#particularly fragile skin

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when satoru gojo, age 8, discovers affection in the most annoying form possible?

a/n: satoru gojo was born the strongest but also the most emotionally constipated. this is what happens when an eight-year-old demigod gets hit with a fever and accidentally manifests a clingy, semi-feral bestie with the spiritual energy of a raccoon and the vocabulary of a broken answering machine. if you think about it, this is basically one-sided imprinting. twilight wishes.

anyway. you are soulmates now. he can’t return you. there’s no receipt.

the fever had lasted for days.

your body, or what would eventually become your body, didn’t exist yet when it started. when the boy with the six eyes lay burning and thrashing in a silken futon soaked through with sweat, whispering things no one could understand. he was eight. too small for that much cursed energy. too divine for the fragile vessel he lived in.

the gojo clan elders panicked. the medics couldn’t touch him. no barrier could stabilize him. and so, desperate, they turned to a half-forgotten ritual. the theory was simple enough: take the excess cursed energy he couldn’t contain and make it take shape. mold it into a vessel.

something that could carry the weight.

what they expected was a tool. a familiar. a shikigami to leech off the pressure.

what they got was... you.

not quite a doll. not quite a beast. pale and blinking, limbs shaking like a newborn deer. your skin shimmered faintly under moonlight, like dew on porcelain. two eyes that opened slow and unblinking, and a voice that came out in cracked syllables and broken sounds. you fell into the world with a gasp, like you’d been holding your breath for a thousand years.

and the boy—the one they called satoru—woke up.

his fever broke that night.

you didn’t know any of this, of course. you didn’t know your purpose, or why people stared at you like you shouldn’t exist. you only knew one thing:

he was warm.

so you followed him.

at first, satoru tried to ignore you. he walked faster. you ran after him like your joints were made of pudding, arms flapping, hair sticking up in tufts like static cling. your little feet slapped against polished wood as you tumbled through paper doors left ajar. you mimicked whatever you heard, a walking echo of servant chatter and household scolding.

he ducked through sliding doors; you smacked into them face-first with a dramatic thud, then clawed them open with stubby fingers and a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “no touching young master table yes!”

he once tried to hide behind a folding screen. you climbed onto a lacquered table, knocked over a bonsai tree, squatted there like a gremlin, and chirped “young master?” until a maid screamed and dropped a tray of tea with a shatter.

he told a servant to get rid of you. you reappeared at dinner an hour later with a leaf on your head, mud on your knees, and a fistful of vaguely rice-shaped pebbles you thought were food. you plopped down beside him, beaming like you'd just won a prize.

in one particularly dramatic escape attempt, he climbed halfway up a cherry tree, disappearing into the blossoms like a sulky cat. half-hidden among the pink petals, he peeked down, eyes narrowed. you stood at the base of the tree with a delighted gasp.

“go!” you chirped. “go—ru!”

he scowled. his pale hair, disheveled from the climb, was caught in the breeze, framing his flushed face like a wilting halo. “that’s not even my name.”

you pointed up at him again, nose scrunching with joy. “go!”

his jaw twitched. “you’re the worst little—” he stopped himself and clicked his tongue. “ugh.”

maybe you were.

you couldn’t talk well yet, just repeated whatever you overheard. “young master,” “this way,” “no touching that,” “off the table”—you strung them together like talismans, proud and fearless, like a goblin parrot in training. once, you ran after him yelling, “no touching young master table yes off!” until he turned with the most baffled expression, like you'd just spoken in tongues.

he started throwing off your trail. dashing around corners. hiding behind fusuma doors. pretending to tie his shoes, then bolting like the wind the second you blinked.

and you? you escalated.

you started crawling under tables, squeezing through servant hallways, perching atop window sills like an owl. you once disguised yourself as a folded futon and waited in his room for two hours until he stepped inside, sighed, and said, “absolutely not,” before turning around and leaving again.

when he looked annoyed, you giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world.

one afternoon, while he was mid-sulk beside a courtyard pond, you tiptoed close and stared. he pointedly ignored you.

“stop looking at me like that,” he muttered after a long pause, glancing sideways beneath thick lashes. he fiddled with the sleeve of his haori, brows knit tight.

you beamed wider. then reached out and poked his cheek.

“why frown?”

his breath caught. he flinched back so quickly it startled a nearby koi fish.

his cursed energy snapped to life—just a flicker, a breath—and suddenly your finger hit resistance. it hovered in midair, like touching a sheet of ice. your brows lifted. confused, you leaned in again, finger outstretched like a curious child.

still nothing. a perfect, invisible wall.

he was using infinity.

your bottom lip trembled. “meanie,” you mumbled, eyes big and glassy. your arms drooped. you stared up at him, unmoving.

and stared.

and stared.

he twitched. his shoulders hunched tighter. “you’re not gonna cry, are you? seriously?”

you didn’t answer. just kept staring. one foot shuffled in the dirt. a single leaf fluttered past between you.

he squirmed. “ugh, fine!” the infinity dropped like a curtain. “there. happy now?”

instantly, you lit up and poked his cheek again. “no frown!”

he jolted. “gah—!” then scowled, swatting your hand away like it burned. “what is wrong with you?”

but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

he tried to eat faster after that, hunching over his tray like a raccoon, scarfing down his meals before you could sit beside him. you followed anyway, hopping into the seat with a bright grin, swinging your legs like a clock pendulum. sometimes you tried to feed him from your own chopsticks. once, you pressed a dumpling into his cheek and declared, “for go!”

he sputtered. “do i look like a baby bird to you?!”

the servants whispered every time you passed. “it looks too human.” “should we seal it?” “it doesn’t even understand commands.”

you never paid them any mind. you only listened to him.

you curled up outside his room like a stray cat, snoring softly beneath the paper screen. you crawled into his futon without asking, worming beneath the covers like a cold octopus, limbs flopping all over him. you tapped your head against his shoulder when you wanted attention, tugged at his sleeve when he ignored you. when he glared, you tilted your head like a confused owl and poked his cheek again.

“why frown?”

he groaned into his pillow.

and then the strangest thing happened.

one day, he let you sit beside him without protest.

another day, he saved a bit of sweet mochi, eyes flicking to you before silently placing it in your hands, face turned away.

and then one day, you flopped into his lap upside down like a sack of vegetables, legs dangling off the side. he gave an exhausted sigh and muttered, “you’re such a weirdo.”

you blinked up at him, crumbs in your lashes, nose scrunched in thought.

he didn’t call you weirdo again. he called you something else.

and you smiled like you understood everything in the world.

[hayatheauthor]

The Anatomy of Punching a Character in the Face

Punching scenes are a staple of action sequences in many genres. Whether it’s an intense brawl, a quick defense, or an emotional outburst, a punch can carry a lot of weight both physically and narratively. As a writer, it’s essential to understand what really happens when a fist meets a face—from the immediate impact to the longer-lasting effects on both the person getting punched and the one throwing the punch.

This guide will help you craft authentic, detailed, and believable punch scenes by exploring different areas of the face, types of punches, and the aftermath of such an impact.

1. Target Areas of the Face and Their Vulnerabilities

A punch isn’t a one-size-fits-all situation. Depending on where the fist lands, the consequences will vary significantly. Different parts of the face have varying levels of vulnerability, and targeting these areas produces different effects, from knockouts to broken bones.

A. Jawline: The Knockout Zone

The jawline is a classic target in many fight scenes, especially when knockout punches are involved. This area is highly vulnerable because a hit here causes the head to snap to the side, leading to a sharp rotational movement of the brain inside the skull. This movement disrupts the brain’s communication and often results in a temporary loss of consciousness—what we commonly refer to as a "knockout."

Common Effects: Dislocation or fracture of the jaw, loss of consciousness, slurred speech, and severe pain.

Visual Aftermath: Swelling around the jawline, bruising, and possible misalignment of the jaw if broken.

B. Nose: Breaking and Bleeding

The nose is another vulnerable target, known for being easily broken. It’s not just a fragile bone structure, but it’s also connected to many blood vessels, meaning a direct punch to the nose often results in immediate bleeding. The nasal bone can fracture, causing difficulty in breathing, and in some cases, the nose may need surgical intervention to reset.

Common Effects: Intense pain, bleeding, difficulty breathing, potential for a broken nose.

Visual Aftermath: Blood running from the nostrils, swelling, and significant bruising around the nose and eyes.

C. Cheekbones (Zygomatic Bones): Bruising and Fractures

The cheekbones are one of the more solid structures in the face but are still susceptible to breaks, particularly from a heavy blow. Damage here can lead to not just bruising, but potentially severe injuries that can affect the entire facial structure.

Common Effects: Fractures of the zygomatic bone, swelling, bruising, and pain extending to the eye socket.

Visual Aftermath: Black eyes, noticeable swelling on one side of the face, and a sunken appearance if the bone is fractured.

D. Forehead: A Hard Target

The forehead is much harder than most parts of the face and is less vulnerable to severe damage. However, punches to the forehead can still cause pain, disorientation, and dazing of the recipient. While it’s less likely to result in a knockout, it’s effective in dazing an opponent, especially if the puncher’s goal is to create an opening for another strike.

Common Effects: Swelling, redness, and potential concussions if hit with enough force.

Visual Aftermath: Redness, minimal bruising, and a dazed expression.

E. Eyes: Black Eyes and Swelling

A punch to the eyes is particularly brutal because the area around the eyes is delicate, and the skin is thin. It’s not just about swelling but also potential damage to the orbital bones. The impact can cause "black eyes," characterized by intense bruising and swelling that may close the eye shut for days.

Common Effects: Swelling, black eyes, potential orbital bone fractures, temporary blurred vision.

Visual Aftermath: Discoloration that starts purple and turns yellowish-green as it heals, swollen shut eyes.

2. Types of Punches

Not all punches are created equal. The type of punch thrown can drastically change the outcome of the scene, both in terms of damage and realism. Understanding these different types of punches will allow you to convey more varied and dynamic fight sequences.

A. Jab: Speed and Precision

A jab is a quick, straight punch, usually thrown with the non-dominant hand. It’s not meant to be a knockout punch but more of a setup punch to create an opening or keep the opponent at a distance. Jabs are fast and can be disorienting, especially if they repeatedly land in quick succession.

Common Effects: Light bruising, potential cuts, and swelling in the area hit.

B. Cross: Power and Impact

The cross is a powerful, straight punch delivered with the dominant hand. It’s often aimed at vulnerable spots like the jaw or nose. Unlike a jab, the cross is meant to deliver a significant amount of force, and when landed properly, it can cause serious damage.

Common Effects: Knockouts, broken bones, severe swelling, and bruising.

C. Hook: Lateral Devastation

A hook is a wide, circular punch that targets the side of the head, particularly the jaw or temple. It’s one of the most powerful punches and is often used with the intent of knocking the opponent out.

Common Effects: Knockouts, severe disorientation, potential for concussions, and jaw dislocations.

D. Uppercut: Lifting from Below

The uppercut is thrown upward, usually aimed at the chin. It’s a devastating punch that can lift the opponent’s head and jolt their brain, leading to knockouts. Uppercuts are especially dangerous when they land cleanly on the jaw or chin.

Common Effects: Knockouts, broken teeth, jaw fractures, and disorientation.

E. Haymaker: Risky but Powerful

A haymaker is a wild, swinging punch delivered with as much force as possible. It’s often thrown with reckless abandon and is easy to dodge, but if it connects, it can deal significant damage. Because of its wide arc, it leaves the puncher exposed to counterattacks.

Common Effects: Knockouts, severe bruising, and possible fractures if landed correctly.

3. Punch Wounds: What They Look Like and Healing

Punches to the face leave lasting marks, some immediately visible and others taking days to fully form. Understanding the aftermath of a punch will help you describe the physical toll on your characters more accurately.

A. Immediate Effects

Swelling and Redness: Swelling can begin almost instantly, particularly in areas with soft tissue like the eyes and lips.

Bruising: Bruises start off as red, then turn purple, blue, and eventually fade into yellow or green as they heal.

Bleeding: Punches to the nose, lips, and even cheeks can result in bleeding, either from the skin breaking or from internal damage like a broken nose.

B. Long-Term Injuries

Black Eyes: Punches near the eyes can lead to bruising that darkens the skin around the eyes, giving it a purplish hue.

Fractures: Broken bones, such as the nose or jaw, may require weeks to heal, and in severe cases, surgery may be necessary.

Scarring: If the skin is cut open, there’s the potential for scarring, especially if stitches are required.

C. Healing Process

Bruises: These typically take about a week to two weeks to heal, with the colors shifting as the body absorbs the blood trapped under the skin.

Fractures: Healing from fractures can take several weeks to months, depending on the severity.

Swelling: Swelling can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days, with cold compresses helping to reduce it.

4. How the Punch Affects the Puncher

While we often focus on the person receiving the punch, it’s important to remember that throwing a punch can also take a toll on the puncher.

A. Physical Strain

Knuckle Damage: Hitting a hard surface, like a jaw or forehead, can cause damage to the puncher’s knuckles. This is known as a “boxer’s fracture,” where the small bones in the hand break due to impact.

Wrist Injury: If the punch is not aligned correctly, the wrist can absorb too much force, leading to sprains or breaks.

Fatigue: After multiple punches, especially in a drawn-out fight, the puncher can become fatigued, leading to less powerful or accurate strikes.

B. Emotional and Psychological Effects

Adrenaline Rush: For inexperienced fighters, throwing a punch can lead to an adrenaline surge, which can cause tunnel vision or reckless behavior.

Moral Conflict: If the puncher is not used to violence, they may experience guilt or shock at the damage they’ve caused, especially if the recipient is significantly injured.

5. Psychological Impact of Receiving a Punch

A punch to the face doesn’t only cause physical damage. For the recipient, it can have a lasting psychological effect, especially if the punch was unexpected or in a vulnerable situation. Writing this aspect adds depth to your characters and shows that a punch is more than just physical pain.

A. Shock and Fear

Fight or Flight Response: Getting punched can immediately trigger a fight-or-flight reaction. Some characters might freeze or retreat, especially if they’ve never been in a physical altercation before.

Loss of Confidence: For characters not used to violence, being punched in the face may cause a significant loss of confidence. They may question their own strength, bravery, or ability to defend themselves.

Increased Aggression: Alternatively, the punch may trigger a rage-fueled response, pushing the character into aggressive, reckless action.

B. Embarrassment and Humiliation

Public Fights: If the punch occurs in front of others, there’s often an added layer of humiliation. Characters might feel embarrassed, even if they weren’t at fault.

