/huff.

Deadlock relaxes slightly as Ratchet pulls out a medical kit. His systems are running hot and HUB flashing warnings at him do as Ratchet suggested. He relaxes slightly and presses his servo against his helm. "Frag doc starting fights for a disagreement?" He rasps out watching Ratchet closely while he steadies his intakes. The human carefully works on cleaning the blood stained knuckles, Deadlock takes some pleaser in knowing all that blood is not just Ratchet's. "You're just as much of a hot menace as me."

"For you." Ratchet mumbles as he gently rubs ointment on the cuts. "They wanted me to turn you over to the field officer. Told them that you are still a work in progress that needs more time. That you came to my lab mmm.." Ratchet realizes it's the next day, a whole day wasted arguing in a concert room with metal chairs. With stuck up, pathetic excesses for- "Two days ago now.. said I activated some guardian protocal that day by accident which what brought you looking for me. They think you are imprinted on me. Something like that." Ratchet winces as he wraps his most bruised and swollen hand. A whine leaves Deadlock's stuttering engine, the tip of his pointer digit's claw has been hovers over Ratchet's helm as the doc talked, "What is it Drift?" Ratchet pauses from reaching for the alcohol soaked cotten ball. He looking up into overly bright, almost white with worry optics. Ratchet's optics dart around looking over Deadlock's form and healing welds.

Deadlock wants to huff, to roll his optics at the bioengineer's worry for him. But he can't stop his spark and fuel tanks from turning while he watches the red liquid drip down Ratchet's forehelm and optic ridge. "I... can't help you. You are hurt.. cause of me... and I can only watch you patch yourself up." He admits dimming his optics and looking down. All of this because he got impatient and hunted down his squishy to get him to recharge for once.

Ratchet's optics soften slightly. He shuts the kit with a sharp snap and huffs as he straightens from being hunched over. "Hand down please." Deadlock's audial fins perk up at the request. He carefully and gently, as gently as he can, places two digits into the office room. He lifts Ratchet up slowly once the small being had found a good spot to sit on his servo. He doesn't want to risk even the slightest breeze to brush against the bruised and cut flesh. He makes certain his servo is locked so it doesn't twitch on them. "This is high enough. Stay still." Deadlock is about to scold him when he thinks Ratchet is going to check the welds on his chassis. Instead Ratchet pops the kit back open and works on himself. Deadlock's vocal box clicks a few times as he tries to comprehend what his squishy is doing. His spark flutters with his EM Field when he realizes Ratchet is using his metal plating like a mirror. Ratchet dabs the cotton ball on the cut above his left optic ridge. "Didn't feel like going all the way to the bathroom. So thanks kid."

Deadlock purrs and almost melts from the thanks. Yes he will happily be a mirror. "Clever thing to do doc. Have those idiots thinking I am loyal and protective to only you will mean I can follow you around more. I am content being imprinted on you. Just tell them you can't undo it doc and if they touch you ever again I will pluck their little tiny servos off and feed it to them." He rumbles in a flat tone towards the end. He rolls his optics at the small ping from Ratchet flicking his chassis, "You may start a fight doc but know I will finish it."

"Didn't really start it either kid." Ratchet sighs looking at his reflection with a solemn expression before going back to dabbing the cotten ball harder against the cut, "Wasn't just about you Drift. They wanted.... they want..." Deadlock wants to curl around Ratchet the tone he is using now sounds like defeat, that's not his Ratchet. Deadlock lifts his free servo and retracts a claw so he can rub Ratchet's back as best he can to comfort him. "I can't." Ratchet rasps placing his forehelm against Deadlock chassis. Deadlock's engine settles to a purr Cybertonians use to sooth each other. It seems to work. Ratchet's shoulders relax and he seems to be getting his thoughts together. Deadlock stays silent and even if he doesn't need to keeps his EM Field in check. He only giving off support, warmth and calm, "It's inhumane, evil... Tourture... It would break down to much of the muscles and cells of the body. The hippocampus, the cerebral cortex, and the frontal lobe... that much damage to the brain would... I can't do what they want me to. Not to anyone Drift. Not what they ask. I can't. To adults, to teenagers, To Children. Young kids not knowing what they have signed up for. Never told. No choice. No way in hell could I ever-"

The strain and deep pain in Ratchet's voice is killing Deadlock. Deadlock can feel the trembling coming from Ratchet as the human catches his breath. He keeps a steady presser against Ratchet's back for support as he moves him up. He ignores the small gasp from Ratchet when he presses Ratchet to his cheek gently. Warm smooth metal touched warm soft skin, "Never. Never will you do what anyone demands of you. They can not make you harm anyone. You have never done anything you didn't want to and you won't start now. You are to much for them to try to control. My little squishy scraplet. I will kill them if they try. You have my glyphic, honor, and spark on this." Deadlock pulls back feeling something wet on his faceplate. Before Deadlock can get a good look at Ratchet's face, the bioengineer is shakily wiping his optics in a rushed motion aggravating the wound on his forehelm making it bead up with fresh blood, "Woah easy doc!" Ratchet bats his digit away when he tries to stop him.

"Stupidly cocky little shit! Lets get you feeling better before you try taking on a whole mecha filled base for me!" Ratchet laughs and smacks the digit still pressed against his back. That laugh does something to Deadlock's systems and spark, "We'll need to discuss a plan. I don't ever do anything half ass. I will not go into anything blind. But you are right, this is not the place for me to be anymore. Sad really. I was doing a lot of good here, made things safer for our pilots. Slowly sure but less were dying... so horridly all the time." Ratchet mumbles the last bit under his breath before shaking his helm. Deadlock likes the smirk that comes back to Ratchet's lips, "Now lay down so I can check that engine. You are starting to sound like a shitty abandoned junker car. Think you knock something out of place."

Deadlock matches Ratchet's smirk with a slag eating grin as he lifts the human a tad higher to press his forehelm against Ratchet's. He feels Ratchet pulls back after a moment, a stuttering raspy purr rumbles pleasantly through him when Ratchet places his servo against his forehelm and rubs. Yeah he does sound like slag and his HUB is flashing warnings, "What ever you say Doc. I am your guardian knight after all. You just tell me when to start swinging." He hums as he shifts to lay down.

Y O U. YOU JUST WROTE THIS ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE OF A FIC??? AND I DONT EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME?? WHOEVER YOU ARE, ANON, I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH NGKGKFGBFHGH YOUR WRITING DOES THINGS TO MY BRAI N

Also. Al s o. I just realized. Oh my god.

We have two Cybertronians on Earth at the moment right. Prowl and Deadlock. But Prowl is very much restricted in his actions because he has strong moral codex and also he's not a very good fighter (at least on his own).

But then we also have Deadlock. And the only thing keeping Deadlock in check is. Ratchet.

Like. Oh fuck just imagine. He isn't restricted by any moral implications except Ratchets opinion. He doesn't really give a fuck about other organic life or laws of Earth or anything. He is also a really fucking good fighter. He doesn't commit murder because that would disappoint Ratchet, but if. IF. Something happens to Ratchet?

THE HELL he would unleash would be visible from outer space.

Him being so sweet and caring and protective over Ratchet doesn't mean he behaves like this with everyone. Him being protective over Ratchet means that if anything takes Ratchet from him, he'll drown himself in blood. He'll burn, claw, gnaw, punch and tear his way back to his human.

All so he can be nice and sweet and caring again right afterward:)

[mortaldreams]

breathing room (m ver.)

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

genre: smut, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers

word count: 5.9k

warnings: sexually explicit content (MDNI), swearing, arguing, non-explicit descriptions/depictions of violence, tension of both the general and sexual sort, heeseung is a Talker

note: this is an extended (and explicit) version of my sfw story breathing room, which can still be found on my main blog stllmnstr. but this one has, you know, smut. enjoy!

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

In your mind, Lee Heeseung is nothing but a thorn in your side and an obstacle in your path as you struggle to fight your way way up the ranks in combat training. But even with your knife against his neck and flames in your eyes, he finds a way to catch you off guard.

or,

heeseung doesn't need a knockout. he just needs an in.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Lee Heeseung is having a hard time breathing. 

Partly because he’s pretty sure he just got the wind knocked out of him. A little bit because of the year-old rib injury he had neither the time nor patience to let heal completely. 

And mostly because there’s a blade being held to his throat. 

Yours, to be exact. 

It’s a nice one, all things considered. Despite its lethality, it’s small, delicate almost. From this angle, he can just make out the detailing on the hilt. A series of vines wrap around each other intricately, forming kaleidoscopic patterns that extend all the way from the blade to where your fingers are wrapped around the hilt, knuckles white from the way your hand is straining. 

Jesus, he thinks. If it takes that much concentrated effort for you to not let the knife press any harder against his skin, draw any blood, then maybe he should start taking the threats you throw his way like extra change a little more seriously. 

Lazily, he lets his eyes trace a line from your fingers to your face. Skipping over the rather boring details of the plain black training shirt you wear, he directs his attention to the way your brow furrows in concentration instead. 

Under usual circumstances, a knife to the throat would encourage all of his senses to narrow in on the sensation of metal against his pulse point. Would spur his brain to work a bit faster through all the biological fight or flight mechanisms in a last ditch attempt at survival. 

But these are not usual circumstances. In fact, ever since the two of you were split into separate training cohorts a handful of months ago, this has become a rarity. And the only thing Heeseung wants to do is enjoy it a little more. 

Without his self-preservation instincts kicking in, his brain has plenty of room for other things. The forgiving surface of a training mat beneath him, slightly soft where he lets his body relax into it. The unusually warm air of the training room, courtesy of a busted air conditioner that no one has gotten around to fixing just yet. 

The way your hair falls around your face as you lean over him, chest still heaving from your recent bout of exertion. Your eyes are pure fire, embers and ashes and every stage in between as you sit atop his ribcage, knees on either side of his torso where you pin him to the mat. 

But even as the lead trainer adds another tally underneath your name for another sparring match won, your gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t brighten in the afterglow of victory. 

After all, victory only tastes sweet when it’s earned. Judging by the way your lips twist above him, Heeseung thinks the victory he just handed you on a silver platter must be horribly bitter. 

Slowly, he raises his hands in mock surrender. There’s a half smile that looks a little too much like a smirk tugging at his lips when he says, “I concede.”

“No fucking shit.��� You flick a strand of hair out of your face. Your knife presses a little tighter against his throat. “Did you even try?”

Heeseung maintains eye contact. “I think I’m doing us both a favor by not answering that one.”

Narrowing your eyes, annoyance makes itself the most prominent of your visible emotions. “Interesting choice of words from someone with a knife to his throat.”

Heeseung all but rolls his eyes. “What are you gonna do? Kill me in front of everyone?” The way he wraps sarcasm up in every syllable is almost as infuriating as the way he just let you win without putting up any semblance of a fight. “You’ve got a mean streak, princess, but that’s a bit much, even for you.”

The pressure on your blade increases, and Heeseung fights a wince as he feels it break the barrier between his skin and blood. It’s a miniscule cut, surface level at most, but he hears the threat all the same. “It’s like you want to die,” you marvel. 

Heeseung’s eyes betray nothing, other than the fact that they can’t quite seem to stray from your own. Does he? No matter how deep inside himself he searches, the answer is always a resounding no. Despite the effort he put into this particular spar, or rather lack thereof, his survival instincts are still kicking. His pursuit of life is still alive and well. 

So no, he doesn’t want to die. Quite the opposite in fact. But if he were to explain in plain terms that he never feels quite as alive as he does in the moments when you’ve got a knife on his throat and hatred in your eyes, he has the distinct feeling you might well and truly make good on your frequent promise to send him to an early grave. 

And it’s not like he means to do it, not really. Heeseung might be a glutton for punishment these days, but there was a time when he tried to get your attention in all the regular ways. As he quickly found out, sweet words did nothing but make you roll your eyes, and his skills on a sparring mat were only as impressive as they could be used to hone your own. 

He was a tool in your eyes. A means to an end as you did your best to work your way up the ranks. 

You never looked at him, the person behind all the hand-to-hand combat training and advanced levels of weapon artistry. 

At least not until he started annoying the ever-living shit out of you. 

Back then, it had been easy. As new recruits, you were in the same training cohort, which meant you had the same daily schedules. As long as Heeseung had the chance to beat you to the last piece of toast in the dining hall at breakfast or tie the laces of your training boots together the night before an early morning, he was guaranteed at least one of your signature glares and a few choice words that would make his grandmother blush. 

Granted, he knows that one-sided hatred is not a very stable foundation to build anything solid on, but he thinks of it in the same way he thinks of sparring. 

He doesn’t need a knockout. He just needs an in. 

A little bit of breathing room. Something that will have his partner lowering their guard, weakening their defenses just enough for him to strike. Once. Twice. Again. Over and over until the match is won and victory rests on his square shoulders. 

Heeseung’s in this for the long haul, and he’s come to find that he doesn’t really care how many bruises he picks up along the way. 

Across the room, the lead trainer heaves a long sigh. 

“Alright, ___, that’s enough. You’ve earned your tally.” The most of anyone in today’s group. But you’re still glaring at him, and he knows it isn’t enough, not for you. “Heeseung, get it together. I expect better from you next time.”

You scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

Expectations are only met when people are held to them, and you doubt Lee Heeseung has even become acquainted with the concept of a consequence. 

Releasing one final, sharp exhale, you pull your knife away from his throat, tucking it back into the sheath on your upper thigh in one fluid motion. Swinging your leg over his torso, you remove your body from his own, give your anger some space to breathe. Without looking back, you let your strides eat up the distance between you and the exit. 

Someone – you think it must be Jay, or maybe Jungwon – tries to catch your attention on the way out, asking about a maneuver you pulled in the middle of the match. A tricky bit of knife work you’ve been perfecting over the last few weeks. 

Something that looked stupid as Heeseung did nothing but stand there, as if your blade was nothing but decorative. Made you look stupid as he stood and watched with nothing but a mildly amused expression on his face. 

You hate him for it. Want to show him just how pretty your knife can be stained with the deep crimson he must bleed as surely as anyone else. 

Lips pulled in a taut line, you unsheath the blade at your thigh once again, this time sending it spinning with deadly accuracy towards the line of trees that skirt the outside of the training facility. 

You don’t miss. You never do. 

It still feels like defeat. 

…..

Heeseung notices when you’re not at dinner later that evening. Despite the fact that you no longer train together, the inter-cohort spars have shifted this week's schedule. You should be here, sitting next to Jay and Jungwon, probably, pointedly avoiding his gaze. 

But you’re not. And he can only think of one other place to find you. 

The training hall is dark when he arrives, but Heeseung is no fool. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he sees you soon enough. Silhouette dark against the empty expanse, he has half a mind to intervene before you shred yet another punching bag to irreparable pieces. Instead, he just watches for a moment longer. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that start to simmer, that always linger. Doesn’t know if it’s admiration or longing or something far worse. 

But he wants to. Wants to examine them until he knows them as intimately as the back of his own hand, until he can recite them by name and express them in ways that don’t make you want to press a knife against his neck. 

And he wants to keep watching, keep looking, keep noticing. 

Even from a distance, even in the dark, he can read the frustration in the set of your shoulders, sense the exhaustion in the way your legs move just behind the rest of your body. 

You need a break. 

He needs an in. 

Across the room from you, Heeseung clears his throat. 

Startled, you nearly fall on your ass mid-kick before you turn to the source. It’s dark, but you know it’s him. Who else would it be? 

Chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion, you finally catch your breath well enough to tell him, “If you’re not here for a rematch, then you have exactly ten seconds to get out of this building.”

A beat passes. 

Another. 

Heeseung exhales. “And if I am?”

Bathed in the dying glow of moonlight, you go still. “Then you better put in your best fucking effort.”