Internalizing the Event: The recipient of the punch may carry the emotional impact for a long time, replaying the event in their mind, feeling shame, or seeking revenge.

C. Post-Traumatic Stress

Lingering Anxiety: In extreme cases, receiving a punch can cause anxiety or even post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Characters who’ve experienced significant trauma might relive the event through flashbacks or become hyper-vigilant, avoiding confrontations in the future.

Fear of Future Confrontations: A character who’s been severely beaten might actively avoid scenarios where they could be hit again, making them overly cautious or paranoid.

6. Writing Tips: Making It Believable

Writing a punch scene isn't just about describing the physical action. To make the moment believable and impactful, you’ll need to consider various elements—from pacing and sensory details to character psychology and aftermath. Here’s how to make your punch scenes authentic:

A. Build Tension Before the Punch

Foreshadowing Conflict: Build up the tension before the punch is thrown. Is the character agitated? Are there verbal warnings or body language that suggests things are escalating? By slowly ramping up the tension, the eventual punch feels earned and inevitable.

Use Dialogue: A heated exchange of words can make a punch more meaningful. If the punch follows a particularly cutting remark or threat, it adds weight to the action.

B. Focus on Sensory Details

Physical Sensations: Describe not just the punch itself, but how it feels. Does the skin split? Does the puncher’s knuckles scrape against teeth or bone? Is there an immediate sting or delayed throbbing pain?

Sound: The sound of a punch can enhance the realism of the scene. A dull thud as a fist connects with soft tissue, the crack of a bone breaking, or the splatter of blood hitting the floor are all effective auditory details.

C. Show Immediate and Delayed Reactions

Physical Reaction: After being punched, characters rarely shake it off immediately. Staggering, falling, or momentarily losing their vision are realistic reactions. You can also show how the puncher feels—did their hand hurt from the impact?

Emotional Fallout: Punches are often emotional events. Show how your characters feel right after—whether it’s satisfaction, regret, or shock. The emotional weight of a punch can be just as impactful as the physical consequences.

D. Consider the Aftermath

Healing Process: Don’t forget that punches have a lasting impact. A black eye will take days to heal, and a broken nose could require medical attention. Characters might have to deal with soreness, swelling, or difficulty talking and eating.

Ongoing Tension: A punch can dramatically shift relationships. A once-trusting friendship could be shattered, or a bitter rivalry could be born. Make sure to carry the emotional weight of the punch forward in your story.

7. Common Misconceptions About Punching

Many writers fall into the trap of perpetuating unrealistic portrayals of punches. These misconceptions can make your scenes feel less authentic or overly cinematic. Here’s how to avoid them.

A. The Myth of the "Clean Knockout"

Reality: A punch to the jaw might cause a knockout, but it’s not always instant. In real life, knockouts are often messy and unpredictable. The recipient might stagger or struggle before finally losing consciousness, and they could wake up with serious concussions, memory loss, or nausea.

B. Punches Always Cause Immediate Bleeding

Reality: While a punch to the nose often causes immediate bleeding, not all punches result in visible blood. Even when skin splits, it might take a moment for blood to pool and become visible. Bruising and swelling often take hours to fully appear.

C. Punching Doesn’t Always Lead to a Win

Reality: Throwing a punch doesn’t guarantee victory. The puncher could hurt themselves, miss entirely, or end up escalating a fight they weren’t prepared for. Additionally, punches to the forehead or temple might not have the knockout effect portrayed in movies—they could just make the puncher’s hand hurt more than the opponent.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Quillology with Haya Sameer; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! While you’re at it, don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey! 

[antiwhores]

Rough and Fragile -

Bakugou x reader

Content: rough sex (hair pulling, biting, spanking, etc), SMUT!

Bakugou has fantasies of how aggressive he’d fuck you. The only problem is that he doesn’t want to hurt you… but what if you wanted to be hurt?

——

Its really hard for Bakugou to hold back for the first few times he fucks you.

Well, “fucks you” is an incorrect way to put it. It’s slow sex. Society would call it “making love”. It’s difficult to understand. Fucking can mean making love, but it can also mean just… fucking? Making love can mean fucking but it also means it’s filled with love.

That doesn’t too much matter to him. The only thing that matters is that he doesn’t hurt you.

Bakugou is, as we all know, a strong man. You, being a regular and not physically trained individual, are delicate to him. He sees you as fragile. He doesn’t want to break the most important part of his life.

That means that he has to hold back his urges to pull your hair, slam into you rough, slap your ass, bite you, and overall leave marks on your skin. He knows that it’s fucked up that he wants to hurt you. That’s why he doesn’t. And if that’s what it takes to keep you, then he’s willing to keep himself in check for the rest of his life.

But fuck, it’s probably the hardest thing he’s ever done.

He grits his teeth as he carefully moves his hips to connect with your pussy. His strokes are calculated, careful not to scare you but not careful enough to make it seem like he’s holding back.

It’s been a particularly hard day for him. His day off alined with yours so he got to wake up next to you. It was hard to leave you to go indulge in his morning workout. He had gotten back anxious to touch you. Busy schedules made sex impossible.

Due to his terrible luck, you were gone when he got back. He now remembers that you had to go grab some groceries with your spare time. You could’ve at least took him with you!

The day was full of turns of events. He waited for you to come back but eventually got bored. He took a quick walk around the neighborhood and when he got back you were in the shower. Just before you got out, he got a call from his agency reminding him of his schedule tomorrow. He got off the phone fifteen minutes later and immediately rushed to the bedroom to see you. You were in the bed snoring. He sighed and went to take a shower too since he was caked in sweat from his work out. He got out thirty minutes later to an empty bed. Turns out you had gone to get some soil for the plants.

When you two finally saw each other, it didn’t take long before you were below him.

He catches himself gripping you too hard due to a squeeze of your walls. He had to slow down, taking deep breaths in hopes to calm himself.

Unfortunately, today had him pent up to where he was loosing control.

He didn’t even notice when his hand had gripped your hair and pulled. He buried his face into your neck and started to speed up. He grabbed your hips and let off little pops from his palms. The smell of you distracted him from his vows. He was climbing his high better than ever before.

He finally snapped out of it when he felt your hands scrape his back. He stilled, his heart dropping.

It was over. Now you’d be scared of him and never talk to him again. His awful fantasies will drive you to move on to a guy that doesn’t want to hurt you while fucking you hard.

He hesitated while trying to find the proper words to apologize. You spoke first.

“What’s wrong?”

He was stunned. You weren’t freaked out?

“I just…”

He grit his teeth at his voice. He sounded desperate, whiny.

“Why’d you stop? Did I do something?”

The anxious look on your face wasn’t directed towards him, but to yourself. You had thought that you hadn’t reacted good enough. Were you not supposed to moan as loud as you did? Were you even supposed to like it?

“What? No. I just-“

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be weird-“

“You weren’t weird! It’s my fault. I just lost control.”

Your face fixed into a puzzled expression.

“What?”

He sighed.

“I want to hurt you. I want to fuck you rough, handle you rough. I don’t know why. I just want to ruin your hair and make marks all over your body. I’ve been holding back because I don’t want to see you in more pain than pleasure. I promise to never do it again if you give me another chance. I’m sorry, y/n.”

He was prepared for you to push him off. He looked for the inevitable terrified expression. A wince left him when you removed your hands for his shoulders.

He wasn’t expecting you to cup his face in your palms. You gently kiss his nose, your fingers trailing to glide down his abdomen.

“What if I want to be hurt?”

He doesn’t much remember what happened after that. He figures that he pounced on you, fucking you as rough as he’d dreamed of.

Your moans were louder than ever before. You were restrained by your wrists with his right hand. The other one pulled brutally at your hair. His cock abused your hole, ensuring you’d have a hard time walking tomorrow.

Every thrust had him gritting his teeth whilst your eyes fluttered. He unrestrained your hands while his travelled down to your ass, giving it a good slap. You moaned in confirmation so he slapped you again, this time adding some sparks.

Your nails dragged against his skin, surely leaving red marks. He’s never felt better, you agreed completely. You begged for him as you felt your high approaching. He felt his too, getting rougher by the second.

You let out a drawn out whine as you came, fingers pulling at his hair. The tightness of your orgasm against his cock immediately hit him with his own. He was attacked so suddenly that he had to bite into your shoulder to cope with the intense pleasure. A groan came from deep inside his chest as he filled your hole with cum.

His shaking stopped just after yours. He let the tension go when you relaxed. He felt the taste of iron in his mouth from the bite. Licking his lips with a smirk, he asked a question he already knew the answer to.

“Too rough for ya?”

You looked up at him with stars in your eyes.

“I can take whatever you give me and you know it!”

You weren’t the fragile girl he thought you were.

[multific]

Through Shadow and Light

Marc Spector/Steven Grant/ Jake Lockley x Reader

Summary: Marc fears love, Steven longs for it, and Jake doesn’t trust it, but you are the one who ties them all together. 

Marc had always been afraid of love.

To him, it was dangerous, something fragile, fleeting, and bound to be taken away.

Steven, on the other hand, craved it in every way.

He wanted affection, connection, a love that would last.

And Jake?

Jake didn’t trust love.

He had seen enough of the world’s cruelty to know love could be a weapon, sharpened and aimed right at the heart where it hurt the most.

But you? You were the one thing that tied them all together.

At first, they tried to keep their distance in their own ways.

Marc avoided deep conversations, keeping things casual.

Safe.

Steven wanted to open up but held himself back, afraid of being too much.

Jake lingered in the shadows, watching, waiting for the moment when everything would fall apart.

Except it never did.

It was the small things that changed them.

The way you never flinched when Marc pulled away, instead waiting patiently for him to come back.

The way you matched Steven’s excitement over the smallest things, listening to his rambles about history and mythology with genuine interest.

The way you saw Jake, not as a shadow or a threat, but as someone just as worthy of love.

One night, it all came to a head.

Marc had returned from a mission, bruised and battered, barely speaking as he locked himself in the bathroom.

You left him there for a couple minutes, giving him the space he needed before you went and knocked on the door with a gentle voice. “Marc?”

A long pause, and then the door creaked open just enough for you to see his tired eyes.

“You don’t have to talk,” you assured him. “Just let me stay.”

He exhaled slowly before opening the door wider, allowing you in.

You didn’t press, didn’t demand answers.

 You just sat beside him, your presence enough to help him when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

Then there was Jake.

He had always been the hardest to reach.

The most guarded.

But one night, after a particularly brutal mission, you caught him staring at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You’re waiting for me to leave,” you said softly.

Jake tilted his head, intrigued. “Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

He studied you for a long moment before scoffing, and shaking his head. “You should.”

“But I won’t.”

And that was that.

No grand declarations, no promises you couldn’t keep. Just a simple truth that settled deep inside him, unwilling to be ignored.

The next time he appeared, he let you touch his face, fingers ghosting over the scar on his jaw.

He didn’t flinch away.

Over time, the walls they built began to crumble.

Marc started reaching for you first, resting his forehead against yours after long nights, his way of silently asking for comfort.

Steven no longer hesitated to pull you into his arms, murmuring how much he loved you against your skin.

And Jake?

Jake no longer fought love like it was the enemy.

He let it in. He let you in.

One evening, as you lay in their arms, Marc’s fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, he spoke quietly. “You know you’re the only thing keeping us sane, right?”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I really don't do much. You give me too much credit.”

He shifted, and now Steven hummed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Maybe love isn’t so bad after all.”

And in that moment, in the quiet warmth of your embrace, they all knew, they belonged to you, and they never wanted to let go.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[heartmaddie]

“Michael?” Your voice rung out characteristically soft as your eyes fell on his exhausted body, slick with dirt and grime from a particularly gruesome day. He’s extremely exhausted, you could tell from metres away while wrapped up in thick bedsheets. “‘Something wrong?”

He didn’t respond.

With parted lips and tired eyes, you watched as calloused hands roughly tugged at his shirt, revealing his toned abdomen. Your eyes were trained on the faded scars littered throughout porcelain skin as if constellations in the sky. Your throat was hitched, but no breath let out.

The shirt fell somewhere with a thud, before he stalked towards the en suite, footsteps followed each other, and you found yourself watching him sink into the herbal bath you prepared moments ago. His body trembled underneath the warm, fragranced water.

“What’re you thinking about, liebling?” Your voice is soft, it almost cuts through the overwhelming thoughts which flood his head.

He doesn’t know how you put up with him.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, watching stray grass float around the tub, slim fingers reached out for your arm. A deep, rejuvenating sigh escaped thin lips as his eyes closed. 

He felt you massage rose-hip scented shampoo into his head, and he finally let himself relax for the first time of the day. It almost sickened him how much he adored your touch, how much he yearned for it. The serenity you left in his body grounded him.

His heart was ripped out of his chest and placed delicately into your palms, arteries and all.

To him, there was only one happiness in life, to love and to be loved. But how was one supposed to know these ecstasies if not had experienced before? Michael’s body was bruised, cracks ran through skin years ago and had settled there. Regardless, the tangible evidence of his pain was mere.

As he stepped out of the bathtub, his drenched body wrapped tightly around yours, and the small giggle which fell from pink lips melted him. He loved your laugh, each sound which danced off your tongue soothed him immensely, clearing his mind until all he could conjure was you; his happiness, his heart.

His body toppled you over and squished you against the mattress. His straight nose pushed against the skin of your neck and placed tender, almost reverent kisses against the warm skin. 

“hold me tighter.”

Somehow, he liked how your touch treated him as if he were fragile, like a vase that had been ruined a multitude of times that only you had bothered to glue back together. Pieces of him were missing now, lost in time, but regardless, your flowers still rested against the rims of china.

Nimble fingers brushed against his back, and he relaxed further into your chest. Michael wanted to melt into you, he wanted his organs to intertwine with yours and become one, he felt that you were both born from the same star, after all. 

You traced each bump and ridge which adorned his skin with love, your warmth made sugary liquids fall from azure as he buried himself deeper into you. He needed this, he needs you, more than anything. He feels you in his skin, he’ll never let you go.

You gnawed at his pain and swallowed it as if sweet chocolate drizzled on freshly picked strawberries, when his heart extinguishes, you’ll be his last and forever thought.

For the last time, your arms wrapped around him tightly, bringing your lips against his ear.

“I love you, Micha.”

He nodded, eyes shutting impossibly tight as he sponged up each syllable off your saccharine cheeks.

(thank you for understanding me)

“I love you too.”

©heartmaddie all rights reserved. please do not repost my work.