Heeseung is across the room before you can release another breath. It’s ridiculous how quickly he disarms you. And you’re caught off guard, yes, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Your knife in his hands, he throws it to the corner of the room. And then it’s just the two of you. 

Heeseung spares neither time nor effort knocking your legs out from under you, sending you careening towards the mat. Screwing your eyes shut, you brace for the impact of a training mat that never comes, the back of your head cradled in a hand that serves as a barrier between you and the ground below. 

It’s a complete reversal of your earlier roles as he lets his legs fall to either side of you, face inches from your own. There’s no knife on your neck, and he was gracious enough to break your fall. 

But suddenly, you find your breath a difficult thing to catch regardless. 

Above you, his eyes are dark. Your noses nearly touch. “This is what you wanted?” he breathes, and you feel his words as much as you hear them. They dance across your cheekbone, your lips. Have your bones feeling molten, all your hard edges malleable. “You want me to fight you like I mean it? To really fucking spar with you?”

You’ve rehearsed your answer too long to deviate, even as your mind screams with sudden uncertainties. “Yes.”

Heeseung doesn’t spare it a second thought. “Too bad.”

“Why? You have no problem f–”

“I was there, you know.” Unbidden, the hand that doesn’t hold your head falls to the bottom edge of your black training shirt. Heeseung pauses there for a moment, lets his fingers trace the seam. Something in the air shifts, tightens, waits. 

Despite the way he has you caged, your hands are unbound. You could stop this, if you wanted to. Stop him. 

You don’t. 

Slowly, his hand begins to track an upward journey, taking your hem with it. The air of the room is warm, choked with summer heat and the odd sensations that simmer just beneath your skin, but you suppress a shiver anyway as a sliver of skin is revealed. 

You know what he’s after, where his eyes fall to. It’s his fingers that hesitate. Dangle with uncertainty a hair's breadth from the scar that sits just above your hip bone. 

Heeseung inhales, eyes returning to your own for a moment. They’re searching for permission you won’t give and boundaries you won’t set. If he wants to walk this tightrope, he’ll have to navigate on his own. 

It’s a challenge he rises to. On his breath out, Heeseung lets his fingers find a home on the bare skin of your stomach, trace the jagged line that’s a shade paler than the surrounding area. 

It’s a scar you hardly think of, one you can’t believe he remembers. Gifted to you in your early days of training, when a fellow recruit thought the best way to better his ranking was to discard the strict sparring rules set by your superiors and draw blood as a last ditch attempt at victory.

You’d still won, even with a fresh stab wound on your lower abdomen. And he’d been shown the door, like all recruits that break protocol. 

“So what?” Your voice doesn’t come out nearly as biting as you intend it to. You curse the waver in your words. “I get one scar and suddenly I’m delicate?” 

Heeseung glances up, something sincere in his eyes when he matches your gaze. His hand is still on your skin. “We’re all delicate. And we all have the scars to prove it. I’ve just developed a particular… aversion to seeing evidence of it when it comes to you.”

You’re quick to school your features into neutrality. At least on the outside, you won’t give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Apparently not,” Heeseung counters. “Since I’m not the one begging for a fight.” He holds your gaze when he adds, “And I have to say, princess, if you wanted me to put you on your back, there are much easier ways to ask.”

It’s as if you’ve been submerged in hot water, as if you’ve been burned, when you push him off of you with a speed that’s almost comical. And from the way heat rises in your cheeks, you just might have been. 

Your voice is dangerously low when you tell him, “You have three seconds.”

“Until what?” Heeseung knows better than to be hopeful. 

“Until I find my knife and put it to good use.”

He knows better, yes. But what are limits for, if not to be pushed? 

Heeseung looks up at you from where he still lies on the mat. Propping himself up on one hand, he lets his gaze trace you from head to toe. Lazily, like he has all the time in the world and none of his inhibitions. “Is that a promise?”

You do your best not to squirm underneath his wandering gaze. But evidence of your embarrassment still stains your flushed skin. And from the way his lips start to quirk upwards, you can tell that he’s enjoying this. 

You’re flustered, and he loves it. Loves that when you stutter a bit, start to trip over your words, it’s by his doing. 

Standing above him, your scowl is unconvincing. A stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in your cheeks and the way you can’t quite match his eye. “What is wrong with you?”

“Several things.” Below you, Heeseung bites back a smile. “Would you like an itemized list? Or would you prefer the details of my depravity in essay format? Or I could–”

“Stop it.” Your face is still flaming, but your voice has changed. It’s not shy or breathy or even biting. It’s just… frustrated. A little bit pathetic. Pleading in a way Heeseung wasn’t prepared for. 

“Just stop it.” On the training mat, Heeseung goes still. “God, you do this every time. I come here and I work my fucking ass off every day, and all you do is sit there and mock me for it.” The fire is draining from your eyes. The fight is draining from your shoulders. It’s wrong. It’s not what he meant. But it’s spiraling and he doesn’t know how to stop it. “Is this…” you trail off. Deciding your pride is already torn to shreds, you ask, “Am I some kind of joke to you?”

Heeseung is standing again before you can catch your breath. Crowding your space. Or at least, he tries to. The backwards step you take maintains a steady distance. 

“No.” Now he’s the one that’s scrambling, lost for words. “No,” he repeats. “Fuck, ___” he cards a hand through his hard, pushing it away from his face. “You have to know that’s not what I think of you.”

You scoff in exasperation, but your eyes are starting to shine. Reflect the unshed tears of frustration that have begun to gather in your lash line. Heeseung’s fingertips twitch with the urge to wipe them away. “How would I know that? You always do this.” Your words are coming out too fast, spilling from parted lips in the most painful river of honesty he’s ever gotten from you. 

“You don’t take me seriously. You won’t fight me. You won’t do anything but lay there with that stupid fucking smile.” You’re angry. Clearly. But you’re not getting in his face, not forcing your words down his throat by invading his space. 

No, instead, you’re closing in on yourself. Eyes trained on the ground, you won’t even look at him. Arms wrapping around your torso, it’s as if you want as many barriers between the two of you as possible. “All you do is tease me, because you know it makes me…” Shaking your head, your words die on your lips. 

Heeseung can’t let it go so easily. “Makes you what?”

Slowly, you drag your gaze back to his. There’s no sound here, in the expanse of a barren training room. Just the mingling of your breath with his. The quiet remnants of your anger. You won’t answer his question. You can’t.

Instead, you whisper “I hate you.”

Heeseung takes a step closer. This time, you don’t retreat. He shakes his head. “You don’t.”

Feet planted, you have to tilt your chin to look up at him now. “I do–”

“You don’t,” he interrupts. “You don’t hate me, and you have no idea what to do about it.”

A spark flickers through your eyes again/ This is the kind of sparring match you’ve become familiar with when it comes to him. “Typical,” you bite, voice low. “And so fucking presumptuous, to assume that you know me better than I do.”

Heeseung presses into your space further. You can feel the heat that radiates off of his skin, that threatens to consume you whole. “I tease you, yes,” he admits. “But you’ve never been a joke to me. I take you as seriously as death, princess.”

“Don’t call me that–”

“And don’t act like you’re any better.” Features slackening, your eyes widen as he doubles down. “You want to talk about taking people seriously? Fine.” There are flames in his eyes now, raging through his dark irises. “You never looked at me twice. Never thought of me as anything but a stepping stone to make yourself better. You want me to fight you? You want to use me to test out all your fancy little tricks and improve until you’re the only one at the top?”

He’s close. He’s so fucking close. 

“Fine. I’ll give you what you want.” Fingers sliding beneath your jaw, he cups your chin with a light, but demanding grip. Forcing your gaze upwards, you have nowhere to look but his eyes when he demands, “But look at me while I do it.”

In the span of seconds, you’re on your back again. Trapped beneath him as he pins your hands above your head, both of your wrists entrapped in the grasp of a single hand. Knees on either side of your torso, you’re effectively trapped. 

Frantically, without any of your usual finesse, you begin to thrash, desperately trying to free yourself. His only response is to close his knees tighter, restricting your movement further. 

Fuming, nearly immobile, you bring one knee up in a well-aimed jab. But Heeseung hasn’t been fighting all these months. Not really. 

He predicts your movement with a practiced ease and stops the blow in its tracks. Spare hand wrapping around the back of your thigh, he shakes his head at you. 

“Ah, ah,” he scolds, voice dangerously low. “I thought I told you to look at me.”

Beneath him, your chest heaves. “As if I’d ever listen to you.” But your eyes lock on his anyway. As if you can win this sparring match through sheer will alone. 

Heeseung doesn’t say anything. Hardly so much as blinks as his hand wraps around your thigh a little more firmly. And then, he’s adjusting it. 

Dragging it upwards with a scalding touch until he guides it to wrap around the base of his hips. Again, his touch is light. Something you could break free from if you really wanted to. All of his command lies in his eyes, his gaze that still burns into yours. 

The space just above your cheekbones is flaming again. But this time, for a different reason. 

You feel it more pointedly than you ever have, a sharp, pulsing tug that snakes down your spine and settles just beneath your navel. 

You’re warm there, too. Too warm.

The clothed expanse of your inner thigh, just above your knee, rests against the outside of his hip. But it’s not enough. Does nothing to soothe the building ache, nothing to ease your mounting desperation for friction, for something.  

It’s too much. It’s almost involuntary, the way you start to squirm again,. But this time, it’s not freedom you seek. 

Overwhelmed with sensations you have no idea what to do with, you screw your eyes shut. 

Your body feels like one big muscle, drawn taut, fraught with tension. And it’s so warm, so unbearably hot. 

Shrouded in darkness of your own making, it’s almost worse. You can feel everything. Every desperate pulse that throbs in time with your heartbeat. Every shallow breath that scatters across your overly warm skin. 

The gentle, light pair of lips that ghost over the space between your brows. That brush against the side of your tightly shut eyelid. That comes to rest along the shell of your ear, inspiring a fresh round of shivers down the length of your spine. 

He feels it too. You can tell by the way his breath shudders against you. 

His lips part against your earlobe, touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. “Please,” he begs, and you think you might actually die. If this is what defeat feels like, you’ll hand him his rightful victory. “Look at me.”

You’re still sparring. You’re sure of it. Giving into his demands would feel like defeat. But so does hiding, lying immobile and shying away from sensation as if you’re afraid. 

You are. Afraid, that is. But you’ll die before you let him see that. 

So you obey his command. Eyelids fluttering open slowly, you’re met with the sight of him. Hair falling over his forehead, his nose nearly touches yours. There’s heat in his cheeks and his gaze and his skin. 

Something in him sings with desperation, too. 

Still, there’s a hint of something else. Something softer. Something that almost sounds like fondness when he matches your eye and whispers, “There she is.”

You feel molten, pliant beneath his touch. Again, your hips shift of their own volition as you swallow down the whimper that threatens to escape. 

Heeseung is so intricately attuned to it. Every miniscule movement. Every shallow breath. He notices, feels it too. 

And he’s always held a certain love for this. For the chase. For the build up. 

But his patience can only stretch so far, and he won’t leave you hanging for long. 

You expect it to be bruising, desperate, angry. Everything that’s it’s always been between the two of you when he finally brings his lips to yours. 

It’s not. 

Heeseung’s lips drip with desperation, but they’re slow where they begin to move against your own. Slow and deep and searching, like he’s looking for something he never thought he’d find. 

Late summer heat washes over your skin, and this time, you can’t hide the whimper that drips from your tongue. That he swallows with a renewed vigor. 

It’s as if a light has been ignited. The hand, the one that still cradles your thigh, doubles down in its grip. Drags your leg up further. 

Until he’s just as trapped within it as you are beneath his body. The action brings him closer to you, touching in places that send a fresh wave of shudders radiating from the cradle of your hips. 

“God,” he pants, the syllable sliding past your open lips. “Fuck, ___.” 

He moves his hips again, this time in a more deliberate way. A repeated motion that has you seeing stars. That quells the rising ache in your core just as much as it expands it. 

“You feel that?” he breathes. “Feel what you do to me?”

You shudder beneath him, body slack to sensation. A live wire under his touch. “Please.”

But patience, restraint, are old friends of Heeseung’s. He wants to hear you say it. “Please, what? Use your words, princess.”

You’ll give it to him, whatever he wants. But words are difficult to come by. You can’t form them with your tongue, can’t push them past your lips. You can’t think. “I don’t… It hurts–”

Heeseung might have patience, but the sound of you begging erases what’s left of his self-control in one fell swoop. He’ll finish the words you can’t quite work out. “Yeah? Need me to make it better? Need me to make you feel good?”

But he does want at least one thing from you. With his hand on your jaw, he forces your gaze to his again. “I’ll do it. I’ll give you whatever you want.” It’s a promise. One that bleeds with sincerity. One that’s just as evident in his eyes as it is in his words. “Just need you to tell me.”

In the scant inches that separate your lips, you whisper, “I want it.”

Heeseung is hanging on by a thread. “Want what?”

You unwind it just as quickly. With starlight dancing over your features, half shadowed by his body over yours, you tell him, “Want you.”

And you can feel it, the way his facade of composure starts to slip. The way desperation starts to become his only driving force. 

Even still, you’ve always been something he chooses to treat with care, and this will be no different. 

Slowly, he releases his grip on your hands above your head. 

With movements that soothe as much as they ache, and gestures that feel a little too much like love, he pushes a stray strand of hair away from your heated forehead. 

And then, once again, his hand falls to the hem of your shirt. There’s less hesitation, even if his fingers still shake slightly, as he begins to drag it upwards. Inch by agonizing inch, the expanse of your stomach is laid bare to night air and the wandering intensity of his gaze. 

Your ribcage follows. It’s not cold, but you shudder all the same. 

He stops, fingers suddenly immobile as they trace the top of your ribs. Uncharted territory. A final barrier between the two of you. 

But you’re getting better at this, too. With a firm grip, you bring one hand to grasp his wrist. Looking him right in the eye, you tell him in a heated whisper, “Touch me.”

It’s all he needs. 

Hesitation sizzles against the open air everywhere it bleeds from his fervent touch. 

His hands are on your skin, and his mouth is back on yours. It burns in a way that’s distinct from hatred. There’s no bitter aftertaste, no sharp sting, even as his teeth catch on your bottom lip. 

There’s little grace here, even as he takes his time with you. 

Here on the training mat, it’s a far cry from romance, even if your head swims with dangerous thoughts all the same. 

His breath, his body, his touch are all tangled in yours. As his hips find a home in the space against yours, it feels less like sparring and more like a dance. Careful choreography that your bodies already know. 

Again, he moves against you. The sounds that crawl from your throat and drip through his open lips are obscene. Would be hopelessly embarrassing in any other context, but his touch soothes your anxieties as much as it stokes them. 

Lying beneath him, skin bare to his gaze and his touch and his intentions, you suddenly feel like a novice. An easy opponent. The nervous holder of the lower hand.

But Heeseung never wanted to best you, and this is no exception. Gentle fingers dance across the band of your training trousers. Plain. Utilitarian. Designed for function. 

Your sudden insecurities aside, he doesn’t want to best you. He doesn’t want to win. 

He tells you as much. “Relax,” he coos against your feverish temple. “Just gonna make you feel good.” It’s an iteration of an already established claim. A promise he’s already made. 

But here, trapped beneath his body, consumed by a touch that soothes as much as it burns, you decide that would feel like losing, too. 

“You, too,” you insist, finding the fragmented remnants of your voice. It’s a whisper that lands on his collarbone. He shudders with the insinuation. “I want you to feel good, too.”

Pulling back slightly, he pauses his ministrations. Looks you right in the eye and asks, “Are you sure?”

He might have spurred this, might have brought you here, but you’re burning with it now, too. The desire to see him come undone. Fall apart by your doing. 

You bring one hand to his temple, and he relaxes into your touch like he’s familiar with it. His head cradled in your palm, you say for the third time, “I want to make you feel good.”

He shudders, and for a moment, everything is still. The room around you holds its breath, his gaze locked on yours. 

And then, without breaking eye contact, he rolls his hips again. Slowly. Surely. 

Watches as you struggle to keep your eyes open against the sudden onslaught of sensations. Marvels at the small, desperate sounds he’s dying to swallow. 

It’s still, until it’s not. Until his fingers find their mobility again and the rest of you is laid just as bare as your torso. Until long moments later, your hands are the one to make him follow suit. 

Sweat sticks to your skin, makes every movement, every motion, feel all the more sordid. 

But when he guides your other leg around him and whispers against the shell of your ear, “You feel so good,” something between the two of you feels sacred, too. 

There’s little finesse to the way he finally guides himself inside of you. Little grace to be found in the way your bodies connect, breath and body and soul combining and colliding into one. 

There’s too much sensation, too many months and weeks and hidden dreams for it to be perfect. Too much care and pleasure and feelings for it to be anything but. 

And Heeseung…

Heeseung is seeing fucking stars. 

He’s always found you beautiful, but this is new. This is different. This is just for him. 

Every desperate sound he drags from your throat, every involuntary movement of your hips as you beg for relief only he can give you. It all belongs to him. 

His own pleasure is lost somewhere behind clouded eyes as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes open under the intensity of his touch. He chases something bigger, something far more dangerous than the pathways of his own baser desires. 

He needs it. Burns with the urge to watch you drowning in pleasure for him. Because of him. 

The only thing you’ve ever shown interest in him for is his prowess on a training mat, and he’s desperate to show you that he’s worth more than that. That he can serve you what you need on a silver platter and predict what you want without you having to say a word. 

He’s a quick study. He watches, observes the way your skin flushes with every filthy, adoring, sweet nothing he whispers against your ear. With every inch of pleasure he forces you to swallow. 

You’re shaking beneath him, practically vibrating with the intensity of it all, and Heeseung wants nothing more than for it all to last just a little longer. Stretch into a slighter bigger pocket of infinity that only the two of you are privy to. 

But even slivers of forever have their inevitable ends, and Heeseung senses this one in the way your whimper drags out, in the way the last remaining bits of tension drain from your shoulders while you clench around him. 

He’s no better. In the moments that follow, he crowds himself impossibly further into the heat of your body while he follows suit. Makes good on your wish that he finds his pleasure, too. 

And when it’s done, and the only thing left in the afterglow is exhaustion, he hears you whisper, “Heeseung?” 

It takes him a moment to find his voice. He’s never heard you say his name like that before. All hesitation, no trace of venom. His throat feels scraped raw when he hums against your collarbone, “Mm?”

Your hands are in his hair, a gentle repeated motion that soothes. That has hope surging in his chest. 

“I don’t…” you sigh, fighting against the urge to swallow your less combative words, even now. “I don’t hate you,” you finally admit. Like it’s still a secret. Like he can’t read the truth in the way you wrap strands of his hair around your fingers, in the way you let him rest against your skin. 

But it’s not easy for you to admit, even if it’s obvious, evident in everything that’s passed between the two of you. It still takes no small amount of bravery for you to whisper it to him in the dead of night in an abandoned training room. 

Bathed in the fading remnants of deep seated pleasure and the dying glow of distant moonlight, it almost makes him want to smile. 

“I know,” he whispers. Leaning a little further into your touch, he repeats, “I know.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: this was for YOU heeseung girlies ♡♡♡ it's been a hot minute since I wrote anything with actual smut, so I hope this reads alright! let me know what you thought, and as always, I hope you enjoyed ♡

[sunshinegirl29]

Under The Influence

Summary; Aaron is helpless under the influence of Peter Lewis.

Content Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Drugs, Violence, Death, P in V Sex, some angst & fluff if you squint.

Pairing: Hotch X Reader

A/N - Sorry for how terrible this is, especially the end! It didn't quite come out how I'd hoped. But I still wanted to post it 😅.

-

Aaron’s eye is swollen shut.  The sticky cooling blood dries on his cheek where he sits slumped against an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar room. He sees you there, soft and warm, and blurred at the edges. You crouch down and stroke tenderly over the swell of his arms.

“Hotch—Aaron.” You breathe his name, leaning into the crook of his neck to nuzzle at the warm skin there.

Aaron tenses at first, uncomfortable.

“What’re you doing?" he bites out and attempts to shuffle from your grip, but his arms won’t move.

Something buzzes by his right foot, illuminating a faceless figure.

“It’s okay.”  

You smell like sage mingled with something sweet, like bubble-gum.

He jumps at the delicate press of your lips against his neck, puffing frustrated breaths when you continue a path of open-mouthed kisses up and across his jaw before pulling away to smile coyly at him.

You’re beautiful. He knew that. But now, gazing at him with lust blown eyes and the hint of a blush tinging your cheeks you’re almost ethereal; like a mirage of water in a desert.

He can’t do this. No matter how many times he’d scolded himself about wanting more. You were so much younger than him. His friend. His subordinate.

“It’s okay. You can kiss me, Aaron.”

It’s as if a film falls down over him and a confusing blurred version of you; plush lips parted and panting with need.

You hold your breath in anticipation before he moves in slow motion.  Aaron’s lips are softer than you expected, his five o’clock shadow a sharp juxtaposition.  The erotic sensation beckons a moan from your mouth into his that’s warm and unbearably pliant.  

“Touch me. Please. You have my permission.” 

It’s as if a switch flips in his head.  He had to have every inch of you.

The unbearable need forces him forward, the pain in his face and head just a background buzz to the ache for you.

He bursts into life underneath you; the hand that isn’t holding himself up curls around the side of your neck, a large thumb tips your head down for a kiss that swallows you whole.  You can’t stop yourself from whining into him, obedient to his tongue that licks readily into your mouth.  The tang of iron blending with a sweetness of something unknown, it gets stronger until he breaks away, allowing you to draw in a soft gasp.   The reprieve doesn’t last.

The large hand commanding your jaw moves to join the other at your chest, and with diligent fingers, the light material is slipped from your body.   Aaron groans deeply from under you at the black lace, which follows the shirt quickly to the floor. You can’t help but lean into the heady sensation of wet warmth at your chest where he nips and licks like a man starved.

“Oh god.”  You whine at the relentless pleasure of his mouth and can’t stop yourself from grinding down into his lap. He answers your silent request for friction with a weak rut of his own.  The hardness there hits your clit over again and you’re clenching around nothing, keening into his mouth that at some stage had taken yours once more.  He brings the arm that had been wrapped around your back to tug harshly at your trousers, the material drags painfully at your thighs until they disappear discarded with the rest.

The subtle dominance of him is all consuming. He’s commanding and strong underneath you, lifting your thighs sharply up to bob gently for a few seconds. Pained groans and the jingling of metal the only sounds. 

Aaron hesitates, reaching for some coherence through the thinning haze.

“Where is she?”  he asks, confused.

A dark figure takes up his field of vision. Lazy instincts urge him to try to move, to run.  Whoever is holding him here sits, elbows on spread knees listening intently. There’s a faint hiss to his left, something frustratingly out of reach, something isn’t right.

“Whe---”  he goes to ask again, but coughs on the growing smell of sage.  It's too hard to stay focused. His head lolls down, vision doubling.

Aaron knows he has to breathe through it, to call her, call his team and escape so he breathes, full and deep for a few seconds but is quickly distracted by a cold touch to the side of his face.

You’re undeterred by the blood on your hand and bring it down in a trail of crimson that disappears between you and Aaron who stares glassily into your eyes; his honeyed irises adoring. 

“It’s just me and you, Aaron.” You purr, tilting forward to capture his parted lips. His teeth clench, nostrils flare like he’s fighting to keep composure. But you’ve seen the way he looks at you. Over coffee in the jet, across the bullpen when he thinks you don’t notice, but you do—because you’ve been looking at him too.  Pining like a needy puppy, clenching your thighs under the desk, watching him interrogate unsubs and coaching you through difficult reports.  But you never entertained that it was anything more than a crush and definitely not it being reciprocated!

But the need for him, it’s almost too much.

“Aaron, please. I need you to---"

You cry out, taken by surprise by the way he thrusts upwards; the stretch of him inside you only adds to the pleasure.  There’s no art or finesse, just animalistic clashing of skin against skin, tongues, and teeth in all consuming desire.  Strong hands ease down to settle on your lower back, rocking you faster against him, the drag of his cock inside you rips a strained moan from between your lips.

The sound has him hammering up in deliberate thrusts so strong that you flop forward, grinding flush against the damp front of his chest.  Your whines are muffled into his neck, the white-hot throb of pleasure coiling inside you renders you oblivious to his nonsensical muttering and all you can do is kiss him desperately, swallowing deep growls of Aaron’s own pleasure.

Blunt nails dig into your back, his motions beginning to falter, but you continue to writhe on top of him. The way your body binds tightly to his creates friction in all the right places.

Aaron is louder now. The animal need pulling guttural noises from his throat that spur you on. Slick gushes around him and you  whine out, his thumb rubbing desperately at the edge of your clit.

“I’m gonna cum, please.”

Your thighs shake around his, you’re so close to breaking completely but manage to release yourself from your place at his neck and take his jaw in your hand, yanking his head up with uncharacteristic force to look in your eyes.

“Aaron” He indulges the plea with a ragged thrust that pushes you over the precipice.

Your body tenses for one glorious second and a ripple runs through your body like a wave of throbbing electricity, pulsing through you and into Aaron  who bites through a moan that tips you over the edge once more. You come down together, continuing to fill the room with noise, but another jarring sound snaps from behind you;

Something snatches at your hair and you scream out loud, pain searing through your scalp as you’re launched off Aaron’s lap and onto your back.

Aaron tries desperately to lurch forward. He has to get to you, to wrap you up in his arms, keep you safe. But all he can do is scream your name, his limbs heavy once more. 

“Help me! Aaron, please!”  You beg, half scrambling toward his slumped form, but a steel toed boot crushes your ribs like twigs underfoot.  Instincts force you to curl up against the pain, crying for him to stop, but the shadowed figure just sighs, bringing himself down to stroke your hair.  He says nothing but glances toward Aaron and smiles.

The pleasure, the love you felt from being with Aaron pales in comparison to the what follows. Agony rips through your throat. You can’t breathe, blood floods your mouth and pours from your nose.

A final gunshot rings out.

“Now I know what scares you.”

You never hear him beg for you.

 On the floor, Aaron can hear his heart, louder than waves hitting the shore with such abandon, throwing itself again and again into his ribs. He tries to stand but bends like a tree in warm summer wind, brain fuzzy, and burning. The dark figure from before comes back into focus; the sharp, angular face of Peter Lewis sneers down at his undoing.

“It’s okay.”  He croons as Aaron turns away, grimacing at blunt fingernails digging spitefully into the bruises decorating his jaw. 

 “You can move now.” 

 The smell of iron and something low and musky fills his nose; sucking in a steady breath, he begins to follow Peters' instruction to the letter.  It’s on shaking knees Aaron becomes wildly aware of the dampness at his crotch, the uncomfortable disparity in temperature between material and skin.  That’s when it comes again, the flood of memory; the intoxication of you, your skin, your body, and his, coming together in unadulterated pleasure.  But with pleasure comes fear, the paralysing image of your death; the blood pouring like red rapids from your open mouth, the whites of your eyes blooming with the realization that death was imminent.  But instead of clutching your wound, even in the twisted world of his imagination, you had reached for him.  Blush tipped fingers that had clutched at his back in ecstasy desperately scrambled for him, desperate for a crumb of comfort in your final moments.  

A beam of light invades the small space, illuminating a cream carpet. There’s no blood, no you. There’s nothing but the leather boots of Peter who revels in his agony, unphased by the intrusion of light.    Something starts in Aaron, a spark of hope and an idea – years of training in the making.   It forces him to the floor, grunting against the sensation.  He has to be convincing. 

“I’m coming through the door.” Peter hisses, thin lips brushing the shell of his ear “the woman you love, I’m going to kill her.  Unless you kill me first.” 

“I need.” Aaron stammers, giving himself mere seconds to calculate his next move “I need my gun”

A single shot rings out, and time suspends.

 He’s crying when they burst through the door, each staggering to a stop in shock before bolting, tracking puddles of blood that retreat toward the back of the house.  Aaron isn’t sure they’re real, not really, not until Rossi unfreezes from his place in the archway and presses the cold back of his hand to his burning forehead. Even riddled with panic and pain, Aaron didn’t miss the eyes of his team, lingering on his desperate hands that scrambled to buckle his slacks in time. 

“We need a medic in here!” Rossi yells, it pulls Aaron up and everything comes back into sharp focus, like being pulled from deep water to cool air.

“Take it.” Aaron pants, panic itching his bones as he looks around, desperate to hear you, to know you’re alive “he made me see things..” 

“Okay, come on let’s get you up.” Rossi sighs a plea, linking an arm under his to lift his sagging body from the floor. 

He scans Aaron’s body, looking for obvious defects and signs of further injury but comes up empty and Aaron knows he wants to pry, to ask what had happened, for the painfully intimate details of his undoing.  But Rossi just pats his shoulder, the same shoulder you’d dug your nails in, and he can’t help but flinch away. 

“Where is she?” Even knowing it could reveal the truth, it didn’t matter; you weren’t here. He could hear everyone; JJ and Morgan round the corner, Spencer who lurks in the doorway, committing the scene to memory, but not you.

“Who Hotch? There’s no one else here. ” Rossi asks, flashing a concerned glance toward Spencer.

No, she’s here. She’s dead.

Aaron watches as Spencer pushes off the wall, eyes downcast and he knows then that he hadn’t been as covert as he’d thought, but then again Spencer always saw people for what they didn’t say.

Spencer gawps awkwardly around an explanation, but footsteps stampede toward the living room, panicked and stumbling.  Your heart battering every rib but ricochets as you stagger to a halt, folding at the waist in relief.  He’s alive. Bleeding and dishevelled, but alive.

“Hotch.” You gasp, a shaky hand comes up to cover your mouth when you step closer, taking in the details. His pants have been hastily pulled up. Something darkens the material at his crotch.

You turn quickly, reddening slightly.  It’s been years since you entered the BAU, but you didn’t need to be a seasoned profiler to understand the expressions of the two men in front of you. Spencer flutters off to assist JJ, who drags a handcuffed Mr. Scratch into the hallway but stops in his stride. 

“I win.” 

He looks through Spencer, his beady eyes bore holes into yours.

“I don’t think so.” You bite and take a sharp step forward, but stop at a wayward flutter of your heart. A warm hand wraps itself gently around your wrist.

“You have no idea what I did to him. I win.” Peter laughs.  Instinctually, you peer up to Aaron for any clarification, but the two men seem to freeze, suspended in time.  Scratch taps at his own head, sneering between you and Aaron, whose ox like breathing permeates the tense silence. 

You want to ponder his meaning, but the weight of Aaron’s heavy hand in yours is all consuming; his palm is warm and slightly calloused in your own, gripping it tightly as if an anchor.

“Hotch?” You breathe, turning slightly unnerved by his silence.  “let’s get you checked out..”

Aaron turns, coming to life beside you; his dark shining eyes pin you to the spot.

“Aaron?” you frown, turning to Rossi for help find him huddled together with the rest of the team in a shadowed corner of the hallway.

He blinks, as if he’s seeing you for the first time, a loaded gaze that’s out of place on his face but not unwelcomed. You pull in a shuddering breath, unable to stop your eyes from fluttering closed when he curls a piece of wayward hair back behind your ear.

“He made me see things.” Aaron groans, jaw ticking, years of friendship shows it for what it is, the voluntary holding of information.

“It’s okay.” You try your best to soothe him, to bite back your own emotions at seeing him so vulnerable.

Aaron sighs, small and resigned. 

“He made me see you.” He mutters, shaking his head at Rossi in your peripheral. 