[prosypepper]

porcelain. toji f.

a/n: nsfw, angst?????? idk what this is really, just me yapping, very unhealthy boyfriend behaviors from toji, toji pushes ur buttons & makes you snap, DACRYPHILIA!!!!!, p in v. 18+ mdni.

toji's always treated you as what he calls you; a doll.

no, he's never been the type to treat anyone delicately, but then there was you.

to him, you were but a fragile flower, asking to be crushed. toji's hurt a lot of people in his life. he would never hurt you. he never reciprocates the kindness of others, usually, but he couldn't help but treat you with the same love and respect you showed him.

he knows the real you.

toji knows that even among the most precious, delicate dolls, their porcelain skin will begin to crack if you play with them too much. he understands that under your angel-like persona, there's something much darker.

he sees the abyss of emotions inside of you, when you begin to crack.

he's too rough with you on purpose. because he wants that monster inside of you to come out. to be shown to him, what you really are. and it's all for his own pleasure. just for him to break you.

he wants you to snap at him so he can treat you accordingly. and he's so happy when your tired of your buttons being pushed, in his own twisted way.

"fuck off, toji!" with a hard push to his chest was all it took to make him happy. it gave him an excuse to not treat you like a doll anymore, toss you around a little bit. make you cry.

as crazy and sick as he was, you enjoyed it even more.

not even thirty minutes after your action of defiance, he had you laid out under him, eyes glossy with tears while he slowly stuffed you with his cock. toji's lips twitched in a sadistic grin as you allowed the tears to flow, all while staring dangerously into his eyes.

"y'er gonna break my heart, doll," toji groans. "cryin' like a baby all 'cus you feel bad, aww." he's cooing and it's doing nothing but pissing you off; but the drag of his length against the soft walls of your cunt melt the anger away.

"shut up, toji," you grumble, blinking your eyes to clear them so you can get a good look of the condescending man above you.

yet as he hears your snappy words, toji rams his hips into you one good time, bouncing your soft body against the sheets of his bed. you're sure that singular stroke bruised your cervix. the sudden jolt of pleasure that courses through your body brings you to reality quickly.

please.

toji's change in demeanor towards you is slow at first. he's always been so careful. so gentle. all to not hurt you. right now, though, he needs it.

please, baby.

another particularly harsh thrust makes your eyes widen and you panic. you look into toji's eyes, but it's almost as if he isn't even there. his eyes are low, dark and filled with hunger. and anger and sadness, and pain. that same mess of emotions hidden under your sensitive shell is staring you right in the eyes. empty, like a doll.

"toji?" you squeak, earning another stab of toji's cock into your gushing cunt, "toji!"

"i'm 'ere, doll," toji says, though it seems a bit untrue, and his pace quickens too fast, right before your eyes. he's losing himself in his mind and in the feeling of how tightly you squeeze around him when you panic.

break for me. please.

he's begging.

toji can feel how badly you want it, how much you want him to lose control over you. his porcelain doll.

he knows that underneath your glass skin, you're just like him.

he knows it.

[jose996c]

Flicker of Recognition

Summery: Twenty years into the apocalypse, Joel Miller thought his soulmate was lost to the world. But a chance encounter changes everything, leading to an unexpected bond, hard-earned trust, and the hope of a life beyond survival.

Warnings: Soulmate au, apocalypse, fluff, infected, violence (gun), age-gap (reader is in her 30's), romance.

Paring: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word count: 4.4k

2023

The wind howled outside the crumbling house, whistling through broken windowpanes and cracks in the boarded-up walls. Rain tapped steadily against the glass like fingers drumming to be let in. Upstairs, in what used to be someone’s bedroom, Joel sat on the floor with his back against a sagging dresser, methodically cleaning his revolver by the light of a flickering lantern.

Across the room, Ellie lay curled in a dusty sleeping bag, thumbing through a battered comic book with pages softened from use. The silence between them was comfortable, familiar now — until Ellie broke it.

“You ever think about soulmates?”

Joel didn’t look up. “No.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, clearly expecting the answer. “C’mon. Everyone’s got one, don’t they? You’ve seen the marks. Can’t just be a coincidence.”

Joel kept working, slow and steady. The oil made his hands slick, but he didn’t mind the routine. It kept him grounded.

“Even now,” she went on, “twenty years after everything went to shit, people are still getting ‘em. I heard someone in a QZ say theirs showed up last year. Like... like the universe still cares.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. He set the revolver down with a soft clink, finally meeting her gaze.

“You had one, didn’t you?” she asked, softer now.

“I did.”

Ellie sat up a little. “What happened?”

“She didn’t make it.” His voice was even, but the words hung heavy in the air. “First day of the outbreak.”

“Oh.” Her voice was small. “I’m sorry.”

Joel gave a stiff nod. “Long time ago.”

They sat in silence after that. The fire’s glow flickered on the peeling wallpaper, dancing shadows across the walls. Ellie eventually lay back down, eyes lingering on Joel a moment longer before she returned to her comic.

Joel picked up his revolver again, but his hands didn’t move. He just stared at it, fingers curling around the grip like it was something fragile.

In the quiet of the room, with only rain and memory for company, he thought of the mark on his skin — the one that never faded, no matter how much time passed. A cruel little reminder etched into him like a promise the world had broken.

She’s gone, he told himself. Even if she’s not, it’s too late now. Ain’t room for hope in a world like this.

Still, something deep inside him stirred — a flicker of warmth, too faint to name and too stubborn to die.

The town was one of those nameless places you could drive through in five minutes back when the world still worked. Now it sat hollowed out, its main street buried under overgrowth and broken glass. Joel led the way with quiet caution, rifle tight in his grip, boots silent on the cracked pavement. Ellie followed just behind, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered. “Like everyone left all at once.”

Joel didn’t answer. He’d felt it too — the odd stillness, the lingering trace of people long gone.

But as they passed a narrow alley, something tugged at his gut. A house at the far end caught his eye. There was nothing particularly strange about it — two stories, faded paint, porch half-collapsed — but something about it made the air feel heavier.

He paused.

“You alright?” Ellie asked, craning her neck to see what he was staring at.

“Yeah,” he said, but it wasn’t convincing. His fingers twitched at his side, just above where his soulmate mark hid beneath layers of worn fabric. It hadn’t bothered him in years. Not since he’d stopped checking it. Not since he’d given up.

Still, the feeling sat there — not pain, not warmth, just a quiet ache. Something… familiar.

Joel shook it off. “Come on. Let’s clear that house.”

They approached carefully. The door was slightly open, the frame sagging. Joel nudged it wider with the barrel of his rifle and stepped inside, sweeping the entryway with practiced ease. The place smelled faintly of smoke and stale food. Blankets were spread out in the living room — fresh, not rotted. A can of beans, half-eaten, sat on the floor beside a small pack. Someone had been here recently.

He held up a hand to signal Ellie to stay close.

Then—

Bang.

The shot rang out like a thunderclap.

Joel ducked and rolled behind the couch just as the bullet splintered the wood beside him. Ellie screamed, dropping flat. The shooter cursed — a woman’s voice — followed by the unmistakable click of a jammed weapon.

“Shit!”

A second later, a figure burst from the hallway — fast, silent, and deadly. She launched herself at Joel before he could react, tackling him back against the ground. He caught the flash of her eyes, wild and terrified. Her hands scrabbled for the gun at his hip, but he was quicker. He flipped her, pinning her down, his own weapon pressed to her temple.

“Don’t move,” he growled.

Her chest heaved beneath him. But she didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just froze.

Joel didn’t pull the trigger.

Something stopped him — a flicker deep under his skin, crawling up his spine, settling somewhere just behind his ribs.

Heat bloomed beneath his sleeve. A strange, slow pulse beat in his arm, not painful, just... there. The kind of sensation you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to. Familiar in a way that made no sense.

He looked at her. Really looked.

And then everything stilled.

The breath left his lungs in a slow, quiet exhale. The world, for half a second, fell away — the broken walls, the storm outside, the sound of Ellie’s frantic movements — all of it gone.

She stared up at him, eyes wide, lips parted like she was on the edge of remembering something too old, too deep, to put into words.

A spark passed between them — something wordless, undeniable.

Recognition.

Not of her face. Not her voice.

Of something else.

Something older than either of them.

Joel’s grip loosened, just slightly. His hand stayed on the gun, but he didn’t press it tighter. He couldn’t. Not when every cell in his body was suddenly pulling toward the woman beneath him.

A breath caught in her throat. Her eyes flicked down — not to the gun, but to the spot on his arm where her own mark must’ve started to burn, too.

Neither of them moved.

But they knew.

And then the sound hit them: the distant scream of the infected.

A horde. Close. Getting closer.

Joel snapped into motion. He grabbed the woman’s hand and yanked her up, already shouting, “Ellie!”

“I’m here!” Ellie called from behind the kitchen counter, crouched low.

The woman pulled away from Joel’s grip, sprinted past him to Ellie, and hauled the girl toward the stairs.

“There’s a cellar door out back!” she shouted. “This way!”

Joel fired at the front window, taking down a runner that smashed through the glass. More were coming. Too many.

He backed toward the rear exit, bullets flying, but they were swarming the front now — fast and screeching, jaws snapping.

By the time his clip emptied, the woman was shouting again.

“In here!”

She was holding open the narrow door to a shed in the overgrown backyard. Joel sprinted across the grass, shoved the door shut behind him, and slammed the bolt into place just as fists began pounding on the outside.

Then — silence.

The pounding of their hearts. Their breathing. Nothing else.

They stood there in the dark, just shadows in the flicker of Joel’s dying flashlight. Rain pelted the tin roof above them.

And the mark on Joel’s arm still burned.

It was pitch black, save for the thin beam of Joel’s flashlight trembling in his grip. Rain pelted the tin roof in a steady rhythm, a wild contrast to the stillness that had fallen between them.

Ellie was hunched in the corner, wide-eyed and panting. She didn’t speak — maybe sensing that whatever just happened between the two adults had nothing to do with her. Or maybe she was just too winded to ask questions.

Joel didn’t look at her.

He couldn’t look at anything except her.

The woman he’d just fought, disarmed, nearly killed — had touched something ancient in him that hadn’t stirred in decades. She stood against the opposite wall, barely a few feet away, one hand braced on the rough wood like she was steadying herself against gravity.

Her eyes met his.

Neither of them said a word.

Joel felt it again — the hum beneath his skin, a pull in his chest like his body had realigned itself without asking permission. The mark on his arm was quiet now, but it buzzed faintly, like a distant signal trying to come back into range.

She reached up, slowly, and touched her own arm — the spot where her mark must’ve been burning just like his. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t need to.

Her gaze never left his.

And Joel — a man who’d spent the last twenty years learning how to bury things so deep they couldn’t claw their way out — felt something raw begin to surface.

Not joy. Not yet.

Just recognition.

The kind that made his chest tighten and his throat ache. The kind that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff you thought had collapsed years ago, only to find the ground still there.

Her lips parted slightly. Not to speak. Just… breathing. Still trying to catch up.

So was he.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

The only sound was the rain.

Then Ellie coughed — sharp and awkward — and both of them flinched like the spell had been broken.

Joel turned his flashlight toward her, casting their shadows across the warped walls. The silence was back, but it felt heavier now. Different.

No one spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Ellie sank down against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest. She looked between them, brows furrowed, but said nothing. Maybe she didn’t understand. Maybe she understood too much.

Joel stayed standing, arms heavy at his sides. The woman did the same, shoulders still tense, like her body hadn’t caught up with what her soul already knew.

He wanted to say something. Ask her name. Ask if this was real. Ask if she felt it too — if this meant something anymore, in a world where so much had already been lost.

But the words didn’t come.

So instead, he looked at her the way he hadn’t let himself look at anyone in years.

Like maybe — just maybe — there was still something left to hope for.

The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time the pounding on the shed stopped. The infected were gone — for now. But the silence left in their wake wasn’t peaceful. It hung too heavy, like the kind that only followed something life-altering.

Ellie had dozed off in the corner, arms wrapped around her backpack like a shield. Her breathing had slowed. Even in sleep, she looked wary.

Joel stayed seated on a broken crate near the far wall, elbows on his knees, head low. His fingers toyed with the edge of his sleeve, thumb brushing over the spot where the mark was still pulsing faintly beneath his skin.

He glanced up at her again.

She stood by the door now, arms crossed tightly over her chest, like she needed to hold herself together. Her clothes were damp from the sprint. Mud streaked her jeans. A strand of hair stuck to her cheek.

She hadn’t looked away from him in minutes.

Joel rose slowly, careful not to wake Ellie.

He didn’t speak — he didn’t trust his voice to come out steady — and neither did she. It was like they were still afraid that if they acknowledged it, said it aloud, it might all fall apart.

He stepped closer.

She didn’t back away.

In another life, maybe he would’ve smiled. Teased. Said something charming and low like “Took you long enough.” But there was no room for that here. No time for games. Not when everything in his chest felt cracked wide open just from standing this close to her.

She looked up at him, eyes searching his face like she was trying to memorize it.

He reached out, tentative at first, and gently tucked that damp strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught. She tilted her head slightly — not pulling away, not moving closer either. Just waiting.

Joel’s hand lingered against her cheek, rough fingers brushing over soft skin. She closed her eyes for a moment — just a second — and in that second, something passed between them again. That silent promise. That recognition that no words could explain.

He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the warmth of him.

Her lips parted — not in surprise, but in surrender.

Their foreheads brushed, and his other hand ghosted up her arm, steady and slow. She didn’t move away.

They were close now — breath to breath, heart to heart — and he swore he could feel her heartbeat syncing with his.

Then—

“Uh—hey.”

Joel flinched back just as Ellie’s voice cut through the thick air like a blade.

She stood in the doorway, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “but I think we should probably get moving. Don’t wanna stick around if those things come back.”

Joel stepped back immediately, clearing his throat, avoiding the woman’s eyes as he muttered, “Yeah. Right. Let’s go.”

She didn’t say anything either — just nodded once, that same dazed expression still lingering on her face as she brushed past him and followed Ellie out into the wet grass.

Joel stayed behind a moment longer.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaled hard, and looked back at the door she’d just walked through.

He’d spent twenty years thinking that mark on his arm would never mean anything.

Now?

He wasn’t sure if that terrified him more than the infected.

The forest had swallowed the road hours ago.

What was once cracked asphalt had long since given way to a narrow trail swallowed in vines and damp leaves. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy, humid with the promise of more. Tree branches creaked above them, the wind threading through like whispers they couldn't quite understand.

Joel led the way, as always, eyes sweeping the woods, shoulders stiff. Ellie walked just behind him, dragging a stick along the dirt. The woman — her — brought up the rear, silent save for the occasional crunch of twigs beneath her boots.

No one spoke much.

Joel had tried once, earlier that morning, to ask if she had a name. The words had caught in his throat, and when she glanced at him over the firelight with that same look — soft and unsure and far too knowing — he dropped it.

Now, in the shifting green of the woods, he caught her in the corner of his vision sometimes. Just a flicker. Just enough to make his pulse jump.

He kept walking.

Ellie broke the silence first.

“So… do you two know each other or something?”

Joel didn’t turn around. “No.”

She glanced back. “Really? 'Cause you were gonna kiss her in that shed like, a lot.”

Joel let out a long breath through his nose. “Ellie…”

“I’m just saying.” Her grin was practically audible.

The woman said nothing, but Joel heard her laugh — soft, under her breath. Almost like she didn’t mean to let it slip. It was the first sound she’d made all day.

Joel’s heart did something uncomfortable in his chest.

They reached the edge of a field not long after, where the trees thinned out into golden grass and low ruins of what must’ve once been a farmhouse. The sun was just starting to dip behind the tree line.

He stopped and scanned the horizon. “We’ll set up camp ahead. Get off the trail a bit.”

Ellie groaned but didn’t argue. She kept walking, boots kicking up dust, until she disappeared behind a cluster of overgrown fence posts.

Joel lingered.

The woman came up beside him slowly, adjusting the strap of her pack.

He didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t move away, either.

For a few moments, they stood there, quiet — not in silence like before, but something softer. Like maybe the worst of it had already passed. Like maybe they were both still trying to make sense of it all.

He turned, just barely, and finally looked at her.

She looked tired. Guarded. But her eyes didn’t hold the same kind of sharpness as they had back in that house. It had shifted into something else now.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

She gave a faint smile, like she understood what he wanted to say and was choosing — just for now — not to make him say it.

Joel nodded.

They walked after Ellie, a little closer than before.

The fire crackled low in the pit — a modest flame, more ember than blaze. Joel had kept it that way on purpose. Too much light drew eyes.

Ellie was curled up on the far side of the fire, using her backpack as a pillow. Her breathing had gone slow, steady. Asleep. Again. The girl could crash anywhere.

Joel sat with his back to a log, elbows on his knees, watching the fire chew through the last of the kindling. His rifle lay within arm’s reach. Old habit. Necessary habit.

She was across from him.

Again.

The woman — his… soulmate, he guessed — hadn’t spoken much since they'd made camp. She’d helped gather wood. Helped cook. Laughed once when Ellie told a story about a “super infected” that turned out to be a deer she’d startled. But mostly… quiet.

Joel glanced at her now, across the glow of the coals.

She was watching the fire, arms tucked around her legs, chin resting on one knee. Tired, but not in a physical way. The kind of tired that settled into your bones and stayed there.

He cleared his throat. “You doin’ alright?”

She looked up, surprised he’d broken the silence. Then gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Joel didn’t push for more. He just watched her. In the dark like this, with the light flickering across her face, it was harder to keep the distance he'd been forcing all day. Harder to pretend that this — whatever was happening between them — wasn’t real.

He shifted, voice quieter. “Back there… in the house. That mark. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t look away either.

That was answer enough.

Joel let out a slow breath and looked back into the fire. “I stopped hopin’ a long time ago,” he admitted, the words like gravel in his throat. “Figured… she died. Whoever she was. World’s gone to hell. Didn’t think I’d ever know.”

She didn’t respond with words. Just moved — slowly — to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

Joel’s heart picked up. He didn’t pull away.

Her presence wasn’t loud. Wasn’t demanding. It just was. Solid. Familiar in a way he didn’t understand but couldn’t question.

They sat like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, not talking.

Then — maybe without meaning to — she leaned in a little, her head lightly brushing his shoulder. Joel froze, but didn’t move. After a second, he relaxed into it. Let it happen.

The fire popped softly.

And in that moment, Joel turned his head — just a little — enough to look at her.

She tilted her face up toward him.

Their eyes met. Neither of them smiled.

There was something too heavy, too old, about the feeling between them. Like grief and relief tangled together, impossible to pull apart.

Joel lifted his hand slowly, gently cupping her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone. Her breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before opening again — like she needed to make sure this was real.

He leaned in, slowly — slow enough to give her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

Their lips met — tentative at first, like they were afraid of breaking something fragile. Her hand came up, fingers resting lightly over the front of his shirt, anchoring herself there. His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her in closer.

The kiss deepened — not hurried, not desperate.

Just real.

Soft.

Grounding.

Like two people who had been starving for something they couldn’t name, and had finally, finally found it.

When they pulled apart, it wasn’t abrupt. It was slow — lips brushing, foreheads leaning together, both of them breathing a little heavier, a little steadier.

Joel kept his hand at her neck, thumb stroking gently over her skin.

“I guess this means it’s real,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer, but her eyes were soft when she looked at him again. And she kissed him one more time — smaller, briefer. Just because she could.

They sat like that for a while.

The fire popped softly beside them, and the night stretched quiet around their little circle of warmth. Neither of them knew what tomorrow would look like.

But for tonight, at least — they weren’t alone anymore.

2026

Snow blanketed the streets of Jackson, soft and slow, the kind that hushed the world and made everything feel still. Smoke drifted from chimneys. The clatter of boots on wooden porches echoed gently through the town. A dog barked once, then quieted.

Joel leaned against the wooden railing outside their porch, mug of coffee steaming between his hands. He watched a pair of kids run past on the street below, bundled in layers too big for them, shrieking as they tossed clumps of snow back and forth.

He didn’t smile, not really — but the tension in his shoulders had gone somewhere in the past few months, and it hadn’t come back.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t turn.

“I told you it’s too cold for that porch,” came her voice, a little hoarse from sleep.

Joel glanced sideways as she stepped up beside him, blanket draped over her shoulders, hands tucked around her own mug. Her hair was mussed, cheeks pink from the warmth of the house behind them. She looked at him like someone who’d done this exact morning a hundred times before — and wanted a hundred more.

“It’s not that cold,” he said, sipping his coffee.

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been out here twenty minutes.”

He didn’t argue. Just glanced at her again, slower this time. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

“You never do,” she murmured, voice softer now.

The silence settled comfortably between them. No pressure. No need to fill it.

It was strange, Joel thought, how easily this had become normal — she had become normal. The shared house. The shared mornings. The way he could reach out and touch her hand and not flinch from it. The way her presence didn’t set him on edge but settled something deep inside him.

This wasn’t the firelight, adrenaline-heavy intimacy from a year ago. This was steadier. Quieter. Something earned.

He looked back at the street.

“We’re patrolling east tomorrow,” he said after a minute. “Up past the sawmill.”

She nodded. “I’ll pack tonight.”

There was a pause, then she bumped her shoulder gently into his. “You and me?”

He nodded. “You and me.”

Her hand slipped into his then, ungloved and cold, but he didn’t let go. Just held it there, rough calluses and all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for them now—it was.

The woods stretched out quiet beneath a gray sky, branches heavy with melting snow. Patches of brown earth peeked through where the sun had gotten bold enough to push through the clouds.

Joel moved ahead, boots crunching softly in the underbrush, rifle slung across his back. She followed close behind, eyes scanning the tree line, her own weapon resting easy in her grip. They didn’t talk much — didn’t need to.

They had the kind of rhythm you can’t fake. One glance, one shift of weight, and they knew what the other was thinking.

It was the kind of patrol Tommy liked to send them on — mid-range, low risk, just a sweep past the outer farms and along the ridge above the river. Still, the silence of the woods never fully lost its edge. You could go months without seeing a Runner, and then suddenly you’d be surrounded.

Joel stopped at a bend in the trail, holding up a hand. She stilled instantly, scanning the bush. A distant rustle. A bird, maybe — or not.

Joel moved slow, crouching by a fallen log. He brushed aside a bit of snow and dirt, revealing a smeared boot print, half-frozen, deep.

Not one of theirs.

He looked up. She was already beside him, crouched low.

“Recent?” she asked quietly.

“Could be,” Joel muttered. “Too heavy for Ellie. Might be one of the new kids… or someone passing through.”

She frowned. “Could be worse.”

They both knew what worse meant.

Joel stood slowly, eyes on the treeline. The woods stayed still.

“You take the left,” he said. “I’ll swing wide, loop back.”

She nodded. “Don’t get distracted.”

He gave her a look, deadpan. “Only thing distractin’ me out here is you.”

Her smile was quick, crooked. She nudged him once before disappearing into the brush like she’d done it a hundred times before — because she had.

The patrol went quiet again after that. They circled wide, careful, methodical. No fresh signs of infected, no sound beyond the wind and the distant call of crows. Eventually, they met again near the stream, the water running shallow and dark between the rocks.

She knelt, splashing a bit of the cold water over her face, pushing her hair back.

“Clear,” she said.

Joel nodded, but his eyes stayed on her for a second too long.

She noticed. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“You always stare at me like that when there’s nothing?”

Joel stepped closer, letting his rifle rest against his shoulder. “Just thinkin’. A year ago, I didn’t think I’d ever have this again. Peace. A partner... Someone who’s got my back, and who I can trust with mine.”

She stood, brushing snow from her knees. “You do now.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her, steady and warm in the cold.

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek — barely there. Just enough.

He caught her hand before she pulled away.

“Let’s get home,” he said softly.

And together, they turned back toward the path.

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[lay-z]

Simon Riley wants to eat you alive.

Everyone privileged enough to be considered close to him, knows that Simon Riley has the biggest sweet tooth.

He eats his dessert first if he feels like it which is most of the time and would rather munch on a box of Belgian pralines than scoff down a more nourishing MRE in the field.

He doesn't have a favourite. Creamy chocolates and toffees, fruity hard candies, succulent cakes and biscuits, hell even salted licorice if he's particularly desperate.

The man has been claimed dead one too many times in his wretched life at this point, so why should he bloody care about something silly like his sugar intake. If he sees something sweet, he will simply lift his mask high enough to stuff his ugly gob full with a whole cupcake in one obscene bite before hiding behind the cloth again, wiping the frosting off his gloves on the dirty ground or even his fatigues carelessly.

No one ever dares to comment on the strange sticky stains on his gear; the smudged pinks, and whites, and browns. When Johnny called him gross once, he ended up with a nasty bruise on his cheekbone and a better understanding of his Lieutenant's sugar addiction.

However, the craving stays and festers in his gut like an insatiable hole that's been carved into his battered body, and no piece of cake nor chocolate can begin to sate his hunger for something soft and sweet to sink his crooked teeth into.

It's no surprise then, when Simon notices you one fateful day; sniffs you out, because he easily catches your scent as you walk past him with your gaze straight ahead, and he knows the sour bitterness that seems to be oozing out of your pores all too well.

It's such a feeble attempt of yours at keeping your own mask in place; hiding behind thick layers of pessimism and sarcasm, dark humor, and feigned indifference, although it only makes Simon's mouth water even more as he knows exactly what you're hiding behind your poorly crafted walls.

Because next to his sweet tooth, he's also a bloody masochist loves feeling his cold heart thumb with something akin to feelings whenever you reject his clumsy advances. You've somehow gotten under his skin in a way that no one dared to even try before and Simon is ready to rip his mask off and tear down his own walls to make you understand, make you see that he's just the same, just as starved for something real and longlasting.

"You can stop with tha' whole," he makes a vague gesture with his gloved mammoth hand at you, "attitude shite around me now, luv. Not gonna work, ya know."

Again, you simply roll your eyes, clicking your tongue in exasperation as you avert your gaze from him with a frown, but Simon catches the flush creeping up your neck, warming your cheeks right up at his unyielding attention. So stubborn, just like him.

"Can't you go bother someone else?" you huff quietly, though he knows you don't mean it. "Bloody nutter." None of it.

And Simon, not Ghost, has finally found a new purpose in his life.

Hidden deep, deep down inside you, there's the softest and sweetest gooey core, and he is more than determined to peel away every thick layer like colorful candy wrapper all the colors already a warning in itself, one he shall too ignore until your fragile little heart is exposed, completely bared to him, so he can finally indulge, and lay his burning claim.

Oh, but little does he know you've been starving and denying yourself anything sweet for years as well, and perhaps, now that he gave you a taste of what you too been yearning for, you turn out worse than Simon himself.

Okay, I actually might turn this into a longer oneshot. Also, Simon would definitely save your name as Truffle<3 in his contacts :) @bloodytalefeathers 🤍

[little-jana]

- 5 times you ask Hotch to touch you and the 1 time he asks to be held -

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

Genre: fluff, some angst (not between them)

Warnings: case talk, injuries during a case, blood mentioned, insecurities, crying, needing comfort, kissing, happy ending

1. "Can you hold my hand?"

The first time you asked him to touch you, it felt like a lifeline — a fragile tether keeping you from falling into the darkness that had begun to creep in. You were both walking out of the interrogation room, the air still charged with the tension left behind. The unsub had been particularly vile, his words slicing through your defenses like a blade. You had held your composure in the room — you always did — but now, with the door closed and the weight of the case pressing on your chest, the cracks were starting to show.

You could still hear the unsub’s voice in your head, the way he had spoken about his victims as though they were nothing more than objects. Your hands trembled as you clenched them into fists, trying to push away the nausea rising in your throat.

Aaron walked beside you in silence, his presence calm and steady, as it always was. You envied his ability to compartmentalize, to walk away from horrors like this without letting them leave a mark. But as you glanced up at him, you caught the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed just a little more rigid than usual. He felt it too — he just hid it better.

“Are you okay?” His voice broke through your thoughts, low and grounding.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t respond right away, his sharp eyes flicking down to your hands, which you had unconsciously begun rubbing together in a futile attempt to steady them.

“No,” he said quietly but firmly. “You’re not.”

Your instinct was to deny it again, to brush off his concern and pretend you had everything under control. But the words died in your throat as the tremors in your hands grew worse. Without thinking, you reached out toward him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you hold my hand? Just… just for a second.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand slid into yours, warm and solid, his fingers wrapping around yours with a strength that was both gentle and grounding. The world seemed to tilt back into place as his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, reassuring motion.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his deep voice steady and unwavering. “I’ve got you.”

You stared at where your hands were joined, the contrast between your smaller, trembling fingers and his strong, steady grip. A lump formed in your throat, and you took a shaky breath, the trembling beginning to subside as the warmth of his hand anchored you.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t let go right away. His thumb continued its gentle path along your skin, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t rushing you, that he was there for as long as you needed.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice soft but firm, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket.