None of the team make a move to invade your space, respecting whatever was about to unfold.  Your heart races, palms sweat slightly.

“You were dead,” 

It took a few seconds to realize what he’d said, to battle with the weight of what that meant.  You’d felt it for a while, the building tension your interactions, the way he’d reach for you when a scene got too busy or too violent.  You’d pushed it down for so long, trying to curb the craving of being close to him, the hunger for his presence, the way you gravitated towards him in every situation. It wasn’t until now, looking up at his grief ridden face that you knew it had evolved into more than  just this. 

You’d died.

Peter Lewis makes his victims see their worst nightmares, and Aaron Hotchner’s was you dead. 

"I’m right here.” You choke out from behind tears, lifting your hand to touch the side of his face.  You half expected him to flinch, but he doesn’t. He all but melts, tears falling freely.

“Tell me what happened while it’s fresh.” It’s then you realise there had been more to this than meets the eye. There’s more he’s not telling you.

“No. I can’t..” You watch him step from foot to foot, tilting his head to the sky in frustration.

You almost push but Rossi cuts in with a cough;

"Come on, Aaron, we need to get you checked out.” This isn’t a suggestion, you know Rossi and Aaron, and don’t fight it, as much as you want to.

“It’s okay. I’ll be here when you get back.” You smile, suddenly feeling awkward, now aware of the presence of your team in your periphery.  

JJ approaches first, cautious as if you might crumble under her soft touch on your arm;

“Are you okay?  What was that?” 

You don’t know.  Or do you?  The whole trajectory of your relationship had changed in a moment. How do you put that into a coherent sentence?

“It must have been Scratch. He put something in his head. I don’t know..” You trail off, going back over everything.  But Morgan cuts in, shuffling you out toward the front door.

“That man doesn’t crack a smile. It’d take more than a hallucination to do that.” 

“Maybe..” Reid starts, taking in a short gasp at the sharp change in temperature as you head toward the SUV. “Maybe we shouldn’t speculate.  It looked bad.”

You could have hugged him.  But instead smile, grateful.  

Aaron watches you go, locking eyes loaded with words unspoken.  Someone once said, is it better to speak or to die? He doesn’t know. How would he begin?

“Aaron?” Rossi’s hand begs for attention “You have to talk about it. Tonight while it’s still fresh.”

He knows Dave’s right.

“Hotch?!”

Aaron takes a deep, steadying breath.

“This is how it happened.”

[kvroomi]

artist!reader and skater!suna who you first meet in college one morning when you’re running late for class, carrying a comedically large portfolio across the campus square. your head is buried deep in your phone, checking for last-minute updates on the class. that’s when an abrupt gust of wind shoots across your face and forces your head up instantly, only to see a skater soaring past with hardly an inch of space between you. 

“what the hell, watch it!” you yell, immediately stepping backward and using both hands to grasp your portfolio tightly. 

the skater remains undisrupted, gazing forward and only casually waving a hand back to call, “my bad!” 

artist!reader with skater!suna who you see again, a week after almost knocking you over. coincidentally enough, he's sat at the exit steps to the art building, tying his shoelaces with his skateboard next to him.

"fucking prick." you walk straight past, muttering under your breath.

he must have heard you because, within seconds, he's walking by your side. "no way! you're the girl from last week. don't tell me you're still mad about the other morning! it was an accident." he throws his hands up in disbelief.

you ignore him and continue walking.

artist!reader with skater!suna who is determined to befriend you after your brief interaction. he waits at the same steps of the art building until your classes finish, skating up to you when he spots your familiar figure. he attempts to strike up a conversation by commenting on how "serious" you always look, and it's then that you bite back with a witty retort and he grins.

"took you long enough to talk to me."

artist!reader and skater!suna who both hang out at the skatepark together one afternoon. you're practicing your motion sketches, discreetly observing suna skate and using him as a reference for your drawings. 

suna walks over to you, leaning on his board. “whatcha drawing, picasso?”

“you,” you say without looking up. his heart skips and he can feel his face grow warm.

“oh yeah?” he peers over your shoulder. “do i look cool?”

“you’d look cooler if you didn’t wipe out every five minutes,” you deadpan, flipping to another page.

“alright, picasso,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. “let’s see you try then.”

and that’s how you find yourself on top of suna’s skateboard, gripping his shoulders for dear life.

“relax, you’ll be fine,” he says, holding your hands to steady you.

“easy for you to say,” you grumble, eyes wide as he starts to slowly push the board.

you don’t even make it five feet before you’re losing your balance and falling. suna doubles over laughing, pulling out his phone with a sinister grin. “hold still, i need a picture of this for the archives.”

“don’t you dare,” you warn, scrambling to your feet. but it’s too late—he’s already posting it on his story with the caption: skating > art

artist!reader who gives skater!suna the nickname deckhead, after a particularly grueling painting session. 

“can you please just focus for once?” standing up from your desk and tossing your paintbrush aside, you continue angrily. “i’m trying to get this done, and you’re just—”

“distracting?” suna interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “you’re the one acting like the world’s ending because you can’t paint a perfect line.”

there’s a sharp jab of irritation. "it’s not just about the line! i’ve been working nonstop on this, and all you’re doing is—"

he cuts you off again, this time with a half-smile. “i know, i’m sorry.”

you close your eyes to take a deep breath, trying to keep calm. but the words slip out before you can stop them. “god, you’re such a dickhead.”

the moment it slips past your lips, you feel the tension rise in the room. it’s silent but as if the universe had a sense of humor, you glare at his skateboard propped against the wall.

“no.” you scoff, shaking your head, your frustration turning into something more mocking. “you’re not even a real dickhead, you’re just a… deckhead.”

suna blinks, frozen for a second. “deckhead?”

you cross your arms, mouth curling into a sinister grin. “yeah, a deckhead—wandering around with that stupid board like it’s your whole personality. you just can’t be serious about anything!”

a beat.

and then he laughs. suna laughs. he laughs so hard that tears are forming in the corners of his eyes. he laughs so hard that you begin laughing too. 

suna sighs slowly, dropping his gaze to meet yours. “i didn’t realize you were genuinely getting upset. i promise i didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”

you let your head rest against your desk. “i know. i’m just frustrated because i’ve been at this for hours and it feels like i’m getting nowhere.” 

there’s a long pause before suna steps closer. “i’ll stop being a deckhead.” 

he grins and ruffles your hair. “... but only because i care.”

artist!reader who invites an incredibly eager skater!suna to one of your artsy gallery showcases. he surprises you by showing up in an actual button-down instead of his usual baggy jeans and shirts, bringing along his skater friends who also happen to be equally fond of you. upon seeing your work, they all begin hyping you up loudly, drawing eyes from surrounding exhibitions and sticking out like sore thumbs.

at one point suna leans in and whispers, "i'm pretty sure that guy over there is trying to steal your vibe."

confused, you turn to see a very serious art critic examining your painting and it takes all your effort to not burst out laughing.

skater!suna who shows up unannounced at artist!reader's studio with a blank skate deck and a set of paint markers.

"what's going on?" you'd just woken up from a nap and suna thought you looked absolutely adorable.

"empty canvas," he breathlessly replies, distracted by his newfound urge to just shrink you and keep you in his pocket. "i thought you could make it cooler." 

and he’s right because you do. 

“dude, where’d you get that?” atsumu asks, pointing at the board the next time suna is at the skatepark. 

“custom-made by that genius over there,” and suna proudly nods towards you, sat on the concrete of the park and deeply concentrated on a sketch.

artist!reader and skater!suna begin dating not through a grand confession, but just a subtle shift.

it happens when suna walks you to your class, a daily ritual that you've both become accustomed to, so it's almost instinctual the way he leans down and leaves a soft kiss on your cheek. you both pause, realizing what just happened, but instead of freaking out, you're clutching onto one another from outside your classroom laughing.

from then on, there's no formal conversation about it--just a mutual understanding. 

skater!suna who asks artist!reader to paint his nails black for him because he saw someone at the skate park with painted nails and thought they looked cool. you nod excitedly and oblige. by the end, suna’s nails are decorated perfectly in black, except for his ring finger which you sneakily managed to paint pink. 

when he notices, he glares at you, “really?”

“you wear it well,” you shrug in response.

artist!reader who stumbles across a notebook in skater!suna’s backpack when he asks you to grab his phone for him. you’re curious and can’t help but flip through it to find… doodles? 

you bring it back for him, his phone long forgotten. “are these supposed to be me?” 

“woah, what the fuck! where’d you find this?!” suna snatches the notebook, immediately shutting it closed before offering you a sheepish grin. “art is hard, okay? not all of us are picasso reincarnated.”

you’re flattered he’s been doodling you in his spare time. 

skater!suna who gets oddly competitive when other skaters are present at the skate park while you’re there. he pulls off more tricks than usual (which is already a lot because he’s always trying to impress you), but looks for your approval after every single one. 

he may have gotten a little too carried away because the next second he’s slipping from his board and now he’s landed flat on his back. he groans, embarrassed while you laugh. he watches you from the ground and wonders if he should make a fool of himself more often just to hear you laugh. he doesn’t let this show and instead rolls his eyes, getting up from the ground. 

“glad you’re entertained, y/n.”

skater!suna who loves to blast his music when practicing tricks vs. artist!reader who needs the quiet to focus. 

“riiiiin! can you turn it down, please? i’m trying to concentrate.” you yell at him.

“i’m literally landing this trick for you.” he replies teasingly, turning the music up even louder. 

you end up compromising with a pair of suna’s noise-cancelling headphones and he begrudgingly lowers the volume—slightly.

KVROOMI © 2024, DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[hevs-dreamworld]

Iris:

“Hmm, if I had to explain my day in the life. Before I moved in with Nazo and Seelkadoom, I usually got up at around 2-3PM and start doing my skincare and hair. Depending on the day, I’d also use that time to get any shedding scales off my face, arms, and tail. Once done I would get ready for anything I had planned that day. If it’s a day off, I’d go hang around the city and get some tea at my favorite cafe. I can’t say where, because I don’t know who’s around me at the moment. Either that or I’d hang around my friends, or go visit people at the homeless shelters and orphanages. The little ones at the orphanage always have amazing ideas for their home. I just hope I can give enough support to where they can grow up healthy and let their dreams become reality.”

“If it’s a work night? I’d get dressed up for work, let my makeup artist do my makeup as I do vocal warm-ups, and then go perform. Afterwards I go visit with my regulars and then go through all the gifts with my boss, clock out, and go home at around 6:00AM. Get home at around 7-8:00AM, do my skincare, then go to sleep. My skincare schedule fluctuates, but I try not to skip a day.”

“With Nazo and Seelkadoom, it’s pretty much the same, but I wake up later than the other two, and Seelkadoom goes to work with me since we have a similar schedule. However, I noticed that me and the whole group of villains have gotten closer the past couple of months.. I’m glad they’re starting to trust me at least a little bit!”

Nazo:

“I usually get up pretty early to pick up Iris and seelkadoom. They both get off work at around 7:00AM. Whenever Iris goes to bed, me and seelka tend to train for a couple of hours at our gymnasium. It’s small, but it’s proofed to the maximum possible standard for our levels of power. It’s also been recently sound proofed since we’re going to be hosting a lot of events this year. Once done with training and seelka goes to bed, I get into my workings. Get in contact with anyone who sends me out a contract to help with anyone particularly dangerous, check on the event venues I have reserved for the year, quick check on the market to see what’s happening, and then I go do my daily care. If I don’t have any emergency contracts, I tend to take my time and enjoy a glass of tea and read some books about history. If I have no contracts that day, then I spend it with seelka and the others. Otherwise I spend a lot of time reading, drawing, writing, anything to really fill in the time. Although, recently me and seelkadoom have noticed that we’ve been hanging around Iris a lot. Honestly. I’ve been going out a lot more because of her, and it’s helped me get to know her more as a person than just a guest. It feels nice, knowing she’s warming up to us. I mean, even with the weird sleep schedules, we always find a way to spend time together, and I can appreciate that.”

Seelkadoom:

“Much like Iris, I wake up pretty late in the afternoon and do my daily tasks. Chores, checking emails from the office, and checking the work group chat and see what happened when me and Iris are out. I’m telling you, stuff gets quite spicy when we’re not there. Anyways, I usually then get dressed and head out to whatever errands needed to be run. I usually do this with Nazo, but sometimes Iris tags along to get a look at the upper city she hasn’t seen yet. Don’t get me wrong, the lower city is gorgeous, it’s arguably prettier and safer than the upper city. However, the upper city is usually reserved for the ultra wealthy, but it’s also the busiest part of the city due to a lot of the shopping being there. So, it gives her an excuse to explore while we do errands! Once that’s done, I get ready for work and Me and Iris head to the casino!”

——————————

@hunniegl4zed @thebreadmeower @sonic-au-collision

for the characters!! how would u describe ur day to day life??

First question for the characters!!

[paddedlittleparadise]

Twelve Months to a Better Life – Ch. 21 (Teaser)

Jayden has been lucky – or unlucky! – enough to be in the care of his wife Erica and her skilled female friends. They've all been more than willing to turn his life-long fantasies of becoming a regressed adult baby into reality!

The year's drawing to a close… but has the man-baby really arrived at his embarrassing goal?

–––

Warm. Mmm… wet. Warm. Nice. Yummy.

The words, mere ghosts of ideas, flitted erratically through Jayden's head. His eyes blinked slowly upward – over the cylindrical curve of the bottle in his hands, up toward the far-off fuzzy ceiling of the living room. He lay there on the carpet, muscles limp, mouth suckling rhythmically at the large and milk-filled teat. And in this place, this state, he had no real need of anything more than the occasional word bubbling up from his regressed mind.

Nice. Yummy. Warm.

A wet burp escaped his lips, and a trickle of milky drool slowly slid downward from the left corner of his mouth. Perhaps in months past he would have blushed, apologized, reached for a napkin to dab at his indiscretion. But here and now… well, he didn't need to. It didn't even occur to him, rapt as he was in the unthinking meditation of his bottle-feeding. Burps came, burps went. Just like all of his other bodily emissions.

Num, num. Ba-ba… good…

Gone at last from his nose was the feeding tube. He'd recovered well from the surgery, the oral surgeon said – and what a relief to the half-conscious man-baby! His hypnotic training had left him with an overpowering need to suck, to gulp, to fill his mouth with a thumb or a bottle or a pacifier. And now at last he could satisfy that urge once more. His now-toothless gums were healed, and to work they went: gumming and drooling their way eagerly on everything Suri and Erica gave him.

Though, on their part, they gamely followed Natasha's suggestions. "After all, his poor tummy's not used to solids anymore," she had advised Erica after the tube's removal. "Honestly, I think you'd do much better keeping him on a hundred percent liquid diet for a good while longer…"

And so they did. Bottles only for Jayden: bottles of creamy adult formula, and juices, and the occasional dose of watery soup. If he minded, he didn't say so. After all… the most his drooling mouth managed these days was generally incomprehensible babble. Babble which, it must be said, was generally silenced with a well-placed pacifier or bottle nipple.

Gasp, gasp, gasp. The bottle was empty… again.

Another burp escaped him, and from his hands the empty bottle dropped to the floor. Gone. Num-num… gone… He blinked, his right thumb already slipping down to his parted and sticky lips. Mmm, suck. Nice. Suck. It wasn't a bottle, but that was okay. Yum. Nice. Suck…

"Aww, did you finish your bottle? Is your ba-ba all gone?" Suri's voice sounded from behind, and he blinked upward into her face as it appeared suddenly in his line of sight. "Such a good little baby! You must have been hungry, huh?"