For the first time in a long time, you felt the truth of those words sink in. And for the first time, you let yourself believe him.

2. "Will you help me up?"

The chase had been brutal. It was the kind of pursuit that left no room for hesitation, no time to think beyond the thundering of your heart and the pounding of your boots against the forest floor. The unsub was fast, darting between the trees with the desperation of a cornered animal. You were faster, but the uneven terrain was unforgiving, and your focus was split between keeping your eyes on him and avoiding the roots and rocks scattered across the ground.

You didn’t see the root until it was too late. Your foot caught on it, and you went down hard, the impact jolting through your body as your ankle twisted beneath you.

“Damn it,” you hissed, trying to push yourself up. But when you shifted your weight onto your injured ankle, a sharp, searing pain shot through you, forcing you back onto the ground.

The sound of footsteps brought you back to the present, and you looked up to see Aaron sprinting toward you. His gun was drawn, his eyes scanning the trees even as he made a beeline for you.

“Are you hurt?” he asked as he dropped to his knees beside you, his voice calm but edged with urgency.

“It’s nothing,” you said through gritted teeth, waving him off. “I just need to get up—”

“Stop,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced you. He was already reaching for your ankle, his hands sure and gentle as he assessed the injury.

“It’s sprained,” he said after a moment, his brow furrowed. “You’re not walking on this.”

“I can manage,” you insisted, even as the pain made your vision blur. “Just help me up—”

“No,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.

Before you could protest further, he moved with a decisiveness that left you momentarily stunned. Sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back, he lifted you off the ground as though you weighed nothing.

“Hotch—”

“Don’t argue,” he said, his tone softening just enough to take the sting out of his words. “You’re hurt, and I’m not letting you make it worse.”

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks as you realized how close you were to him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for balance. His chest was solid beneath you, his heartbeat steady and strong, a grounding rhythm against the chaos of your own.

“I can walk,” you mumbled, though your voice lacked conviction.

“You don’t have to,” he said simply, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you back toward the team.

The words hung between you, their weight sinking into your chest. For once, you didn’t argue. Instead, you allowed yourself to lean into him, your head resting lightly against his shoulder as his arms held you secure.

And for the first time, you felt what it meant to truly let someone else carry the weight for you.

3. "Can you hug me?"

The case had been devastating. Cases involving children were always the hardest, but this one had left a particularly deep scar. The unsub, a man who had systematically targeted families, had shown no remorse — if anything, he seemed to revel in the pain he caused. Even though the team had caught him, the damage was done. A family was gone, ripped apart, and no amount of justice would bring them back.

The jet ride back was suffocating. Everyone was quiet, the weight of the case pressing down on the cabin like a physical presence. You sat by the window, staring out at the night sky as the clouds blurred past. Your stomach churned, and your throat felt tight, but you held it together. You always did.

When the jet landed, you lingered behind as the others disembarked. The thought of going home to an empty apartment, sitting alone in the silence, was unbearable. You told yourself you just needed a moment to collect yourself, but the truth was you felt stuck, unable to move or breathe properly.

“Are you alright?” Aaron’s voice cut through the quiet, startling you.

You turned to see him standing near the doorway, his expression calm but his dark eyes watching you closely. You hadn’t realized he’d stayed behind too.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, the lie slipping out without hesitation.

He didn’t move, didn’t look away. His silence stretched, unspoken but understanding, and suddenly you felt exposed. The walls you’d so carefully built over the years began to crack under the weight of his steady gaze.

“I’m just… tired,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brows drew together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you want me to stay?”

You shook your head quickly, embarrassed by the question and the vulnerability it implied. “No, I’m fine. I just need to—”

You stopped, the words catching in your throat as the ache in your chest grew unbearable. You looked down at your hands, clenching and unclenching them in your lap as you tried to find something to hold onto.

Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Can you hug me?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and raw. You didn’t dare look up at him, afraid of what you might see.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, you heard the soft rustle of his jacket as he crossed the space between you.

“Come here,” he said gently, his voice low and steady.

You looked up, and before you could second-guess yourself, he was pulling you into his arms. His embrace was warm and firm, his hands resting on your back as he held you close. You buried your face in his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

His hand moved in slow, soothing circles on your back, and the knot in your chest began to loosen. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt the wetness on his shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he held you tighter, as though he could physically hold you together while you fell apart.

For what felt like the first time in forever, you let yourself lean on someone else. And in his arms, the weight of the case, of everything, didn’t feel quite so crushing.

4. "Can you just stay with me?"

The motel room was small and unremarkable, its beige walls and faded floral bedspread screaming mediocrity. The case had taken its toll on everyone, and you could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your chest as you stepped out of the shower, toweling your hair dry. Your limbs were heavy, your mind foggy, but you couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest — the remnants of a particularly brutal day on the job.

You’d seen it before: the aftermath of people’s worst moments. But this case was different. It had crept under your skin, latched onto your soul, and refused to let go. The faces of the victims lingered behind your closed eyes, and no matter how many deep breaths you took, you couldn’t shake the suffocating weight.

When a soft knock came at your door, you startled slightly, pulling the towel tighter around you before calling out, “One second!” You scrambled to throw on a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, padding barefoot across the cheap carpet to open the door.

Aaron stood on the other side, his presence grounding and commanding even in the dim light of the hallway. He looked as tired as you felt, his tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled up. There was a faint crease between his brows, one you recognized as his default expression when something was troubling him.

“Hotch,” you said, surprised. “Is everything okay?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his dark eyes scanning your face as though searching for something. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and careful.

“I saw your light was still on,” he said. “I just wanted to check on you.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them wasn’t lost on you. He wasn’t just checking in as your boss or your team leader. This was personal — a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of the fact that he could see the same weariness in you that he felt in himself.

You stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come in.”

He hesitated for only a second before stepping into the room, his presence filling the small space. He moved toward the lone chair by the window, sitting down with a quiet sigh as he leaned back, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“You don’t have to check on me, you know,” you said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m okay.”

He gave you a pointed look, one that said he didn’t believe you for a second. “You’re not okay,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Guess I’m not hiding it very well.”

“You’ve had a hard day,” he said. “We all have. It’s okay to not be okay.”

Something about the way he said it — so calm, so matter-of-fact — caused the knot in your chest to loosen ever so slightly. You looked down at your hands, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“I can’t stop seeing their faces,” you admitted quietly. “Every time I close my eyes… it’s just there. And it feels like no matter what we do, it’s never enough. We can’t save everyone.”

There was a long pause, and when you looked up, Aaron was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“No,” he said softly. “We can’t save everyone. But we saved someone today. And that matters.”

His words were meant to be comforting, but they only brought the sting of tears closer to the surface. You swallowed hard, blinking quickly to keep them at bay.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “How you keep going, case after case, loss after loss.”

He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together. “Because I have to,” he said simply. “Because if I stop, if I let it get to me… then it wins. And I can’t let that happen.”

There was a rawness to his voice that you rarely heard, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show. It was a side of him that reminded you he wasn’t just your leader — he was human, just like the rest of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence in the room was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a shared understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight you both carried.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can you just stay with me?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and tentative. For a heartbeat, you thought he might say no, that he might retreat behind his walls and insist on maintaining the professional distance he was so careful to preserve.

But then he nodded, his eyes softening as he stood from the chair. “Of course,” he said quietly.

He crossed the room and sat down beside you on the bed, his presence warm and solid beside you. For a moment, you didn’t move, unsure of how to close the distance between you. But then his hand came to rest on your back, his touch gentle and reassuring, and the tension in your shoulders melted away.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder as his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His hand moved in slow, soothing circles against your back, and you felt yourself relax for the first time all day.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “I’m here. Always.”

The quiet conviction in his voice sent a warmth spreading through your chest, and for the first time that day, the suffocating weight began to lift.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, wrapped in his embrace. The minutes blurred together, the world outside fading into insignificance as you let yourself lean on him, let yourself draw strength from his presence.

And when you finally closed your eyes, the faces of the victims were no longer the first thing you saw. Instead, it was Aaron’s face, his quiet strength and unwavering support a balm to your weary soul.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but in that moment, you knew you weren’t alone. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

5. "Can you hold me?"

The house was silent now, eerily still in the aftermath of chaos. The team had already left, but you and Aaron remained behind to tie up loose ends — packing evidence, reviewing case notes, and ensuring the crime scene was left intact for the local authorities. The work was necessary, methodical, but it felt like moving through molasses. The weight of the case clung to you, thick and suffocating.

You stood in the unsub's living room, staring at the remnants of his twisted life. The photos on the walls, the personal items strewn across the floor, all told a story of pain and control. You’d seen scenes like this before, but tonight, it felt like too much. The air felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were pressing down on you.

Behind you, Aaron’s steady presence filled the room. You could hear the soft rustle of his coat as he moved closer, the faint creak of the floorboards under his weight. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his gaze on you, warm and steady like the sun breaking through clouds.

“You should sit down,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though the tightness in your voice betrayed the lie.

Aaron stepped closer, his footsteps deliberate. “You’ve been standing there for ten minutes,” he pointed out, his tone carrying a gentle note of concern. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

His words hit harder than you expected, and your throat tightened. You shook your head, trying to keep it together, but the weight of everything — the victims, their families, the endless parade of darkness — pressed down on you like a tidal wave.

“I’m just tired,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tired of seeing all this pain, all this... evil. Sometimes it feels like no matter what we do, it’s never enough.”

Aaron didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stepped closer until he was standing right beside you. The warmth of his presence was grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“It’s not easy,” he said finally, his voice soft but steady. “But you’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone in this.”

The sincerity in his voice broke something inside you. You turned to face him, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t feel strong right now,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I feel... lost.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours as though trying to find the right words. Finally, he reached out, his hand brushing your arm in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache.

“You’re not lost,” he said quietly. “You’re here. You’re standing. And that’s enough.”

The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, and you quickly swiped at them, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” he interrupted gently. “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me.”

His words were a balm to your frayed nerves, and before you could second-guess yourself, you asked, “Can you hold me?” The words came out soft, almost hesitant, but they hung in the air between you like a plea.

For a moment, Aaron hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was Aaron Hotchner — measured, thoughtful, always careful with the boundaries he set. But then his expression shifted, and without a word, he stepped closer and opened his arms.

You didn’t hesitate. You stepped into his embrace, your hands clutching the fabric of his jacket as his arms wrapped around you. The world seemed to fall away as he held you, his touch firm and steady, as though he was anchoring you to the earth.

His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and his hand moved in slow, soothing circles against your back. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

The floodgates opened then, and you let yourself cry. Not the quiet, restrained tears you’d been holding back, but the deep, gut-wrenching sobs that came from the core of your being. And through it all, Aaron didn’t let go. He held you as though his only purpose in that moment was to keep you from falling apart.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his breath warm against your hair. “Let it out. I’m here.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, wrapped in his arms, but time seemed to lose all meaning. Slowly, the sobs began to subside, and your breathing evened out. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, but his hands remained on your arms, grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, though this time your voice was steadier. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”

Aaron shook his head, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You don’t have to apologize for being human,” he said firmly. “You carry so much, and sometimes it’s too much. That’s why we’re a team. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The warmth in his voice, the unshakable conviction in his words, made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with sadness. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a small nod, his hands still resting on your arms. “Anytime.”

The moment stretched between you, heavy with unspoken emotions. You wanted to tell him how much his support meant to you, how much he meant to you, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you leaned into his embrace once more, resting your head against his chest. He didn’t hesitate to hold you again, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the darkness.

And in that moment, you felt lighter. Not because the weight of the world had disappeared, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. Aaron was there, solid and steady, and as his heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, you realized something important: with him by your side, you could face anything.

+1. "Can you hold me?"

It was late. The office was shrouded in shadows, the hum of the building’s air conditioning the only sound cutting through the silence. You’d expected the bullpen to be empty when you arrived, yet the faint glow spilling from Aaron’s office told you otherwise. You weren’t surprised — late nights like this had become the norm for him, his relentless dedication often bordering on self-punishment.

You pushed the door open softly, peeking inside to find him sitting at his desk. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair, his tie loosened, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Papers were scattered across his desk, though it was clear from the distant look in his eyes that he hadn’t been reading them. He was staring blankly at his hands, his brow furrowed, the weight of something heavy pressing down on him.

“Hotch,” you said gently, stepping inside.

His head snapped up, his dark eyes meeting yours. He looked exhausted — not just physically, but emotionally, the kind of weariness that ran bone-deep.

“You should go home,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, though it lacked the sharpness you were used to hearing from him.

“So should you,” you replied, stepping closer to his desk.

He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the desk as his fingers traced aimless patterns on the surface. There was a vulnerability about him that you rarely saw, a crack in the unshakable armor he always wore.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, concern threading through your voice.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He seemed to wrestle with himself, his jaw tightening as though he were trying to force the words down. But then he looked up at you, his eyes dark and filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Can you hold me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The vulnerability in his words hit you like a punch to the chest. Aaron Hotchner, the stoic, unshakable leader who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, was asking you for something so raw, so human.

You didn’t hesitate. Closing the distance between you, you reached out and pulled him into your arms. He came willingly, almost collapsing into you as his head dipped to rest against your shoulder. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his grip desperate, as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word. You simply held him, your fingers threading gently through his hair as he buried his face against your neck. His breathing was uneven, the tension in his body radiating off him in waves.

“It’s okay,” you murmured softly, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His hands tightened on your back, and you felt him exhale, a shuddering breath that seemed to carry with it the weight of everything he’d been holding in. You had always known Aaron carried more than he let on — the responsibility of the team, the guilt of the lives he couldn’t save, the endless burden of being the one everyone else relied on. But in this moment, he let himself lean on you, his walls crumbling in your arms.

“I don’t…” he began, his voice muffled against your shoulder. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his brow furrowed, his expression pained. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let someone else—”

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” you said, cutting him off gently. You brought a hand to his face, your fingers brushing against the stubble on his jaw. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Aaron. Let me help you. Let me be there for you.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his walls. But then something shifted in his expression, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned into your touch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Before you could respond, his hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. The intimacy of the gesture sent a warmth spreading through your chest, and you felt yourself leaning into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

When you opened them, he was watching you with an intensity that stole your breath. His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.

“Aaron,” you whispered, his name barely audible.

He closed the distance between you in an instant, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. His hands framed your face, his touch reverent as though he were afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your heart pounded in your chest. There was no hesitation, no holding back — just the raw, unspoken emotion that had been building between you for so long finally spilling over.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together as the world slowly came back into focus. His hands remained on your face, his thumbs brushing gently against your skin as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said again, your voice soft but firm.

For the first time, you saw the tension in his face ease, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I know,” he said quietly.

And as he pulled you back into his arms, holding you tightly against him, you knew he meant it. For the first time, he was letting himself believe it too.

[hanasnx]

need dick to pin my legs behind my head FR

MINORS DNI 18+

NOTES: DC is for December Event!

“Never knew you were so flexible.” DICK GRAYSON comments with a snide edge, somewhat an indiscernible tone while you’re concentrating on your position. Your legs have spread out in a full split, toes pointed so delicately in response to the invading feeling in your core. Instead of his every inch sheathing up into you, his big hands have grasped onto the globes of your ass, using them as leverage to roll your hips on him.

Your insides knead his shaft, your fragile state ensuring your dependency on him while he uses your body as he sees fit. His wrists bend all the way—shifting you forward and your tailbone to curl inward—and when they straighten, they pull the fat of your ass with them, sticking it out. Your hole stretches around him, and when it feels particularly raw, you whimper enough to stifle it by biting your lower lip. His chest rises and falls. A thin sheen of sweat percolates on his skin and your mouth waters at the sight of the salt you wanna taste on your tongue. Head thrown back, his pretty black hair cascades out and if you had a mind at all you’d tangle your fingers in it. Instead, you take what he’s giving you.

“So bendy.” Dick muses, and this time it’s far more reverent as he’s positioned on top of you. Swapped out for a lesser evil, you lay on your back while your legs are folded over you. Having stretched, your feet effortlessly reach your head. Cruelly, Dick tests your limits, his palms on your thighs pressing down in a gentle bob. When he finds that you’ve still got some ways to go, he grasps your ankles to mold them to his vision.

“Dick, just put it in—!” you cry, but he’s already picking your head up by your hair, and you feel an ache in your knees when he manages to cross your ankles behind your skull. It takes a second for you to register any sensation other than that sharp pain. That is, until his fat cock throbs inside your pussy realizing what a tight fit you are when he’s twisted you up.

[gossamyrrh]

❛ 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 ❜ ◞ toji fushiguro x reader x shiu kong

⤷ in which toji pays off his debt. . . cw. dubcon smut ♥︎ hehe… of course

letta’s note 🐰✉️: this is so self indulgent hhdfjj. dream scenario, i fear….

it’s toji’s fault, really, that things are like this.

with his tongue battling your own, his hand shoved past the band of your panties—and his friend, shiu, jerking off just across from you both on the sofa—the fact becomes painfully apparent.

“t-toji!” you moan into his mouth. “t-this is so awkward.”

“i know, doll. i know. but you gotta do this f’me, yeah? just this once…”

see, toji is what one would call…irresponsible. every time a paycheque comes in, he’s gambling half of it away, or using it to buy beer or scratch-offs. or something else he could easily fare without.

but, it’s a compulsion… something he can’t easily resist. that’s his excuse for it, anyway. that’s his excuse for this.

this, being, the consequence for one particularly idiotic wager—what was supposed to be a harmless bet with shiu. one that he was so confident he’d win.

“£100 if my horse wins.” shiu had bet, a smirk on his face as though he’d known what the outcome would be.

“your horse ain’t gonna win.” toji snorted. “bet my girl on it.”

but oh, how he’d been so wrong…

and now here you are: knees spread, panties pushed aside, whimpering as shiu eyes you hungrily—lazily pumping his cock as you squirm with discomfort.

toji can see the humiliation written across your face as he deftly works you open with his fingers—how your lips trembles and your eyes brim with tears.

which is what makes him coo, “he’ll only have to watch, sweetheart. that’s all. don’t worry.”

you nod, barely, swallowing down a sob and a moan that threatens to follow it.

but then shiu leans in, eyes molten. “yeah, i’ll watch. but i want her to look at me while you fuck her, toji. i wanna see her fall apart for you… while she knows i’m here.”

toji smirks. “you hear that, baby? gotta keep your eyes on him while i make this pretty pussy mine. think you can do that for me?”

you should say no.

you should tell them both to fuck off.

but as his fingers curl just right, and your hips jerk involuntarily, the only sound that leaves your lips is a soft, shameful: “y-yeah…”

your voice is barely a breath—fragile, trembling, but it’s consent, and that’s all toji needs—cares for.

“atta girl,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers out of you slow, purposefully sloppy, so your slick clings and strings between his knuckles. “shiu, you watchin’? look at how fuckin’ wet she is.”

“hard not to,” shiu drawls, his voice a shade deeper now, breath catching as his eyes drink in the sight. “she’s gorgeous like this. ruined and embarrassed.”

your thighs twitch.

toji shifts, grabbing your chin and forcing your face to turn fully toward shiu. “keep those pretty eyes on him,” he says, mouth brushing your jaw. “no hiding. not tonight.”

it’s humiliating—your skin burns under shiu’s gaze—but your cunt clenches around nothing, aching for more—for anything toji’ll give you.

and he knows it.

“bet you’re fuckin’ throbbin’ right now,” he mutters into your ear, pushing his sweats down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, already leaking. “ain’t you, doll?”

you nod, lips parted, panting softly. “y-yeah…”

“yeah,” he echoes, one hand gripping your hip as he lines himself up. “could’ve just paid shiu his fuckin’ hundred… but no, i had to be a cocky bastard.”

his tip presses against your entrance—teasing, spreading you open just enough to make your breath hitch.

“you mad at me?” he asks, voice a smirk, but his eyes search yours, genuine for just a flash.

you don’t answer. you can’t. not when he pushes in, inch by thick inch, stretching you open slow enough to make you whimper, to make your nails dig into his shoulders.

“goddamn,” toji growls, burying himself to the hilt. “you’re always so fuckin’ tight, baby. like this pussy knows it’s mine.”

a filthy sound escapes your lips—half-moan, half-sob—and your eyes flutter, only for his hand to snap to your jaw.

“eyes on him,” he reminds you, thrusting once, hard, making you cry out.

shiu groans across from you, pumping himself faster now, lips parted and gaze locked to the point where your bodies meet. “she’s fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “you’re a lucky bastard, toji.”

“damn right i am,” toji grunts, hips snapping into you with wet, brutal rhythm. “and she’s gonna cum just like this—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, watching you stroke your cock.”

your body trembles in his grip, shame and pleasure tangling into something dark and addictive. every roll of his hips pushes you closer to the edge. and with shiu’s gaze locked on yours, hungry and possessive, you feel like you’re being devoured from both sides.

and maybe… maybe you like it.

you try to breathe, to think, to hold on to something, anything, but toji’s pace is relentless. every thrust hits deep, sharp and sure, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room like a filthy rhythm. you’re spread wide on his lap, trembling, thighs twitching as his cock drags against every aching spot inside you.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, voice rough and strained. “you feel that? how tight you’re squeezin’ me?”

you nod helplessly, mouth open, a choked moan slipping out.

“tell him,” toji growls, thrusting deep enough to knock the breath out of you. “tell shiu how good i fuck you.”

your gaze, glassy and glazed, flicks to shiu—his eyes dark and locked on you, his hand pumping faster now, knuckles slick with precum. your cheeks burn, lips quivering, but your voice comes out sweet and broken.

“s-so good,” you whisper. “he… he fucks me so good…”

shiu lets out a low, strangled moan, his hips twitching like he’s barely holding back. “fuck, she’s perfect.”

toji chuckles, low and possessive, hand gripping your waist tighter. “she is, ain’t she?”

his free hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the swollen bundle until your whole body jolts.

“toji—!” you gasp, back arching, head falling against his shoulder.

“there it is,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’re close, huh? feel it buildin’ up, baby?”

you nod frantically, whimpering. it’s right there—heat coiling low in your belly, building and building until it’s unbearable. your muscles tighten, breath catching, legs shaking as his thrusts speed up, sloppy and desperate.

“don’t fight it,” he rasps. “let go. wanna feel you cum all over my cock while he watches.”

and that’s all it takes.

the tension snaps, white-hot and blinding, crashing over you in wave after wave as your orgasm tears through you. your moan is loud, guttural, uncontrollable—your body jerking in his lap, cunt clenching around him so tight it draws a growl from his throat.

“fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby—ride it out,” toji groans, hips still moving as he fucks you through it, chasing his own high.

across from you, shiu curses under his breath, his body jerking as he spills into his hand, eyes never leaving your face as you come undone.

you collapse against toji’s chest, panting, sweat-slicked and trembling, while he thrusts one last time with a deep groan, spilling inside you with a shudder.

for a moment, all you hear is breath—laboured, ragged, heavy in the silence that follows.

then, toji’s voice, low and teasing against your ear:

“worth losin’ a bet, don’t you think?”

…

hi nasty people, check out my masterlist while you’re here ↜(⃔ ◞•᷅௰•᷄)⃕◞ !

[drunk-person]

Healing Kisses

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: After an injury on a normal day of training, Aemond Targaryen has difficulty understanding what it feels like to be cared for by his sweet wife, mainly because he is not used to receiving healing kisses.

WARNING: +18. Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and and a little bit of hot, Aemond trying to understand feelings, a bit of blood, basically a lot of softness, no description for the reader.

Word cont: 2.600 k

Author's note: Ok, I was minding my own business and this story just slipped my mind and ended up on my phone. I hope you guys like our guy trying to understand what love is hahaha 💕💕💕.

It had been about two months since Lady Y/n had gotten married, to Prince Aemond Targaryen. From the first day she saw him, she found him a disturbing man, with his silver hair, the black eye patch over one eye, the marked jaw that looked like it could cut the tips of her fragile fingers. He always seemed to be watching everything going on around him with trained eyes that she swore could see right through her.

Y/n's mother had prepared her her entire life for marriage, but not for a marriage with Aemond. Nothing was as she expected, since her husband seemed to have his own way of doing things, always silent and taciturn, just muttering from time to time, and most of the time she couldn't even decipher what he was saying, she didn't even know if he was speaking the same language as her at times.

The most unexpected thing of all, considering how reserved he normally behaved, was the fact that he liked to touch her when they were together in the martial chambers. Y/n felt her skin boiling every night with every touch he directed at her, sometimes harder, sometimes softer, but always firmly squeezing her waist, hips and breasts. Always doing things to her that Lady Y/n had not thought possible until marriage, and that just the mere thought of it made her blush and feel her skin heat up. The way he lay against her back after having poured himself inside her to the last drop and kept squeezing her breasts in a languid and soft way made her shiver.

But Y/n wasn't satisfied. She couldn't accept the fact that her Husband had such passionate touches for her at night, but didn't let her get close to him during the day, either physically or emotionally. Y/n respected him in that regard, aiming for nothing more than to be a good and obedient wife, but she wouldn't give up so easily. And with this in mind, she began to try to include herself in Aemond's daily activities and personal tastes.

Reading about the history of his ancestors, observing his favorite foods, sewing his clothes personally and even reading an old book she found in the library written by a maester who promised to teach Valyrian to even the most obtuse person. Which only made her feel even more foolish since she didn't understand a thing.

One of the best parts of trying to include herself in her husband's daily routine was watching his daily training, she usually did it in the morning after breakfast and even after a whole month watching him fight she still hadn't gotten used to the fact that he was so good, the sword seemed like an extension of his own arm and she had to restrain herself from sighing a few times while admiring him.

Until one particularly boring afternoon she decided to go down to the courtyard, since the library was very stuffy and she heard a maid saying that Aemond was fighting with Sir Criston Cole. As soon as she arrived, she leaned on the windowsill along with some other ladies, smiling as she watched her husband a little below, but the smile died on her lips a few minutes later when Aemond didn't dodge fast enough and Cole's blade wounded him in the left shoulder, drawing blood and staining the knight's sword.

Y/n's eyes widened when she saw her husband's blood and she felt her stomach churn. Aemond put his hand to his wounded shoulder and frowned, then returned to the fight furiously, disarming Cole, who apologized to the prince, but said that it wouldn't have happened if he had kept his guard up and focused.

Aemond just put away his own sword and walked with long strides into the Keep. Y/n could barely see what was in front of her, she just walked towards her husband with her eyes burning with concern.

-Husband! - She tried to reach him, but Aemond was walking too fast towards his own chambers. - Husband, please wait! Your arm is injured, you need to go see a maester!

Aemond entered the chambers, leaving the door open as he passed, as his wife followed closely behind.

-It was just a scratch, wife. - Aemond stated as she looked at him with tears in her eyes. - I'm going to be fine, it doesn't even hurt.

-Husband, if you're not going to let the maester look at this wound, at least let me take care of you! - She begged in a very worried voice, approaching him.

And with a snort, valuing his peace of mind, Aemond removed his doublet and undershirt, which had bloodstains at the site of the wound.

-By the gods, husband! - Y/n's eyes widened when she saw his shoulder. - How can you tell me this is just a scratch?

-Sit down here! - She pushed him down onto the chair with a very stern voice, and Aemond frowned - she had never used such a tone with him, always gentle and submissive to his wishes. - Don't move, I'll get hot water and an herbal ointment.

A little while later she returned with a basin full of water and a tray filled with things that a maid had brought. And Aemond watched with a very serious frown as she leaned over him with a clean, damp cloth, cleaning the coagulated blood with a very concentrated look on her face.

He barely realized that she had spoken to him, completely lost in what was happening.

- Husband? - She called him a little closer, stopping to clean the wound.

- Mmmm? - Aemond looked at her slightly confused when he finally realized that she was talking to him.

-I asked him if by chance it hurts. - She smiled, now using her usual sweet and gentle voice and Aemond didn't know why his belly warmed, but not with the excitement that had become so common in the last two months whenever he was near his wife, but with an unknown feeling.

- No. - He shook his head slowly as he answered. - I don't feel anything.

Nothing but a tingling where her warm and soft hand rested.

- Are you sure, husband? - Her look was doubtful as she frowned, Aemond just nodded and she continued her work. As soon as she finished cleaning the area, she left a few soft kisses on the wound and Aemond felt that a rope had pulled him through his navel at that moment.

-W-What are you doing? - He ended up stuttering unintentionally as he formed the sentence, feeling the skin where his wife was touching him warm as if she had touched him with a hot coal.

-Healing kisses. - She murmured simply against his heated and slightly reddened skin. - To help you heal faster.

Aemond frowned with his eyes slightly pressed together, enjoying that unfamiliar sensation in a strange way.

-And do they work? - He asked as if he suddenly had no control over his own tongue and felt very stupid for it as soon as he spoke.

-I believe so. - She smiled at him, leaving one last kiss at the end of the open wound, and Aemond felt less stupid for some reason after that.