She knelt as she spoke, her hands dropping down to squeeze the thick padding bulging between his splayed and naked thighs. In response to his recent uptick in liquid consumption, Jayden's diapers were now a truly multi-layered affair: a night-weight disposable with a single high-capacity booster. Over that went two layers of cloth diapering, pinned snugly in place. And over all that went a gleaming, balloon-like pair of milky plastic pants, their elastic bands drawn snugly around his thighs and waist. It was impossible to hide such a mass even under a onesie – and so these days Suri had opted simply not to even try. Hence, the simple cotton t-shirt that declared Jayden to be "Mommy's little messmaker."

"Still no leaks," Suri beamed, and Jayden writhed beneath his caregiver's touch in a sudden swell of discomfort. Because somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, a small voice was whispering that he should be embarrassed by this: by having a lovely, beaming young woman hovering over him and examining his urine-soaked diapers. It was the voice of his adult self, cutting through the hypnotic haze of subliminal programming. And as the dawning sensation of shame grew stronger, his legs began kicking aimlessly… his brow wrinkling… and his voice giving a gurgling little whimper from behind his saliva-covered thumb.

"Nuuuhh… Nuuhh…"

"Aww, what's with the kicking, sweetie? No, you don't need to get up. You can stay here and play, you know…" Suri assured him, watching in benevolent puzzlement as Jayden's smooth legs kicked harder and he began contorting himself upward. "Nohh- noh buh- buh- beh-bee…" He whimpered, his toothless gums drooling with the effort of making himself understood. "Goh- goh-uh-"

"Oh, no you don't, sweetie," Suri reprimanded with a laugh – and even as Jayden began scrambling awkwardly to his hands and knees, his nurse caught him and thrust him back down, this time onto his stomach. "You're not a big boy anymore, remember? Doctor says you're far too little to try walking these days! Don't make me get the cuffie-cuffs…"

–––

You can read the rest – plus the twenty other previous chapters and many, many other kinky stories – over on the PaddedLittleParadise Ream!

[painted-flag]

OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - aemond targaryen

Chapter 20: An Elf's Rage

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series masterlist. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ word count: 7.3k ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series warnings: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, and mentions of alcohol consumption. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ The world tilts, friends fight friends, and there is no escape from the carnage.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. This time, we’ll take them all out. Starting with this spoiled bitch.’

Cole’s words echoed in your mind as tensions ran high. You saw the elven soldiers around you as they watched on to what their king would do. Cole was in open subordination and that stance alone seemed to shock a good portion of them. The other portion looked surprisingly calm, faces blank as they watched on with calculation in their eyes. The sun beat down through the thin canopy of trees and you could smell the bustling breeze that carried the scent of flowers in the fields beyond the camp. The fields of your old home that happened to be on the verge of being set alight. 

The gleaming steel of Cole’s sword was pointed at you, just a few metres from your body. Within a few moments after Cole threatened you, Aemond moved from your side to be in front of you. His hand had grabbed your forearm and pulled you behind him. The hand left you to then rest on the hilt of his sword, yet he waited to draw it. 

“You will have to pass me first, Cole.” Aemond’s tone was calm but held a weight behind it that you had scarce to ever see. 

“No, you will step aside and let us finish what you could not.” Cole's words were threatening, not unlike anything he had ever said to you. However, this time it was towards his king and in an area so open. Your mind got caught up in his words. Us?

“Careful now,” Aegon pipped up from beside Daeron as he stood with the other elves, “That is your king.” 

Cole let out a strangled laugh and paid Aegon no mind, his eyes staring intently at Aemond, “You’ve been so blind to your own elves' anger at your inaction.”

Aemond made a move to speak, but Cole did not let him, “So many of your people have grown tired. We want them gone.” You were overcome by anger at his sentiment. 

“So this is why you started the taint? Because you could not let anything go?” You had tried to step forward to get nearer to Cole. All notions of self-preservation had left you, but Aemond’s arm which had been ready to seize his sword flew out to keep you behind him. While it warmed your heart at his innate need to protect you, your adrenaline urged you to fight Cole yourself. Truly, it would not go well for you as you had never held a sword in your life. 

“You be silent, scum!” Cole had lost what little composure he had left when you spoke. It was like he was offended at the fact that you thought it was okay to speak to him, to even look in his direction. 

“Say that again.” Aemond challenged. He moved his hand back to the hilt of his sword and squared his shoulders. The disrespect Cole had shown him, especially in front of other soldiers, would not go unpunished. 

“I said that she is a whore,” Cole spat out, “And I do not fight alone.” At those words, many of the elves standing by pulled out their swords as well and aimed them at Aemond. You nearly stumbled back completely. Almost half of the current forces here – which was already a few thousand total – had sided with Cole. This could not have been sudden but rather planned. Bile almost rose to your throat. How long had he been planning this?

In quick succession, the elves turned on their own soldiers and started to attack. They seemed to already know which were on Cole’s side. Aemond unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Cole to block the elf's strike. You yelped as Aemond pushed you back and out of the way. The wound in your side throbbed. You looked around at the chaos around you. Just moments ago everything was alright and now it had crumbled into chaos. 

Clanging swords against one another rose with a fervour. Elves fought with senseless and reckless abandon, cutting into one another. Guttural screams rose above the clanking metal, intermixing with the sounds of dented armour and cut skin.

Aemond and Cole were locked in on one another. You could not help but be entranced, stuck in awe at the sight in front of you. The way they fought with such skill and precision outmatched any you had ever seen. It was a dance of wrath; born from one friend's growing discontent and the other’s betrayal. 

While Aemond was distracted, an elf from the sidelines came at you with his sword raised. You had no means of protecting yourself, no weapon to even try. You wished, with all your might, that you had learned how to fight for yourself. In all your years, you had learned to live by yourself – but fighting had never been an option. 

The elf, just moments from you, had suddenly stopped as a piece of steel burst forth from his throat. He choked on his blood, the squelching sound being driven into your head and forced to rest there forever in blistering torment. The steel slowly receded and left his throat, causing the elf’s body to tumble to the ground. Aegon stood there, looking at his sword as if he were in shock at what he had done. 

Too soon after that one attack came another. This time from behind you and Aegon would not be able to intervene. Aemond, amid his fight with Cole, seemed to still be keeping a close watch on you. He lunged forward and struck down the elf coming straight at you, but unfortunately, it left him vulnerable and Cole swooped in. The elf’s sword made a brutal downward chop toward Aemond’s side with nothing but unbridled brutality behind it. Cole seemed lost in his indignation towards the King and struck with rage rather than precision. 

Aemond stumbled to the ground, his knees hitting the solid dirt. His sword fell from his grasp and Cole swung his longsword down. Aemond was able to roll to his side away from it and let out a grunt. Cole began to scream as he swung his sword with reckless abandon, each time he hit the dirt, Aemond managed to dodge the swings. Eventually, as Cole paused for a second to breathe, Aemond kicked out his leg and knocked Cole to the ground. Cole grunted loudly as his body, covered in hard armour, hit the ground with a loud thump. 

You watched on, now between Daeron and Aegon for safety, as Aemond and Cole used their firsts to strike blows at one another. They tossed and turned in the trampled shortgrass. Each movement caught a ray from the sun on their now dirtied armour. It was all snarls and bunched-up firsts as they fought. 

More elves came to try and strike at you, each being taken out by Daeron or Aegon. You never wanted to feel this helpless again in your life. If you had any chance of survival, you would not suffer this again. You would learn to defend yourself. The brutality in front of you compounded. It was like hell had opened, spilling chaos from its yoke. 

In your moment of distraction as you watched Daeron plung a sword through a weak spot in an elf’s armour and into his belly, you heard a strangled shout. The voice, so instilled in your bones had never made that sound. The world seemed to slow as you turned and saw a dagger in Aemond’s stomach. There was a small opening in his armour, and Cole had taken advantage of it. The hilt looked a lot like the one that Cole had used to stab you. Aemond’s head hit the ground and he lost his strength. 

Cole kneeled above Aemond. He tilted his head up to the sky, letting the rays hit his face and closed his eyes in victory. His arms were outstretched as if he accomplished all that he had ever wanted. Your eyes slipped to Daeron who was near you and currently fighting an elf. There, resting on his hip, was a sheathed knife. It was not large but had enough of a blade to create damage. You surged forward, no thought in your head other than pure desperation to protect the elf you loved. It did not matter if you had no experience; you would die trying. 

You took it from Daeron's waist causing him to turn to you in surprise. You made your way towards Aemond, seeing his eye closed in pain. In the haze of the fight, his eyepatch had slipped off and you could see the intensifying blue of the sapphire that replaced his destroyed eye. You knew it was a sapphire, he had told you so those weeks ago by the campfire the two of you shared. Yet, he never showed you. That would require a level of vulnerability you did not think he could display. Now, here, seeing him wounded on the ground with his eye so exposed made you think of the memory you saw of when the human prince had attacked him and taken his eye. 

Both times, Aemond was forced to fight someone he thought of like family; always ending in a piece of himself, a part of his soul, being ripped from him and exposed. 

While Cole was celebrating an early victory, you found a spot on his neck that his armour did not cover and you used all your might to drive it into the side. You had come from behind him. With the chaos of everything around, noises louder than ever, he had not heard you. If it was any other scenario, you would not stand a chance against the seasoned warrior. It had been a cowardly move on your part, but again, he had stabbed you first. 

It was only natural you would return the favour with similar cowardice to mock his own. 

Cole choked and scrambled off Aemond as his hands reached up to try and stop the blood from pooling forth. His body convulsed and he scrambled away. He finally looked at you. The amount of gratification that came off of you at the look of realization in his eyes felt almost evil if it was not for the given circumstances. The discovery that he had been bested by a human in more ways than one shot through him. His eyes shone with anger, confusion, malice, and even fear.

With a gargle, faint words came from Cole’s last breath, “For the order.” 

His body crumbled to the ground. As much as you wanted to relish in that moment, your fear for Aemond took control over the carnal side of you that wished to fight. You turned to Aemond and knelt down beside him. Your hands took hold of the wound to block the blood. He looked up at you with a haze in his eyes, as if unsure that you were there. 

“Aegon! Daeron!” Your voice was hoarse, seeping with despair. The two brothers saw you on the ground with Aemond and instantly moved into action. They whistled out for soldiers that eventually formed a perfect circle to protect the royals. All around camp the elves had taken their stances on who they wished to fight for. None of it mattered to you, Cole had this planned coup for a long time with the amount of supporters he had. 

Aegon and Daeron crouched beside you at their brother who had gradually started to weaken. Your hands shook as you tried to staunch the blood. There was nothing around to help. No medical supplies or even any herbs within the immediate area. You tried with all your might to hold back tears, but they silently trailed down your face and carved red lines in the skin. 

“Daeron. What,” You choked out, “What can we do?” You pleaded. It was like all your skills as a healer left your body at seeing him mortally wounded. All Daeron gave you was a solemn look in return. His eyes communicated what he could not do vocally; there was nothing either of you could do to help Aemond. That confirmation caused your shoulders to shake as you sucked in a deep breath. 

Aemond’s wound was serious. It was shaking to see such a strong-willed and powerful being be reduced to nothing but an injured creature. He was the king. Countless tales and bard songs – even in your kingdom – spoke with a fearful reverence at his might and success on the battlefield. Elves were immortal, but still susceptible to death. That you knew all too well in the eyes of your patients. The fleeting of their soul was something you recognized. 

That is why it petrified you to see that same look on Aemond. 

The barrage of elves still threatened to break through the protective circle. Daeron and Aegon had no choice but to join in the fight and left you with Aemond. You were breathing heavily by then, short inhales and exhales made your head feel fuzzy. The surrounding slaughter, a symphony of clanging metal, shouts, screams, and spilled blood intensified the pounding that began to build up in your skull. 

You were trying to think of anything that could work to help Aemond, but nothing came. 

His voice, quiet but heard, reached out to you. Aemond had muttered your name, his one eye trained on your face. You shuffled to rest on your legs and lifted his head to be on your lap. If you could do one thing, it would be to offer him comfort as he slipped from the land of the living. 

“We match,” He croaked out. You furrowed your brows, but all he did was tilt his head to look down at the dagger in his abdomen. He was speaking of both his and your injury. 

“That’s not funny, Aemond.” You reprimanded through tears. 

A faint smile, one you had never seen on him, graced his lips. “I like it when you say my name...” He said with a look in his eye similar to the one you would see between Amara and Liriel. 

Amara and Liriel…

There was a single solution that could save Aemond, but proposing such a thing was preposterous. You remembered, in the first week of your stay in the kingdom, the wedded couple telling you of elf marriages. They could be romantic or platonic, but each had the characteristic of the binding of souls which helped rebuild the body. Maybe his wound could… 

No. 

Absolutely and unequivocally no. 

But what other options were there? What other path was there to take save for watching him bleed out in front of you? 

“Aemond,” Your hands put more pressure on his wound to slow the blood flow. The warmth of his blood was more intense than the small rays of sun that penetrated through the treetops. 

“There is one thing I could do, but –” You were so conflicted in telling him, but it was worth it to at least try, “Take a part of my soul.”  

His eye squinted and the lucidity he was drifting out of came back at your suggestion. He tried to sit up more but grunted in pain. The wound was just small enough to give him time to slowly bleed out. Cruel, but it gave you more time to likely convince him to even do this. 

“What?” 

“It would heal your wound, right?” You questioned. 

Aemond shook his head from side to side, “Yes, but–” 

“Then do it.” You voiced with determination. It would hurt you. You loved him and nothing would pain you more to be so close to him, but not be loved in return. Not allowed to truly be with him. However, that was infinitely better than never seeing him again. Being his friend over watching him die was the best option. 

“You would do that?” Aemond enquired. 

“But would you? Bind yourself to a being you hate?” Your tone bordered between seriousness and a jest. However, Aemond was not looking at you with laughter in his gaze. There was a gentleness there, a vulnerability exposed as he lay helpless on the ground. 

He sighed, “I never hated you. I hated that I couldn’t.” His words struck you so deeply that you had no other recourse than to stare at him. Was it you that was hallucinating? Had you died to Cole and all of this was some sort of manically charged last surge of your mind before it faded? 

Aemond lifted one of his hands to move and grip the hilt of the dagger in his stomach. You put yours over his to stop him as he tried to pull it out. 

“What in the seven hells are you doing?” 

“We’ll need a blade,” Aemond grunted, “If we are to do this.” You understood what he was saying. If you did the ceremony, the wound would begin to rapidly heal; having a knife in the way would be ghastly. A knife was also needed for the ceremony. It was fitting that the same steel used in an attempt to kill you both would be what intertwined your souls.

A sick jest from the gods, perhaps. Even sicker as you knew Aemond was only doing this because he had to, not because he wanted to. 

He sucked in a breath before pulling the blade out. You immediately covered the wound with one of your hands, but knew it was futile. The warmth of his blood, the sheer heat of it, overwhelmed you. 

“Hold,” Aemond winced, “Hold out your hand, rūklon.” You obeyed and gave him your free hand. It was already covered in his blood. He took the edge of the blade and cut a long thin line on your palm. He shakily handed you the dagger before holding out his hand for you to do the same. You gripped his hand, which was significantly larger than yours, and cut down the length of his palm. His fingers twitched just slightly at the pain. 

His cut hand took your cut one and you could feel the blood mixing. 

“Are you sure?” Aemond asked you again. You thought for a moment. It might have been the adrenaline from recent events or the throbbing in your side from your still-weakened state that influenced your decision. Truly, however, you simply could not and did not wish to live a life without him, even if you knew he did not return such affections. 

“Yes.” You told him. He nodded at your words. 

“Repeat after me,” Aemond said. He began to speak in the Old Valyrian Elvish language. You did not understand the words but listened intently so you could repeat them.

“Ondoso ānogar, ondoso ñelly, ondoso soul. Ēva morghon, iksi hae mēre.” He muttered the words while looking into your eyes. You took them in and began to repeat the words back to him. Your voice stuttered multiple times and you felt embarrassed, but you managed to finish. When you were done, Aemond tried to pull himself up, but you stopped him from over-exerting himself. 

Your cut hands were still joined and he used his other hand, also covered in blood from holding his injury, to reach up and cup your face. You could feel the wetness on your cheek but paid it no mind. 

“Do you trust me?” He asked. Your head tilted up and down in confirmation. Your faces were just inches apart and he leaned in slowly. It was like your heart dropped to your stomach as you felt his lips just brush over yours. The skin was soft and quickly the two of you sunk into it. It was tentative at first, full of a delicate nature that sharply contrasted with the ongoing battle. While entirely new for you, it felt familiar; as if it was something you had experienced your whole life. Your heart began to thrum louder than the thunder of the soldier's footfalls on the ground. 

A buzzing feeling started at your joined hands and spread through your body. Aemond’s hold on your face cradled you sweetly and his thumb made back-and-forth motions against your cheekbones. You felt his lips move against yours one last time before pulling away. You had to blink a few times to get your mind back in control of your body that had slipped into a daze. 

The look in Aemond’s eye was tender, “Avy jorrāelan.” He spoke. 

“Avy-” 

“No,” Aemond interrupted you, “That is not part of the ceremony. It’s…” He trailed off. His hand left your face, but his other one did not leave your hand. 

All at once, the two of you let out winces in sync. You felt a terrible, sharp pain in your side where your wound had been before it disappeared. Any sensation of pain that you had and the feeling of the stitches against your skin was gone. Your gaze moved down to Aemond's wound and was immediately surprised that it was gone. Through the small gap in his armour and the tear in the fabric, thick blood still clung to the area. Yet, the wound was gone. 

You were suddenly aware of the fighting around you again and proceeded to move on shaking legs. Slowly, you were able to get up. Aemond, as if never hurt in the first place, moved up and grabbed his sword that had laid disregarded on the ground. He stared down at Cole’s limp body just a short distance from you. The emotions that battled in the storm of his blue eye were hard to grasp; pain, regret, and fondness were the ones that came easy, but others were likely left a mystery that only the elves could feel in their centuries of wisdom. 

Despite the hate you felt for Cole, you were saddened that his death struck Aemond so strongly.

Turning around, you saw that Daeron and Aegon had moved back inside the circle, having stopped fighting. You could tell, by the fact that Aemond had not stopped holding your hand, that they saw what had just happened. The brothers moved forward to speak to their king. 

“Brothers,” Aemond addressed them both. His eye squinted and the scar on his face crinkled as he studied the fighting outside the circle of guards, “You are to get the Queen back to the castle safely.”

Queen?

Your mind stuttered as you struggled to absorb what he had said. You did not sign up for that. It had not even crossed your mind. Surely, one had to be qualified to take up such a position. There were no qualifications in your past to even merit a spot as a lady, let alone a damn Queen. 

“Yes,” Both Daeron and Aegon responded. 

“What?” Your voice fell on deaf ears as the three elves ignored your protests. 

“Bar the gates, do not trust anyone else to keep her safe. Do you hear me?” Aemond’s voice boomed with authority as he stared his brothers down. He adjusted his grip on his sword, glancing every few seconds at the fighting elves.

“Of course,” Daeron responded while he turned to scout for a possible escape route. 

Aemond nodded to Aegon and spoke, “I will stay behind and end this.” 

“Are you serious? You were nearly killed!” You argued. Aemond tugged on your connected hands to have you face him fully. He removed his hold to place his hands on your shoulders. 

“I’ll be fine. It's you that I worry about. Go home and work on that cure, yes?” His voice had calmed significantly from his previous demanding tone. You could do nothing but nod, too focused on the care reflected on his face and the fact that you could feel some of his emotions. It came with the ceremony and you knew it, but it still surprised you. To feel part of another’s emotions was incredibly weird.

You nodded in confirmation and he gave you a tight-lipped smile, “Good.” He quickly kissed your forehead. It happened so fast that you almost did not perceive it. He let your hand go after giving it a tight squeeze. He pushed you gently towards Aegon. 

When Aegon grabbed you to leave, Aemond stopped him, “Brother…” There was fear behind his eye as it darted between Aegon and you. He was scared for you, terrified for your safety. It was odd for someone to be worried about your safety. It had been so long since that happened.

Aegon did not need any words and understood his worry, “I know. She'll be safe.” They both bowed their heads once before Aegon tugged on your forearm to make you follow behind him. You wanted to keep watching Aemond but had to turn away. The last you saw of his figure was him moving to the other side of the circle and going to leave the lines of protection to join in on the fight. 

The guards dispersed and then made a smaller formation around you, Aegon, and Daeron. Your group cut through the elves around you on their journey to the edge of camp. When you had come in, you were on a horse and that time had passed by quickly, but walking it now you could truly see how vast the elvish army was. A chill went down your spine when you realized that this was not even the full army. They were still waiting for legions from the outer corners of their kingdom. 

In due course, your group had made it to the surrounding edge of the camp where many horses stood about, fighting against the ties that kept them near the ongoing chaos. Through a mess of confusion, Aegon had lifted you onto one of the horses and got on one for himself. Daeron and Aegon flanked both of your sides while the other guards that helped you mounted other horses. 

From there, reluctantly, you could do nothing but look back as your horses fled the scene. You wished, desperately, to catch a glimpse of Aemond for any reassurance that he was alright, but could see nothing. 

Blood.

All you could see was blood. 

Your group had arrived back at the castle no less than an hour ago. Since then, you had run to the laboratory with Daeron to make sure all of the brews were alright and if the other healers had been doing their work. You were all still waiting for them to finish, as the potions were on the very brink of being ready. The other healers were excused. You could not remember what Daeron told them, only that you were incredibly relieved when they left the room. 

Looking down at your hands, you could see Aemond’s blood on them. It had cooled and begun to congeal with bits stuck under your fingernails like dirt after a long day of tending to growing herbs. They shook as you tried to wipe away the blood. Turning to a shelf of vials, you could see your dishevelled image in the reflection. Aemond’s bloody handprint had taken over a large portion of your face. In your state of panic, you tried to swipe it off but only managed to add more blood that had come from your hands. 

You began to hyperventilate. The carnage you had witnessed was nothing you had ever seen before. You were lucky enough to grow up in a period of centuries of peace. Precarious peace, but there nonetheless. Two hands shot out to hold yours still. Through the fog of your vision, you saw Aegon looking at you with worry. 

“You there, little lady?” He slowly guided you to one of the tables, where a bowl of water and some disregarded scraps of fabric were. “You’re alright, you’re safe now.” 

“What if this is just the beginning of his blood that is spilt?” You whispered. Aegon had trouble hearing and leaned in, but you could not repeat it. Your mind was running at speeds that you could not catch up with. Aemond was in danger, imminent danger. His soldiers had turned on him. Who was there left to trust?

Aegon had picked up a rag and dipped it into the water. He carefully ran it over the planes of your face. His fingers would ring out the water after washing the blood off and he repeated the process slowly and calmly. When your face was clear, he submerged your hands into the bowl of water and began to clean them off. 

“He’ll… he’ll be alright, won’t he?” You began to ramble, “Ridiculous, selfish of me to worry about only his safety when there are countless sick people in need of saving and soldiers laying down their lives at this very moment.” He had to grip your hands to keep them still as they had begun to shake again. Daeron silently worked a few tables away, potting doses of the potion into vials to distribute to the patients in the hall. 

Aegon thought for a moment before responding, “It is not ridiculous at all to worry about the people you love. You do love my brother, right?” He began to pick under your nails to get the last of the blood out. 

“More than anything.” Your response was immediate and full of truth. 

“Good.” Aegon nodded while focused on your nails, “He needs that in his life. Deserves it.” While his words were appreciative, there was a look of yearning on his face; a deep form of pain that could only stem from some kind of loneliness. 

“I know those feelings are not returned, but I will treasure him regardless.” You wanted to reassure Aegon that despite the desperate nature of your hasty ceremony to keep him alive, there was still care there. While you did not know what you were entirely signing up for, you would do your best to care for Aemond and the kingdom. You may be human, but you were comforted by your achievement of discovering the cure. Surely, that of all things, has won over the hearts and minds of the elven folk enough to grant you an easy transition into your new position. 

Aegon let out a short laugh at your words. He dropped your freshly cleaned hands and looked you in the eyes, “In all your genius skills, the obvious always seems to evade you.” 

Aegon gestured to Daeron who was now standing at the door and calling in some of the other healers. You looked at the filled vials and somehow nothing felt real. It felt like an out-of-body experience. It had not been more than three moons since you were hunched over at a desk in your tiny home in the village, struggling to put together your father’s research. Now, the cure was in front of you and you knew it worked. 

While your heart tugged towards Aemond and the need to know he was safe, your duty was to remain here and begin curing the patients. With time, you could move on and work on the rest of the taint that stained the land. For now, you will fix what you have control over and pray to any and all gods out there that they keep Aemond safe. 

It had been hours of back and forth between the laboratory and the sick hall. There were constant rotations of elves brewing more potions and giving the finished ones to patients. It would gradually heal them, but that period varied from patient to patient. Some had gotten up to walk, while others still lay in a state of pain – though they thankfully described a gradual gentle relief making its way through their body. 

You had wanted to help with making more brews, but Daeron had stopped you. Making the blood sacrifice and dealing with the loss of energy was a requirement to brew it as the mortua terra flower would take from the host. However, according to Daeron, you could not do that anymore. Your soul was tied to Aemonds, therefore any dark magic would not just suck at your soul, but his as well. It would be unfair to the bond you now shared to weaken it in any way. 

Time was spent moving from patient to patient, giving doses to the ones who had yet to receive any and taking notes on the ones who had. It was incredible to see the wiry darkness of the taint start to fade from the patient's skin. The dark purple, almost black bruises that formed on the skin faded over time. The volume of coughing had gone down significantly and it was the longest period between having to summon guards to carry a fresh corpse out of the hall.

On the way to your next patient, you passed by an empty bed. A sharp stinging pain shot through your heart. It was unfamiliar to not see Lyra sitting in that bed and be greeted by her smile. You were too late to save her; which may be one of your worst regrets. It would be a guilt you shall hold for as long as you live. 

You had just made it to your next patient when the two large grand doors of the hall creaked as they opened. You were frozen in your spot as two guards came in to push the doors open further. 

Standing there, battered and bloody, was Aemond. He had sheathed his sword. His armour was scratched, with some of the metal being dented. It was covered in dirt, grass, blood, and some burn marks. You had no idea how the hell burn marks would have ended up on his armour, but only that it must have gotten worse after you left. His eyepatch was put on again, also dirtied. However, he was still standing – that fact alone hit you with more relief than you had ever felt. 

His eye scanned feverishly about the hall in search of something. He had a frantic glint in his eye. You stood up from your crouched position beside the patient's bed and it immediately alerted him to where you were. When he spotted you, you could see the tension in his shoulders ease as they slumped down. His lips parted like he lost his breath. You could see his frame was veiled with exhaustion.

Without wasting a moment, you placed your notebook down on a nearby tray and bunched up the skirts of your dress in your hands to make a rapid move toward him. You speed walked down the centre aisle past the beds of sick patients and healers. They had all turned to look at their king but shied away when you were walking towards him. One thing you liked about elves was their tenacity in providing privacy when needed. 

You had finally reached him but paused, unsure of what to do. What do you do? Should you hug him? He was your husband, surprisingly so. It felt inappropriate to do so, especially in front of the elves. Despite being married, it was not exactly a wanted union. It had been born out of desperation rather than love. 

Aemond did not speak, just stared at you with a certain fondness you could not pinpoint. After being in the hall for hours and tending to elves, you were running on muscle memory alone.

In your mind, you saw him as another wounded patient that needed tending to. However, you wished for more privacy. 

You reached out and grabbed his hand, your thumb brushing over his knuckles, and then pulled him out of the hall. The two of you silently walked down the torch-lit hallways of the castle and towards your room. 

You released your hold to open your door and usher him into the room. The hearth had been lit to keep the room cool. You could only guess that it was sometime in the middle of the night. Both of your bodies were wrecked with exhaustion. Before Aemond could even think to sit down, you stopped him. He would need to take off his armour if you were to assess and care for his injuries. 

Aemond grunted in pain and tried to take off his right pauldron, but struggled to keep his arm up. You gently swatted his hand away and took over. Your fingers nimbly took off the metal from his shoulders, almost touching the skin of his neck that was exposed by removing the piece. 

You worked in silence, the moment too oddly intimate to speak. You were taking off his outer layer of armour, slowly stripping the soldier away and revealing Aemond underneath. Again, he seemed to always be watching you. Your cheeks heated up under his gaze and you struggled to keep your nerves from making you shake. Each piece of metal weighed more than expected and you could not help but marvel at the strength he possessed. To be able to carry such weight and still fight was a feat. 

Once the metal had been laid out in a pile, you moved on to taking the chainmail off and then the under gambeson. Aemond was left in just his leather boots, pants, and a thin linen shirt. You guided him to a chair and watched as his exhausted body slumped into the seat and his eye closed. He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair and put his chin in his hand. His chest heaved with deep breaths. 

You collected some things in your room that would be needed to help him. Various rags, a bowl of water, salve, and bandages were carefully laid on a small circular table placed beside the padded chair. You stood in front of him awkwardly. In order to clean his wounds, you would need to remove his tattered shirt. 

“Um, I’ll need you to…” Your voice trailed off. Aemond opened his eye and looked at you before moving on to grab the hem of his shirt. He pulled it up partway but got stuck near the shoulders. You could already see large bruises forming on his torso. You helped him take it off and discarded it next to the pile of armour on the ground. 

Your feet carried you back to the door to the room and you opened the door, leaned out, and spoke to a guard stationed in the hallway, “I’ll need some male clothing, could you task a handmaid nearby?” The guard silently nodded and left. You closed the door again and walked back to where Aemond sat and dragged a stool so you could sit down. 

Once on the stool, you soaked the rags and began to work. You started on one arm and began to clean it and then applied a salve to larger cuts. It was difficult to not ogle the lithe muscles of his skin, especially the ones that composed his torso. Aemond trained daily and that habit showed by the nature of his body. You moved onto the other arm. Once that was done, you started at his upper chest. The whole time, he watched you through his half-lidded eye. You swallowed down saliva that had pooled in your mouth and continued your job. 

“They’re cleaning up the bodies now…” Aemond trailed off. You knew what he meant. At this moment, countless elf corpses were being dealt with. Their bodies thrown onto carts to be buried or burned. 

“It’s over?” You questioned as you meticulously wiped away dried blood patches. 

“No,” Aemond muttered, “I don’t know how many were working for Cole. They could still be here in the castle and are most definitely posted throughout the kingdom.” 

You nodded at his words and pulled away to clean the rag in the water. The hearth fire crackled and sputtered while the wood snapped piece by piece. Even in the warmth of the room, the water was cold and trickled off of the rag. 

“I’m sorry for not believing you. When you came to me about Cole…” Aemond told you. Your fight was still fresh. The anger and insults hurled at one another that morning echoed in your mind. If you had simply stayed in your room and talked with him, how much different would things be? You would have never gone to your lab and Cole would not have tried to kill you. Though, he likely would have tried some other time.

“You had every right to not believe me. He was your close friend. I’m only new here, Cole has known you for longer.” You gave him a half-smile and went back to dragging the cloth across his chest. Aemond’s hand went up to grab yours and stop your movements. 

“Yes, but…” He paused. He was battling with himself to speak more, “We have to talk about–” Sharp knocking sounded on your door and you quickly shot out of your seat and away from Aemond. You do not know why you were so eager to get away from him. Perhaps it was fear in what he wished to speak to you about. 

The deal had been met. 

You knew that you were to stay in the kingdom for a year or until there was a cure. The cure had been made and now you have extended past your welcome here. Maybe he would have you sent back home. That thought alone pained you. After all, why would a human be allowed to stay with the elves?