-I'm going to apply the herbal ointment, okay? - She walked to the table, picking up one of the clay pots with a greenish, pasty mixture inside. - The maester said it should burn.

With a delicacy that Aemond had never felt in his entire life, she deposited the ointment on the open wound and gradually spread it with her fingertips, showing a look of implacable concentration on her face as if this were something of extreme importance.

Aemond hated wandering hands on him, hated receiving treatment from the maesters with their rough and hard touches, but with his wife it was different, the touches were so sweet and gentle that they were making him drowsy. And when she left more kisses after finishing applying the green ointment he thought that his mind had left his body and gone to another dimension.

-Mmmm.

-I hurt you? - She sounded very worried as she brought her right hand to the side of his face.

-Not at all. - He practically sighed, laying his head against her hand, and Y/n felt her heart warm when she had that reaction of familiarity from him.

-You need to take a bath, husband. - She stroked his cheek with her thumb, enjoying the moment where she was allowed to, smiling sweetly at him. - And after that I move on to another herb that the maester sent.

Aemond agreed, just nodding positively, feeling his whole body as if it were pleasantly numb as he walked towards the bathtub full of warm water on the other side of the rooms. And making him feel even lighter Y/n untied the front of his pants, blushing slightly as she helped him get completely undressed.

With a sideways smile at seeing his wife's reaction to his nudity, Aemond entered the bathtub, murmuring in satisfaction with the temperature of the water.

Y/n, her face still warm, knelt at the foot of the bathtub and gently massaged his uninjured shoulder, leaving sweet kisses there.

-This shoulder is not hurt. - Aemond spoke to her in a soft voice for the first time, making her smile against his damp skin.

-It must be at least sore from the effort. - She murmured very close to his neck, making him smile even though she couldn't see it.

-Join me, wife. - He turned his head back, watching her with a calm gaze.

And with a shy and very happy smile, Y/n removed her own clothes under the watchful eye of Aemond, who sighed when she was completely naked and embarrassed in front of him. The prince always found it sweet how she had not yet lost her shyness when being naked in front of him in these two months of marriage.

Y/n entered the bathtub and before she could sit on the other end of the bathtub he pulled her to sit on his thighs, leaving his wife very close to him, making her sigh.

-Are you sure it doesn't hurt at all, husband? - She gently ran her fingertips over the injured area.

-Mmmm. - He shook his head. - But I could use more kisses.

And with butterflies in her stomach Y/n did so, leaving sweet and moist kisses around her husband's shoulder who just laid his head back in contentment.

-You know if I had an injury like that I would be in a lot of pain. - She looked at him from under her eyelashes. - You are so strong husband.

Aemond had never felt so imposing in his entire life as when he heard his wife saying in that sweet and soft voice how strong he was, while looking at him from under her eyelashes sitting naked on his cock.

-I haven’t felt so much pain since I lost my eye. - Aemond didn't know where that had come from, he felt so relaxed at that moment that the words just flowed through his tongue with ease in a strange way. - It seems that I have become a little insensitive to slight pain.

Y/n gently ran her hand over his face where the eye patch was still firmly in place even during the bath. And after taking a deep breath fearing rejection after a day with so many advances she asked.

-Can I see husband?

Aemond automatically looked away, staring at his wife's breasts while his hands firmly locked on her waist.

-You don't want to see that, wife. - He muttered through his teeth. - It's not pleasant to look at.

-I think everything about you is pleasing to the eye, husband. - She tried to encourage him by stroking the scarred cheek below the eye patch, but still feeling afraid that he would push her away from him. - I would appreciate it very much if you let me see all of you.

And even fearful of his wife's reaction, taken by that strange and unfamiliar feeling in the midst of that moment of softness, Aemond removed the eye patch and dropped it on the floor next to the bathtub without looking her in the eyes.

Aemond's stomach turned as much as it had flown for the first time on Vhagar when he felt his wife's soft lips placing a gentle kiss against the deformed skin where his eye had once been.

-Gavy. (Gevie -Beautiful) - Her voice sounded like a very poor attempt at High Valyrian and Aemond's eyebrows arched.

-Where did you learn that?

-I read it in a book in the library. - She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. - Was the pronunciation bad?

-It was perfect. - He murmured with his eyes closed, lost in those sensations as he felt her sweet kisses against his face.

And with redoubled affection Y/n washed the herbs from Aemond's body and with a smile noticed that the redness had divided quite a bit, as well as the bleeding.

-After the bath I need to apply another ointment to you according to the maester, husband. - She smiled completely happy with her husband's moment of confidence. - To help it heal, he said.

-Mmm. - Aemond would let her do anything about him, as long as he could feel the softness of his wife's touch and her care and concern directed at him.

And with a sigh he trailed kisses down her soft neck, drawing low sighs and gasps from those gentle lips.

-I want you to be the one to take care of me from now on, wife. - He continued kissing her, and with a smile of pure contentment Y/n nodded positively to her husband.

-It is a pleasure for me to take care of you, husband. - She sighed at him in joy, making Aemond's heart accelerate in a strange way that made him want to vomit. He didn't understand what it was, it wasn't desire, something he was very familiar with as he desired his wife constantly, yes he was hard against her wet intimacy, but there was more.

There was something strange consuming him inside without explanation and he felt that even if he took her at that moment he wouldn't be close enough to her. And as he slid into her warm and receptive intimacy, he could feel his wife's arms hugging him tightly and pulling him closer and closer to her while she left kisses on his shoulders and face, making him lose himself inside her, feeling more and more of that sensation as strong as the pleasure of spilling his own seed inside his wife.

And letting himself be carried away by that moment, Aemond kissed her sweetly on the lips, almost a soft caress, while he felt her entangle her hands in his hair, caressing it in a way so gentle that it didn't seem intended for sex, but rather for something more delicate that the prince couldn't say the name.

-Skoros issi ao naejot issa? (What are you doing to me?) - He muttered between sighs, and Y/n had no idea what he had said, but chose to think it was something good.

All those unknown emotions, feelings and sensations were too much for Aemond, tearing from him an unparalleled pleasure that he had never felt in his entire life, and he poured himself deep inside his wife while hugging her tightly to his chest with a poignant need to feel her as close to him as possible.

And when Y/n came in his arms soon after, looking into his eyes without a hint of repulsion for his missing eye, but rather kissing him again while admiring him with pure devotion, Aemond knew. His wife's healing kisses might not help his wounded skin heal any faster, nor would they even bring back the eye that had been ripped out, but perhaps little by little they could help him heal much deeper wounds.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Rage Becomes Her

Aemond x bastardTargaryen!female

Summary: of all the Targaryen bastards he could have underestimated, it should not have been her | Word Count: 3.8k~ | Warnings: smut, Aemond being a fat douche, mentions of sex work, angst, oc described as having Targaryen features

No day was as cursed as the day her mother looked between her bloodied thighs, glancing up at the faces of her friends and common women, with shame and fright. The babe between her legs was pink and crying, their skin glistening with afterbirth, and a tuft of silver hair atop their tiny head.

What was survival, when the Gods had bestowed a Targaryen bastard into her belly.

Her own daughter lived as her mother did, learning the ways of the body and pleasure. She could recall the first time a man leered at her. Only two and ten and barely formed into the shape of a woman. Somehow the silver sheen to her hair made men think they could have her before her ripening. Plucked from the tree too early.

If only her mother could have resisted the irresistible pull of greed. Purses of gold coins lined her pockets, paid to her with the virtue of her only daughter.

An income. Nothing more.

It was only when she died, that she formed her own protection. Madame Sylvi gave her more freedoms than the usual whores. Bestowed upon as her ‘choice’. Something she had known little.

The brothel was tucked away in one of the narrow, winding alleys of King's Landing, a hidden enclave where nobles and commoners alike sought the pleasures denied to them in the light of day. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the low murmur of whispered promises. Sweet ones, from between the lips of whores.

The men who paid for the service or fucking a young woman with silver hair were usually all the same. Drunken fools with egos far bigger than their cocks, eager to stick whatever they pleased between her legs to make themselves feel like men.

She rarely spared it much thought. She moaned sweetly and whispered hushed mutterings to inflate their already fragile masculinity. Did what she had to do to survive, like so many around her.

But she would be remiss not to think about her most recent patron. One whom she had stolen from Madame Sylvi, who did not seem particularly precious about the loss, seeing as the One Eyed Prince simply crossed the threshold to her room instead. As long as business was within her four walls, she was content.

He was, at first, quiet and required work and effort to calm his fraught and tense muscles. But like most men, the second he sheathed himself inside her, he was a man driven by the inescapable warmth of not only her cunt, but by the comfort of what it provided. However false.

The night is seared firmly into her memory. His body heavy with Milk of the Poppy, he staggered as he pulled his clothes off, and for some time he was unable to become hard due to its calming effects. And she saw the familiar pang of annoyance most men got when their fleshy counterparts would not do as the mind commanded. 

She will never forget the look upon his face as she knelt in front of him, took his heavy manhood in her palm and pressed her lips to the shaft, stroking upwards with her touch and tongue. Beneath him like this, his face angled and sharp, one could be mistaken he was a statue. His skin resembled such porcelain. Made smooth by the hands of the Gods themselves. 

He had looked upon her as if she were an entity of the Seven Heavens. And when she took him into her mouth, his breath hitched, and his hands instinctively tangled in her hair. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and relief that washed over him in waves.

She moved with an expert's grace, her rhythm steady and unhurried, drawing soft moans from his lips. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist; there was only the warm, wet heat of her mouth and the exquisite torture of her tongue. He closed his eye, surrendering to the pleasure, feeling the tension in his body slowly melt away. Aemond's grip tightened as he guided her movements, lost in the sensation and the raw intimacy of the act.

He fucked in very much the same way. With urgency. As if someone were to take her away.

Was it some necessity this great man needed, away from the bustling court and the duties of his birth?

Or she reasoned he fucked her because he was simply bored of Sylvi.

But as it became more and more regular, she began to realise that her forbidden parentage played a more significant role than she had first thought. He wanted someone who looked so like his ideal, but someone who ultimately was destined to remain, steadfastly, inferior.

Aemond Targaryen pushed open the heavy wooden door, its creak swallowed by the hum of conversation and laughter inside. He pulled his hood lower, shielding his face from prying eyes. Though he was a prince, here he was just another man seeking escape. Several women crowded him, offering wine, their bodies and services with doe eyes and lips framed with rouge.

The back of the brothel was shrouded with silken curtains, providing no real privacy but rather giving one the security of feeling it. Pale pinks, lilacs, warm amber glows bounced off the stone walls, a warm emanating through the space as if walking through honey, and willing to be drowned in it. It was a dangerous feeling indeed. The warm, sticky call of a woman’s body.

The first time he saw her he did not like her. The whore with silver, golden hair. She had a bastard’s taint on her bloodline despite its noble sheen. There was a part of him that refused to admit that despite the muddied nature of her birth, that she was beautiful. He was still willing to be held by Sylvi back then, cuddled against the woman’s breasts like a babe.

It was different now.

Sylvi regarded him, using her body as somewhat of a shield, to part him and the heavenly depravity that lay across the threshold. She said nothing, and simply extended her hand, to show her palm. Aemond noted the surprised look in her knowing eyes when she felt the weight of the purse, the familiar tune of coins ringing true and greedily.

She fetched a hefty price compared to the others. One Aemond was willing to pay for her company.

When he pulled the silks aside and stepped within her lair, she was seated as usual, upon a chaise draped with rich fabrics, her posture relaxed and yet alert. Her hair, so much like his own, caught the flickering candlelight, like looking up to the stars when one was too deep in their cups, only to find the silver light stretching across their vision.

Only the muffled music was heard, and the rapid thud of his heart.

The fabrics lay like water on her skin, cinched at her waist. The translucent material had her rosy buds perk beneath it, the glimmering and blushing shade of pink almost alike to her own flesh in the low and intimate amber light. She did not need to show herself to entice, he thought.

“My Prince.”

She greeted with a soft, warm melody of enchanting, in a manner that eased his shoulders but not his soul. He regarded her face the same way Sylvi did to him. One eye glazing over her familiar features. 

His motions were easy to memorise. He would do no more than was necessary, as most patrons did. He would strip from his clothing, lay between her thighs and take her roughly. Preparation for someone as lowborn as her, and getting paid for it, was no necessity for a customer, nevermind a prince.

There were glimpses where it was enjoyable. But Prince Aemond was guarded, sometimes so much so she hardly thought him capable of the act. But he would surprise her. And once he was done, he would lay beside her, and he would talk, with only their flesh as comfort.

Sometimes, like right at this moment, he would just lay beside her, running her bright locks, ruffled from their salacious acts, through his long and slender fingers. She often thought he looked like a lost soul, eyepatch discarded and bared in this wretched place for her to lay her eyes upon. And then another thought lay under that still. The thought that this man before her had such hate in his heart for his half sister’s children, and yet visited her every other evening to sink into the haven that her own existence offered.

An existence she was sure he internally loathed.

But it seemed he loathed himself more than anything else.

“Do you dream of being more than you are.” Not a question. An inquisition shaped as a demand.

She hesitated, knowing that her answer must please him. "My dreams are inconsequential, my prince. My only desire is to serve you and to bring you comfort."

He smirked, satisfied with her response. "It is the natural order of things. Your role here suits you, providing solace to those of us born to higher stations."

She felt her brows furrow in annoyance, but tried to soften her features, his keen blue eye boring into her face. Your role here suits you. And what was that exactly? A whore who merely existed to be a sheath for men’s blades whenever it suited them. A vessel, nothing more.

"I would never forget, my prince," she said softly, her eyes downcast. "Your presence is the only thing that gives my life meaning."

Aemond reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. "Sometimes, I wonder if there is more to you than just your services to me."

Her heart quickened, but she kept her voice calm and composed. "I am whatever you need me to be, my prince."

Often, that was all it took to sate him. 

He would always come back, in varying moods, and she felt the reins on her white-hot temper begin to slip, the flames rearing to the roof of her insides the more delicate insults came out of his mouth. Those among her argued that he cared for her deeply. But how can a man care for a woman and say such hurtful words in exchange?

A bastard, indeed she was. But her existence strayed the line between demanding some semblance of respect, drawn to her by the milky skin and pale hair that he recognised in himself. She pondered this contradiction endlessly. Why did he come to her, night after night, seeking her presence, only to remind her of her inferiority? What was it about her that captivated him, despite his disdain?