However, you were also technically the Queen. You had married Aemond – despite his likely wariness of it all. Yet, you were unsure of your place here. 

You opened the door and spotted a handmaiden with folded clothes in her arms. You muttered words of thanks, took the clothing, and closed the door. Aemond watched closely as you walked back to him. You held out the clothing to him and refused to look at his form. If you did, you knew that the heat would come back to your face and a redness would coat your skin. There was no need to make Aemond any more uncomfortable than he was. 

Your arms extended and Aemond grabbed the clothes from you. His fingers brushed yours and you felt a jolt trail up both arms. You skirted away and held your hands behind your back. You wanted to curse yourself out for acting so distant. You were closer than ever, souls bonded, yet you could not get through the wall between you two. There was something there, unspoken and present, that prevented you two from being on the same page. 

“It’s best that you get some rest. Fighting for so long has drained you.” You spoke. Aemond stood up from the chair and placed the clothing down where he had sat. 

“About us, we–” 

“The people need their king right now. Eat, sleep, and get ready for tomorrow.” There were still elves among his people who likely sympathized with Cole and his cause. It would be a challenge to find them all and interrogate them for answers. You also could not stand there, exhausted, and have Aemond tell you that your arrangement was only one of convenience.

Your heart would not be able to take his rejection. You had only just lived, that would surely be what would kill you. 

You decided to let him change in your room and took the initiative to leave. When you had finally opened the door with the mission to go back to the laboratory, Aemond had called out your name. Your gaze shifted to him. He stood there, his face was a mix between yearning and dejection. 

“You need to rest as well.” 

You nodded with a tight-lipped smile, “I will rest when all of my patients are cured.” With those words, you closed the door to give him privacy. 

Epilogue: An Elf's Devotion Preview

“I feel as though I owe you an explanation,” Aemond spoke as the two of you began to waltz across the floor with the other dancing elves. 

“An explanation?” You questioned. Aemond’s eye was scanning the room. You could see it in his stance, he wanted to talk about something. Deeply. However, his posture held hints of nervousness.

“I know our union may have been done in haste, but I need you to know that,” Aemond licked his lips, took a deep breath in, and locked his eye on you, “I–” He huffed. You could feel his fingers tighten just slightly as his gaze swept to the floor. You were unsure of how to proceed. You had never seen him in this state.  

☾⋆⁺₊✧ If you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

taglist: @izzicle @arriettys-song @ggukiespace @wasntpriscilla @marielahurtado @shamelessblazecrown @peachysunrize @lolliespocketfullofpollies @lanadragon04 @kokosg @sinistersnakey @aemondtargaryenwifey @m-riaa @sarcasticwitch11 @coriellesmarya @simpinonyouz @scrumptiousloser @gcdofchaos @whorrorbellee @saturnssrings @ashjade19 @uniquecutie-puffs @fan_goddess @impossiblepersonastranger @certifiedhaters @crystal_siren @dejiekoo @ladyofthewoods15 @lilostif16 @papichulo-4 @liannafae @f4ntasywh0re @jessyoutofspace04 @ribbetzetoad @rxvenswxxd @iamtoriasworld @blackswxnn @qardasngan @ximetrevino2021 @Disassociationnetwork @winter-soldier-101 @abriltargaryen @fullwriterpoemp @bbaammbb11 @donut-seam

[sweetest-honeybee]

Also a lil damien sounded fun

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Good morning, Sleepyhead.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[lunarharp]

day 1 - fashion/clothes swapping

[icewindandboringhorror]

sometimes looking at like Self Help Strategies lists for the symptoms I'm having is always just like:

thing that I already do

thing I have tried 10 times

thing I already do

thing that I don't have the money to do

thing I already do

thing I've been doing since I was 10yrs old to no avail

thing that is impossible given my situation

thing that doesn't apply to me

thing that I already do

thing I have already tried

hrmm, oh wait, maybe finally- OH, yeah.. okay. thing that I already do but it was just phrased slightly differently

thing I have already done

[graveyard-society]

the sheer amount of headcanons i produced while i was drawing this is insane

[duskerot]

she will be REAL

(og face plate is from the 2022 snow mi//ku nendo ^^

the original body is from uhh a figure of nya/nners ??? dont know rly much about who that is but its the closest outfit to something shed wear. gonna have to cut off a lot of accessories haha. u can see the outfit im remaking in my pfp too actually

this hair is listed as riri ?? dunno who that is either but for sourcing reasons. she actually has a big ponytail im gonna cut entirely off and then use milliput to add some like. Hair bits. I think. ^-^ yippee

[stromblessed]

Mizu, femininity, and fallen sparrows

In my last post about Mizu and Akemi, I feel like I came across as overly critical of Mizu given that Mizu is a woman who - in her own words - has to live as a man in order to go down the path of revenge.

If she is ever discovered to be female by the wrong person, she will not only be unable to complete her quest, but there's a good chance that she'll be arrested or killed.

So it makes complete sense for Mizu to distance herself as much as possible from any behavior that she feels like would make someone question her sex.

I felt so indignant toward Mizu on my first couple watchthroughs for this moment. Why couldn't Mizu bribe the woman and her child's way into the city too? If Mizu is presenting as a man, couldn't she claim to be the woman's escort?

However, this moment makes things pretty clear. Mizu knows all too well the plight of women in her society. She knows it so well that she cannot risk ever finding herself back in their position again. She helps in what little way she can - without drawing attention to herself.

Mizu is not a hero and she is not one to make of herself a martyr - she will not set herself on fire to keep others warm. There's room to argue that Mizu shouldn't prioritize her quest over people's lives, but given the collateral damage Mizu can live with in almost every episode of season 1, Mizu is simply not operating under that kind of morality at this point. ("You don't know what I've done to reach you," Mizu tells Fowler.)

And while I still feel like Mizu has an obvious and established blind spot when it comes to Akemi because of their differences in station, such that Mizu's judgment of Akemi and actions in episode 5 are the result of prejudice rather than the result of Mizu's caution, I also want to establish that Mizu is just as caged as Akemi is, despite her technically having more freedom while living as a man.

Mizu can hide her mixed race identity some of the time, and she can hide her sex almost all of the time, but being able to operate outside of her society's strict rules for women does not mean she cannot see their plight.

It does not mean she doesn't hurt for them.

Back to Mizu and collateral damage, remember that sparrow?

While Mizu is breaking into Boss Hamata's manse, she gets startled by a bird and kills it on reflex. She then cradles it in her hands - much more tenderly than we've seen Mizu treat almost anything up to this point in the season:

She then puts it in its nest, with its unhatched eggs. Almost like she's trying to make the death look natural. Or like an accident.

You see where I'm going with this.

When Mizu kills Kinuyo, Mizu lingers in the moment, holding the body tenderly:

And btw a lot of stuff about this show hit me hard, but this remains the biggest gut punch of them all for me, Mizu holding that poor girl's body close, GOD

When Mizu arranges the "scene of the crime," Kinuyo's body is delicate, birdlike. And Mizu is so shaken afterward that she gets sloppy. She's horrified at this kill to the point that she can't bring herself to take another innocent life - the boy who rats her out.

MIZU'S ONE MOMENT OF SOFTNESS AND MERCY, COMING ON THE HEELS OF HER NEEDING TO KILL A GIRL TO SPARE HER THE WORST FATE THAT THIS RIGID SOCIETY HAS TO OFFER WOMEN, AND TO SPARE A BROTHEL FULL OF INNOCENT WOMEN WHO ARE THE CASTOFFS OF SOCIETY, NEARLY RESULTS IN ALL OF THEIR DEATHS

No wonder Mizu is as stoic and cold as she is.

And no wonder Mizu has no patience for Akemi whatsoever right before the terrible reveal and the fight breaks out:

Speaking of Akemi - guess who else is compared to a bird!

The plumage is more colorful, a bit flashier. But a bird is a bird.

And, uh

Yeah.

I like to think that Mizu killing the sparrow is not only foreshadowing for what she must do to Kinuyo, but is also a representation of the choice she makes on Akemi's behalf. She decides to cage the bird because she believes the bird is "better off." Better off caged than... dead.

But because Mizu doesn't know Akemi or her situation, she of course doesn't realize that the bird is fated to die if it is caged and sent back home.

Mizu is clearly not happy, or pleased, or satisfied by allowing Akemi to be dragged back to her father:

But softness and mercy haven't gotten Mizu anywhere good, recently.

There is so much tragedy layered into Mizu's character, and it includes the things she has to witness and the choices she makes - or believes she has to make - involving women, when she herself can skirt around a lot of what her society throws at women. Although, I do believe that it comes at the cost of a part of Mizu's soul.

After all, I'm gonna be haunted for the rest of this show by Mizu's very first prayer in episode 1:

"LET" her die. Because as Ringo points out, she doesn't "know how" to die.

Kind of like another bird in this show:

[thatdiabolicalfeminist]

I've been messaging with a 17yo kid from Gaza, named Nader.

When I asked what he wanted people to know about his family's situation, he immediately answered "the bitter cold".

His other answer was about how incredibly expensive everything is in Gaza right now. Here's context: https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2024/10/16/how-much-does-food-cost-in-gaza

Can you imagine being in this situation? Made homeless where the stores are no longer getting consistent deliveries and might be bombed, the government is barely operating cuz it keeps getting bombed, there's not even charity getting into your besieged area, and most people's jobs—including your big brother's—have been bombed beyond repair?

Where it's getting so cold and you CAN'T get warm because you're relying on strangers to help you get that coat or blanket, or bc you need the little money that trickles in to just survive??

And can you imagine living this way for OVER A YEAR as a normal teenager who has a little brother and a baby niece with malnutrition to stress about too?

I know people are tired of hearing about Gaza. It's upsetting that this genocide has continued so long with so few powerful people even trying to stop it. But we have a responsibility to our fellow humans, to help them survive persecution.

Nader is seventeen. None of this should be on his shoulders. Please help his family be safe so he can stop feeling like it's his job to make sure his family has what they need.

This campaign was verified as authentic by gazavetters (#4 on this spreadsheet), which I have seen Palestinians I trust cite as a trusted source.

Can you give up one treat this week to help Nader's family have the basics?

If you donate at least $10 and comment on this post with proof, I'll record a silly voice message for you or draw you a post it note doodle!

Please also consider following @abdalsalam1990, the tumblr account this family is using to try to raise funds, as a reminder to yourself to share the campaign or contribute in the future.

Tagging usernames off the top of my head in hopes you'll share this fundraiser; please message me if you don't want to be tagged in things like this, or if I didn't tag you but you DO want to be tagged in posts like this.

Edit edit: thank you @transmutationisms for teaching me how tagging works 😅 i've only been on this site 10 years lmao

@wizardarchetypes @herpsandbirds @brattylikestoeat @tearsofrefugees @milf--adjacent

@vampiricvenus @mostly-funnytwittertweets @sweatermuppet @mostlysignssomeportents @probablyasocialecologist

@timequangle @repotting @robertreich @antifainternational @dlxxv-vetted-donations

[sh1-n0bu]

♡︎ 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 ♡︎

characters: AFAB!sub!jing yuan, dan heng, blade x gn!dom!reader

warnings: AFAB characters, overstimulation, headcannon+small drabble format, praise, degrading, cock/strap traditions, dacryphilia, usage of bullet vibrator, slight brat taming, nipple stimulation, fingering, oral, cervix fucking, begging, squirting, clit pinching, cock/strap warming, size kink, belly bulge, breeding, creampie, mating press, full nelson, just a personal headcannon of how i think they would act when overstimulated

notes: someone wrote “nobody writes ahegao quite like nobu does” in one of their repost tags and im fucking shitting tears😭😭

the giggler

jing yuan loves to be overstimulated. he loves the feeling of it, the adrenaline rush, the high, the feeling of finally cumming all over your fingers, tongue, strap whatever it may be and the feeling of you continuing to move, drawing out his orgasm while also driving him into an overstimulated mess

has the cutest giggles and laughs when he gets too much pleasure. he doesn’t even try to hide or won’t even try to hide it. why would he when you were making him feel so good over and over again? hell, he even wants other people to hear it, to remind them that you were his lover and only his. and how only he gets to feel the overwhelming amount of pleasure only you can bring to him and no one else

but, it comes with a catch. he needs a lot of foreplay and/or teasing and/or orgasm denial for him to finally cave in and shake his head before starting to blabber incoherent shit about how good your cock feels inside his gushing pussy, how he could feel your tip fucking his cervix, how he wanted you to fuck a baby inside him etc etc

and i mean a LOT of it

as a centuries old war hardened general, it’s safe to say that he had gotten used to some feelings and emotions. pleasure being one of them

so if you want to get him to break and to become absolutely dumb and drunk on lust and pleasure, you have to tease him a lots before getting into it. if not, he will somehow find a way to outsmart you and take the reigns. he’s a bit of a brat and a spoiled prince wrapped up into one after all

will tell you what to do and how to do it if you have failed in getting him needy in your foreplay. he will fist your hair and thrust his hips into your mouth, making you unable to breath for a moment or two with his clit right at your nose. will push you down and flip your positions so he could ride your face, all the while chuckling at your cute attempt to push him back down. a goddamn brat and he will show it to the fullest when you fail at your foreplay

did i mention he was a brat? well now i have. a fucking brat to the max and he isn’t ashamed of it. will definitely question your power in the bedroom, try to overpower you and he will. he literally swings a 7000kg glaive in one hand like its nothing and he will show it by throwing you around. gently and consensually of course, he wouldn’t want to hurt his beloved

but fully expect him to be cocky and devious. “can you say no to my pretty pussy?”, “so sleepy. oh sorry, i didn’t know your cock was inside me hehe”, “was that all?” you get the gist. will shamelessly yawn in the middle of fucking not because he is sleepy or tired, but simply because he is a brat. a goddamn brat

so, how can you get him to be needy and won’t make him go into his bratty side? simple. shove a long distance controlled vibrator inside his cunt and leave it there for the whole day for him to suffer at work. but if you’re going to do that, be sure to mute the ringtone for your phone for the day since he will call you, send you messages, pictures, videos every damn hour. the closer his hour for shift ending comes, the more frequent the buzzing of your phone will become because he will grow much more needier

when finally he’s back home and frantically pawing at your pants when barely through the doors, that’s when you know he had absolutely no intention of being a brat. how can he when his whole pants were slowly getting stained from his multiple orgasms?

when he’s gladly bending himself over, arching his back for you as he wiggles his hips, he will ask you to come inside. jing yuan is great with kids and such a huge family man, he will ask you over and over repeatedly to breed him. cum inside him, fill up his cute dripping cunt, put him in whatever position you want and make sure to breed his pretty cunt, you can finally raise your own family together!

remember the long distance controlled vibrator i mentioned? make sure to keep it on and buzzing inside his cunt at all times when he’s away at work, or else it won’t work. during meetings or report hearings, jing yuan had to leave to the bathroom a lot of times and it genuinely got his subordinates concerned for his health. the red face, the heavy breathing and sometimes, the jolts of his body or the bleeding bruised lips of his made the cloud knights worry and some even suggested for him to leave the seat of divine foresight early to look after his health. if only they knew just how their dearest general was pathetically biting on his hand to muffle his screams in the bathroom as he squirted all over himself

“[naaammeee], ‘m mmgh♡︎! aaaaangh haah mngck♡︎♡︎ i-i’m home!” jing yuan’s voice called out, weak mewls of pleasure slipping through as he collapsed onto the floor the moment the doors of your shared home was closed. desperately humping the floor, trying to push the vibrator deeper into his gushing pussy, your lover didn’t realize that you were leaning against the wall of the kitchen, watching him with a knowing smile. there was a wet patch growing in his usual red pants, growing more and more the further he humped the air in desperation. see? your tough brat was so easy to tame.

“you feeling okay, darling?” you call out, taking out the controlled from your pants pocket and messing with the switch. flipping it up, down, up to the highest level, before going to the lowest level. it was cute to see the ever so tough brat turn into a delirious mess from just a single small toy. all because he was being so stubborn about how you weren’t the boss of him. walking over to where he was kneeling on the floor, you reach your free hand out. tilting his head up, a thumb swiping away at the drool that was beginning to pool on his lower lip, you tilt your head to the side, asking the question again with a firm hold onto his chin.

“n-no…! no no no, not at aamgh♡︎♡︎ h-hhaaaggm not at all♡︎!” he shakes his head viciously, dragging out his words and tripping over them with moans and mewls falling in between. pathetically, he tugs on the hem of your pants, trying to get to his favorite treat, the one thing he’s been missing this whole day.

“n-need you… need you right now, need your—♡︎♡︎! need yo-our..! c-cock right now...♡︎!” jing yuan mutters between whimpers, finally, his shaky hands manage to pull down your pants and undergarments just enough to have your strap out. a needy whine falling as he places slobbering wet kisses on the tip, giving it a few licks as he flutters his lashes at you in an effort to manipulate you to give him what he was non-verbally asking.

knowing full well that he wouldn’t take no for an answer and that yanqing might come home soon, you drag him up to his feet — an action that was heavily protested against as jing yuan cries out after his favorite treat being taken away. once inside the comfort of your shared bedroom, by the time you have locked the door behind you, he was already naked. clothes messily strewn on the floor and on the bed, the many orgasm’s slick dripping down his puffy cunt to his ass and to the bedsheets eventually. you could see the light trembling of his pussy lips, an action caused by the vibrator fucking away inside him still.

turning the vibrator off, you take the toy out of his puffy cunt. jing yuan let out a drawn out mewl at the feeling, clenching around nothing as he tries to replace the empty feeling for something, anything. but seeing you starting to strip, he knew what he wanted. and he knew how he wanted it.

spreading his legs open further, his hand comes down, flicking at his enlarged clit with a jolt before spreading open his labia for you to take in how he was already so needily wet and dripping for you. a drunk giggle escaping him when the tip of your cock is right against his folds, wiggling his hips enticingly.

“[nnaameeee]~ you gotta fuck a baby in me this time, owhkayyy?♡︎♡︎ hehehe♥︎”

the crybaby

the cutest out of all three of them, in my personal opinion

he just gets overstimmed so easily and quickly, it’s adorable in the way that he brokenly begs for a moment of respite. legs shaking, smaller body jolting violently at the smallest of touches like your hand ghosting over his hardened nipples. don’t even get me started on the way he cutely squeals out loud when you pinch his clit augh

maybe it’s due to his nature as a vidyadhara and not a full human but every little touch is received with so much sensitivity and sensuality, it gets so easy to turn him into a blabbering mess in record time. push his smaller body against the wall and finger his gushing pussy while rolling your thumb over his clit. in no time, his legs are shaking as he bites your hand, his orgasm washing over him quickly and violently. but don’t just stop there, keep flicking at his clit, pinch it, tug on it, push a hand on the small bulge on his belly and he’ll be left sobbing by the second or third round

he’s noticeably smaller than the other two and it carries out into his size kink so well. he just wants to be pushed around and put into impossible, near painful positions and man-handled until he’s left a blabbering idiot

make him cockwarm you while asking him to read you a story or a book under the guise that you had a nightmare and can’t fall asleep without his soothing voice and soft cunny wrapped around your cock. at first he’ll huff and puff, saying that you’re a liar and just wants to fuck him. four or five pages in and his voice is already strained, whines coming out as hiccups and sniffles follow soon after

but just because he’s a crybaby doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. he knows how much you love his pretty steel grey eyes unfocused and hazy, brimming with tears and he will use that to his advantage. will make sure to play with his nipples or push down on the bulge in his tummy when cockwarming you so he could get teary eyed quicker. the moment he sniffles and grinds himself down on you, he knows you’re a goner and would give him what he wants

he may be a crybaby, but he’s also a goddamn minx so beware of that

tugs on your sleeve so cutely, looking at you with a flushed face and stuttered words to ask you if you wanna spend time with him in his room. today’s trailblazing expedition was too long and tiring after all, “surely you would enjoy some cuddles…?” or “i just wanted to help you patch up your wounds. i was just worried”

yeah sure, dan heng. just say that you wanna get fucked until you’re squealing out like a slut with fat tears running down your cute red cheeks. thank the aeons the express’ walls are thick and soundproof. if not, who knows the amount of noise complaint you would have gotten from everyone

has slight oral fixation. slightly. but that’s only because he wants to see you crumble and give into his non-verbal demands and just ruin him. he’s a bit too shy to ask directly after all

long serpentine tongue wrapping around your strap, pulling it into his mouth. will gag and choke so loudly with the tip of the fat dildo pushed right down his throat, hitting his uvula and choking his throat. he can complain about sore throats and pained jaws all he wants but you both know that he loves to suckle on your strap with tears filling his eyes

the most messiest cock sucker and that’s saying something bc blade is the one who has the biggest oral fixation out of the three of them. he’ll place wet kisses to the weeping tip of your cock, running the slitted snake like tongue over the weeping slit of your cock teasingly before wrapping it around your dick. loves the scent and the taste of your pre, basically addicted to it as he opens his mouth wider, slipping your cock inside the warm cavern of his mouth inch by inch

but be aware that he will also try to take advantage of this position. he will try to bat his lashes at you so he can continue suckling on your strap like he would be sucking on a lolipop, all under the guise to ‘make you happy’. when in reality, he would try to make you cum over and over to try and get you overstimulated. when in such position, just fist his hair and fuck his throat. gets him crying in no time like the crybaby he is

“… bamboo whispers in the w-wind, a secret pa-aaangh! aah aaah hmgk♡︎ a s-secret pa-act... ♡︎!“ the soothing voice of your lover drawls out into a weak sniffle, hands gripping the book filled with love poetry from his home planet tightly. so tight, you feared that he might just tear the book apart with his claws. you had crawled into his bed yet again to torment him today, the dildo hitting all the sensitive spots in his gushing cunt, dan heng couldn’t help but weakly whine when your hands around his waist tightens to not let him move.

“go on. i’m listening” you coo out, forcing him to stay still on your lap while his voice continue to drawl out. sniffles and broken pleads replacing his ever so stoic mask, a voice that is usually so cold and distant, always scolding other turning into one of mindless blabber about how badly he wanted your strap to fuck his pussy. you couldn’t help but laugh.

“is that what it says on the pages? i may be still learning the strokes but the next line seems to be the stroke for two” you point at the kanji on the book he was holding in his shaking hands, the strokes of the language seeming familiar to you. it was an easy kanji to read after all. yet not to your boyfriend it seems.

“please! p-please please move! i beg you, [n-naamee]♡︎ you gotta fuck meeh♡︎ you gotta fuck me you gotta fuck me— you have to fuck meeegck—♡︎♡︎!!” dan heng squeals, shaking thighs bucking down onto your dick, trying to gain some friction. it was enough, he had read you hundreds of love poetries from his home planet. he had been taking your pronged torture for long enough, please just fuck his cunt already!

“so impatient” you huff, putting the book away with a book marker tucked between the pages before hooking your hands under his knees. pulling him up and over until dan heng was left wailing at the sudden change in position. hooking your arms under his knees, his legs are left dangling in the air with nothing to support himself but for his hands to cling to your biceps. even then, he couldn’t hold for long as he jolts about in your arms like a hopping bunny, painting your dildo in his cum when the tip kissed his cervix.

“guuchk♥︎!! d-deep! aah ah naahmg haah t-too deep♡︎♡︎ [n-name] you’re f-fucckk fuck fuck—♡︎♥︎ fucking my cerviinxx my ceerrvv—♡︎♡︎ mngh unngya♥︎!” punched out sobs comes from his pretty lips, drawling out into whiny cries when you move him up and down. you could see the bulge in his tummy appear and disappear every little moment. every jolt, every gasp, every little whiny cry making the bulge in his tummy to get more detailed. he was so adorably small.

“‘m sorry, darling. i’m sorry, didn’t mean it. didn’t mean to fuck you this deep” you coo out apologies, lifting him just a bit so your strap won’t sink so deep to the point it would kiss his cervix. as much as you loved your crybaby gasping and writhing, you didn’t want the reason for such reaction to be pain.

claws scratching at every inch of skin he could touch, jaw slack open in a silent scream, you could barely make out his shrill yell of what appears to be your name when dan heng squirts over your cock after just a few thrusts. you could see the overflowing amount of cum just dripping down your cock, trailing down to your legs and staining the mattress. with a click of your tongue, you pinched his clit, making the shorter man sniffle with a squeal.

“‘m soowryyy… sorry sorry—♡︎ d-didn’t mean to be bad... s-soowwh uunhg hyaagk ungc gugcck—♥︎♥︎!!”

the hissy bitch

alright, so i know i’m going into territory that has been charted way too many times before by blade lovers standard but he def has piercings. on his nipples, tongue and on his clit. probably got the first three by losing a drunk bet or something or maybe he just wanted it but the last one, the clit one, is definitely his latest piercing. one that he got after his relationship with you began and he had made the sudden rash decision to get one so he could see your reaction and to feel you just messing with it while fucking him

there is a REASON why he always keeps his chest bandaged up. there is a goddamn reason and that reason is his nipple piercings and the fact that his chest is generally very sensitive im being delusional

so what does that bring and why have i specified it? simple. titty fucking. nipple stimulation. seeing his pretty big, round chest jiggle every time your cock sinks back into his dripping cunt. pinch it, roll it, tug on them, suckle on them, do anything to him with his nipple piercing and he’s scratching at your back, mauling it like an animal

the reason i see him as a hissy bitch is because he likes to throw small temper tantrums when he gets too overstimulated. he’s crying, begging, hitting your shoulders, back, scratching at them and leaving deep red scratch marks, perhaps even breaking the skin sometimes. how come blade get overstimulated quickly? because he is very touch deprived. he’s been alone and immortal for too damn long and his ass is fucking touch starved. i just know it in my bones

genuinely, he is indeed very touch starved. since his rebirth as an immortal, he had felt nothing but pain, anguish and suffering and therefore, has basically gotten immune to touches. especially the violent and bloody ones. but gentle, tender, affectionate ones? find him jumping away from your soft hands like a frightened cat, it’s goddamn heartbreaking. so when he finally gets his cunt fucked, blade would be overstimmed too fast due to receiving a sudden abundance of affection and touches

will shake his head ‘no’ when asked if you would wanna stop due to his tears. you were just concerned but blade didn’t wanted this onslaught of pleasure to stop. desperately rides your fingers, mouth, strap — anything. loves the feeling of being on top of you, gives him the slight feeling of being in control. until it all gets thrown out the window when you force him to stop bouncing, hands gripping his hips tightly as a warning. will whine and try to grind down, trying to chase that high again but will only end up with a pout and hissy tears falling down his cheeks

another one who loves the feeling of being stuffed full and overstimulated. it’s almost like he gets high from the feeling. loves having his pussy fucked in any way you please until he can’t stay on his hands or feet without shaking. it’s just so cute to see him shaking like a fawn when fucking him doggy style

prepare to have yourself used as a chew toy as well as a scratcher. blade’s almost like a cat, hissy and whiny but also so greedy and preferring certain things in certain manner. will bite at your shoulders, hands, fingers to muffle himself but also to try and get his shit together. will scratch at your back, thighs, wherever he could reach. such a spoiled brat

when eating him out, be sure to give an extra care and love to his clit piercing. constantly flicking it with your tongue would usually work though, gets his legs all shaky and jolty soon enough. maybe pair it with flicking his pierced nubs and bladie will be squirting into your mouth with an embarrassing high pitched shriek. make sure to clean up all of his mess before diving right back into his gushing cunny. he may not say it but he will expect you to go back to eating him out like he’s your last meal

has the BIGGEST oral fixation out of the three of them. like, down bad, delicious, scrumptious, sloppy oral fixation. and he is happy to give it 90% of the times due to his tongue piercing. knows how good it makes you feel and how you like to see his pretty face between your legs, sucking on the large dildo like his life depends on it. not a single thought or a single moment of choking from him, it’s almost like he doesn’t have a gag reflex

you just came back from mission, from being away from him even for a single day? unacceptable. let him bend over for you, you can get your stress out by fucking his already dripping wet pussy. too tired? that’s fine. take of your pants and get comfortable cuz’ he can stay between your legs for days

not a single minute of respite has greeted you ever since you came back from your latest mission, stepping foot into your shared home with your stoic lover. perhaps the single gentle kiss to your cheek before he started to leave slobbering wet kisses on your lips was the only warning and moment of rest you have gotten. not even shoes off yet and blade was already unbuckling your belt, giving you the puppy eyes and grumbling about how you’ve been away for too damn long. whining about how much he missed you and needed your strap to fuck him dumb. how his pretty pussy had missed you so much.

“n-nnghyaa♡︎♡︎ m-missed you... missed you s’ much, [name]! f-fuck me fuck me fuck me, fuck your favorite cunt gyyuck—♥︎♥︎ a-aaanh! haah ah ah mmngk—♡︎♥︎!!” unusually docile red eyes roll to the back of his skull, jaw going slack wide open as you push his legs up, feeling your strap hit him deeper than he thought was possible. he could feel your weight push him down, keeping it still on the bed and to stop him from wiggling his hips entirely. this new position caused his cat like pupils to widen, turning into heart shapes as you chuckle at the dazed look in his eyes.

“such a needy brat” you coo out in a condescending manner, pushing his legs up in the air with your hands hooked under his knees to keep him in place. pulling out until halfway out, you sink back into blade’s dripping cunt. a squeal tearing from his throat alongside the filthy wet squelch of his cunt tightening around your dildo. it was so easy to get him dumb.

“t-too nngh much! too muchtoomuchtoomuch♡︎! fucking m-my womb—♡︎ [n-name], y-youuwrr crush— crushing my wombgg aangh ah ah! gyyuck eengh aaangh nyaagh♥︎♥︎!!” the familiar feeling of his nails scratching at your arms takes place, tearing at the skin, clawing at any part of your body he can come in contact with. a desperate attempt to ground his already long gone mind, too deep into the throes of pleasure that he didn’t even realize his shaking hands were weakly pulling your hips to fuck deeper into his warm walls.

“don’t be so dramatic, bladie. i won’t be able to crush your womb in this position” you coo out mockingly, wiping away the fat globs of tears that continue to pour of his eyes. red and yellow eyes rolled to the back of his skull, wide open mouth letting out the most salacious squeals and shrieks of your name and how you were fucking his womb falling out. legs weakly dangling in the air, jolting and bristling at every deep thrust you fuck into his velvety walls. the lewd wet squelching noises were alongside your grunts and blade’s whiny sobs were the only noise in the room. you would probably get noise complaints the next morning due to blade’s loudmouthed blabbering self.

letting go of one of his legs, you shove your fingers into his mouth. almost as if it was an instinct, blade’s tongue wet your fingers. suckling on the two digits as it his life depended on it with the most cutest heart shaped pupils staring at you. once you deemed them wet enough, you take your fingers out of his mouth. an action that blade showed his hatred towards as his pierced tongue comes past his lips, trying to chase after your fingers.

“gghcck—♡︎♥︎♥︎♥︎!!” a sharp wail taking place as blade arches his back, his whole body shaking, soft big tits jiggling when you pinched at his pierced clit. rolling, tugging, flicking at the hardened nub as blade sobs about cumming before drenching your cock with his squirting. you had thought of him to be satisfied with it, but turns out you have underestimated your lover’s neediness when his strong scarred thighs comes to wrap around your waist, legs locked behind your back when you tried to pull out.

sigh… it’s times like this that makes you glad for your amount of stamina.