Her thoughts often wandered as she prepared for his visits, trying to unravel the mystery of Aemond Targaryen. Did he see something in her that he could not find elsewhere? Was it the shared blood, tainted as it was by her illegitimacy? Or was it simply the thrill of asserting his power over someone who mirrored his own visage?

“You seem troubled.”

“It is nothing,” his response was cool, followed by the discarding of his hood, only turning when she urged a decently full glass of wine into his hand.

“You forget, my prince, that I am well-versed in the art of reading men. Tell me, what burdens you tonight?”

Stealing the wine from his lips, he cannot help the wandering of his fingers, tracing the golden spun locks of her hair that glow moonlit as he touches them. “Your features betray you,” he muses, “do you ever wonder what it would have been like, had you been born legitimate?" he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

She hesitated, searching his eyes for any hint of sincerity, but found only the cold amusement that so often accompanied his words. "It is not my place to wonder such things," she replied, her voice steady. "My fate was decided long before I drew my first breath."

He tilted his head, studying her. "And yet, you bear the mark of our blood so clearly. It must gnaw at you, knowing you could never rise above your station, no matter how much you resemble the dragonlords of old."

"Perhaps," she admitted softly, "but we all have our roles to play, my prince. Even those born amongst lust and lechery."

Aemond's fingers continued their path through her hair, his touch both gentle and possessive. "You speak wisely for one of your birth," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It is a pity you were not born to a higher station. You might have made an interesting rival."

"Or an ally," she suggested, daring to meet his gaze.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Or an ally," he conceded. "But as it stands, you are here, and I am there. The order of things remains unchanged."

"And you come here to see me," she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "What does that say about you, my prince?"

“I enjoy you.”

"Or perhaps the dragon seeks something he cannot find elsewhere."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his pride pricked by her words. "Do not presume to understand me. You are here because I allow it."

"And you are here because you need it," she countered, her voice a seductive whisper. "What drives you to seek solace in the arms of a bastard? A whore?"

He pulled back, his eyes narrowing. "You speak too boldly-"

"I speak truth," she said, her gaze unflinching. "Something even a prince cannot escape."

Aemond regarded her for a long moment, a mixture of contempt and fascination warring within him. She was a puzzle, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of her bloodline. He hated and desired her in equal measure, drawn to the mystery of her existence.

She let out a breath, surprised when his fingers wrenched around her face, tugging her towards him. But her expression never faltered. “I wonder who is the depraved cunt who sired you,” Aemond murmured, deep and low against her face.

“Prince Daemon or the late King Viserys, it does not matter. Half of the whores on the Street of Silk knew the shape of their cocks-”

Aemond's grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. "Watch your tongue," he hissed, his breath hot against her skin. "You may have Targaryen blood, but you are still a whore. Do not forget your place."

She winced but refused to look away. "And yet here you are”. Her voice was steady, defiant, challenging him despite the pain.

His eyes narrowed, the fury in them warring with something deeper, something he could not name. "I am a man who indulges in his whims," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Nothing more."

"Is that all it is?" she whispered, her voice softening, searching his gaze. "An indulgence? Because if that's true, you wouldn't keep coming back."

Aemond's grip loosened slightly, his fingers trailing down her cheek. "You know nothing of my reasons," he said, a trace of vulnerability slipping through his hardened exterior.

He looked at her for a long moment, the conflict within him evident in his eyes. "You remind me of what I am and what I can never escape," he said finally, his voice a raw whisper. "The blood we share, the legacy that binds us. You are a mirror, showing me my weakness. The weakness of my House."

"And you, my prince, are the reminder of what I could have been. The life I was denied, the nobility I can never claim."

Aemond's hand twitched, a sudden urge to pull her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his, but he forced himself to remain still. He could not afford to show that side of himself, not to her, not to anyone. In another world, she might have been born legitimate, a sister to him, one he could wed, bed and breed at his leisure.

And yet.

"You speak of nobility as if it is something you could ever grasp," he said, his voice softer, yet still laced with condescension. "You will never be more than what you are now. A whore, a bastard, a mere footnote in the history of my House."

Her eyes flashed with quiet anger, a smouldering fire that burned beneath her calm exterior. How dare he speak to her this way? He knew nothing of the struggles, the pain, the countless indignities that had shaped her life.

"How fortunate you are, my prince," she said, her voice measured but tinged with bitterness, "to never have known the struggles of those who are less fortunate. To speak so easily of things you can never truly understand."

Aemond's gaze hardened, but he did not interrupt her.

"You may see me as nothing more than a whore and a bastard," she continued, her words steady, each one a dagger aimed at his pride. "But you know nothing of the world outside your gilded cage. You have no idea what it means to fight for every scrap of dignity, to claw your way through a life that was decided for you before you even drew breath."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and something he couldn't quite name. "You forget yourself," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You forget to whom you speak."

"And you forget, my prince," she shot back, her voice unyielding, "that respect is earned, not given by birthright alone. And certainly not because you have a dragon."

A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken truths and simmering tension. They stood there, locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to back down, both caught in the web of their shared blood and conflicting worlds. There was a strange respect in his gaze. As if he had seen the same flames that captivated him.

Slowly, she reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the purse Aemond had paid her that night. She held it out to him, her hand steady. "Take it back," she said quietly, but firmly. "I don't want your coin."

He stared at her for a long moment, the purse heavy with silver between them. Slowly, he reached out and took it from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. The touch was brief, but electric, a spark that neither could ignore. He could not help the smile that rose to his face, testing the weight of his coin in his palm. Looking down upon the woman in front of him with a cold but unyielding respect.

The events of that night lingered in Aemond's mind, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The war was intensifying, and the tension within the Red Keep was palpable. It was during one of these tense small council meetings, that Aemond found his thoughts straying.

“Prince Daeron’s dragon, Tessarion, has at last taken to wing. Your brother expects to join the fight soon.” 

He half listened to Lord Wylde, his head half turned, eyes darting to listen to the cries of the smallfolk so loud it was as if they were in the room. Screams. Cries of terror.

“Dragon!”

“Get inside!”

“And when he does…the Hightower host will be unstoppable.”

He acted on instinct, feeling the hot whips of something he would not admit was panic at the back of his neck. The doors gave way to a bright, sunny afternoon. His one eye squinted to peer into the blue abyss, narrowed to the appearance of a great beast.

A dragon, its silver scales gleaming in the sunlight, descended from the sky.

Silverwing.

And there, riding atop the great beast, was her. Her silver hair flowed behind her like a banner for war, and her eyes, filled with determination, met his with an intensity that took his breath away. Aemond's mind raced, understanding dawning on him as he realised the implications.

Rhaenyra's recruitment of Dragonseeds had borne unexpected fruit.

She guided Silverwing to soar over King's Landing, her movements graceful and confident. She made several passes, almost as if she were flouting. The dragon's powerful wings created gusts of wind that rippled over Kings Landing, sending leaves and dust swirling, with smallfolk and merchants knocked off balance.

Aemond stood there, watching in a mix of awe and resentment. There was a part of him that couldn't help but admire the sight, the sheer power and majesty of the dragon, her commanding presence. But another part of him burned with anger. The idea of a bastard riding a dragon, flaunting her newfound status above the city, challenged everything he believed in.

What did that make him? How was he special if bastards could claim dragons? The exclusivity of his birthright felt tarnished, the unique status of House Targaryen diluted.

She seemed to sense his gaze, turning Silverwing to circle back and hover momentarily over the Keep. Her eyes locked onto his, a silent challenge in her gaze. She was revelling in her newfound power, asserting her place in a world that had tried to deny her.

Aemond's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He liked her, there was no denying that. She fascinated and infuriated him in equal measure. But the sight of her riding Silverwing, basking in her defiance, stoked the flames of his inner conflict.

As Silverwing ascended higher, leaving King's Landing behind, Aemond's eyes followed them until they were mere specks against the sky. He stood there long after they had disappeared, wrestling with the tumultuous emotions swirling within him. Admiration, anger, attraction, and resentment collided in a storm that he couldn't quell.

The sun was setting by the time Aemond reached Vhagar. The great dragon stirred, sensing her rider's agitation. Aemond's resolve hardened as he climbed onto her back. With a command, Vhagar spread her immense wings and launched into the sky, the force of her takeoff shaking the ground below.

The flight to Dragonstone was swift. The wind whipped through Aemond's hair, his mind racing as fast as the dragon beneath him. He couldn't let this challenge go unanswered. 

As Dragonstone came into view, the outline of Silverwing against the darkening sky confirmed his target. He urged Vhagar to increase her speed, but the older dragon's pace couldn't match Silverwing's agility. Aemond's frustration grew with every beat of Vhagar's wings, the gap between them refusing to close.

She watched him, the man who had insulted her, bedded her, wronged her, as he turned his great beast mid-air, her own dragon purring against her touch atop the peak of a tower of Dragonstone. Even from afar, she could sense his frustration, the simmering anger that radiated from him, and she revelled in this unique reaction, savouring the way it felt.

For a moment, their eyes met, and in that silence, a thousand emotions passed between them. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching as she sat firm atop her beast, the wind whipping her hair around her face. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was also a sense of resolution, a quiet acknowledgment of the lines they had drawn.

That this was no surrender.

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04

@buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @eddieslut69 @emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa

@hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose

@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost

[celuere]

New to this whole requesting stuff and leaving this b4 i forget but here goes nothing, sorry for the language. You work as arlecchino's maid in a mansion except everyone absolutely fears her, and here you are on her lap with dick/strap inside you scared for your life

I swear to you that sounded so much better in my head BELEIVE ME

help me get away from myself.

pairing: vampire!arlecchino x fem!maid reader

cw: bloodsucking, cockwarming, arle‘s fat dick, kinda forbidden relationship, no actual plot arle is just a horny fuck for you

anon i allowed myself to add a little extra to your request because vampire arle with her human maid... oh i’m SOLD. also kinda shirt but i really like this nonetheless, will probably be making a lil nasty series out of this… please go wild about this in my inbox. ignore the request break. just throw them at me.

thursday 3pm: dust off lord arlecchino‘s study.

that was your task. one might think it couldn’t get any easier than that. 

she was by no means an easy person and there was barely a subordinate or one of her children who didn’t fear and/or respects her. 

but trying to do your job turned out extremely difficult when you were sat down on your lord‘s dick as she buries her fangs into your neck. 

„m-my lord-”, you couldn’t help but press yourself closer against her, wanting a bit of comfort to the stinging sensation that spread like a wildfire over your shoulder.

she only hummed against your skin, a low moan getting swallowed up from her side at your sweet taste. cursed hands coming up to further strip you of your already messed up attire, freeing your beautiful tits and rubbing her index fingers over your hardened nipples.

it only contributed to how tightly you were clenching around your master’s cock you were nestled onto. like a doll she was keeping in place. 

she slowly let go of your burning skin, letting the blood run down your perked up tits before staining the fabric of your dress „you‘re tasting particularly sweet today, my dove…“, she leaned in before you felt her tongue gliding over your dirtied skin and savoring the crimson fluid. you tasted like salvation and sin at once. the forbidden fruit she wasn’t allowed to have. mocking her lack in self discipline. an ancient vampire- a vampire turned by her majesty herself- unable to keep her hands off of the sweet human maid that stumbled into her mansion a few months back. poor you was merely looking for a shelter from the rainy weather. you didn‘t plan on becoming your lord‘s pretty little bloodbank. her very own sanctuary. but the tip of her dick oh so gently pressing against your cervix wasn‘t exactly helping you to feel at least a little humiliation from your decision. you choose to stay here after all.

her fangs suddenly piercing the soft flesh of your right tit caused you to yelp, hips buckling into her as you watched arlecchino suck on your breast for all you were worth. the other hand resting on your thigh was now digging its nails into your muscle, trying to somehow fuse her very being with your poor soul. you didn’t know how much more your pussy could take like this with how arlecchino was practically moaning into your breast.

usually the lord was a feared figure within the fatui ranks. the clan was known for their ruthless agenda, yet its leader was kind right down to the bone. arlecchino forgot the details of her mortal life long ago, but something about the fragile mortal taking her cock while allowing her done on her crimson nectar. she was absolutely besotted with you.

the metallic taste spreading over her tongue with each gulp made her feel… alive. she forgot what it felt like. to feel. to be able to look at herself in the mirror. to be human. 

to be weak.

you tried pulling away when she started taking bigger gulps of you. her grip no longer desperate but almost hurtful. 

arlecchino often debated wether she should kill you or not. to leave you alive meant leaving a weakness in her profile. a weakness she couldn’t allow to influence her.

but who would suspect the knave having a soft spot for the mortal maid she kept hushing around like a dog?

the soft plea for her to let go of you pushed her out of her thoughts and surprisingly… she obliged. retreating her fangs from your flesh before pressing a soft kiss to your wounded skin, your consciousness was hanging by a simple thread. a thread she loved playing with. wether it by having you pump your fingers in and out that greedy cunt or watching you strip in front of her. she always found new ways to entertain herself with you.

just when she wanted to open her mouth, the soft knock against the door to her study reached your ears „my lord, some letters have arrived for you.“

your heart rate picked up and suddenly warming your master‘s cock seemed like a horrible idea to you but the hand resting on your ass kept you firmly pressed down on her shaft. she only clicked her tongue in slight annoyance.

„not now. i have…“, two fingers delicately rubbed over your already hard nipple before pinching it. you barely managed to cover up the yelp.

„important business to tend to.“, the corners of her lips quirked up at her wording. that terrified look amused her way more than she‘d like to admit. 

„mh… did you really think i‘d just… let him come in?“, the black hand palming your behind was now gently tapping against your skin. she wanted you to start moving.

your mind was still hazy from her huge blood intake, but you were still the master of your senses enough to stay put on her aching dick.

„a-ah… m-maybe… i-i wasn’t sure…“

„now, now… i have no desire to show you off to the world while you’re riding me senseless.“, the woman leaned back in her chair, legs seemingly spreading wider as the red crosses in the void of her eyes lit up, „get to bouncing, pet.“

[osamucide]

⊹ I KNOW

I WILL PRETEND THAT I DON’T KNOW OF YOUR SINS UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO CONFESS . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader, implied/referenced dissociation+anxiety+self harm+scars+past suicide attempts, hurt/comfort but it's him so of course it's a little unhinged, mentions of dying and being dead, mentions of kidnapping but it's not serious, minor suicidal ideation but it's romantic i guess? non-sexual nudity/intimacy, showering together, lots of kisses, just unbandaging a fragile Dazai and covering him in kisses

reid: draft i been sittin on. how many times will i do an iteration of unwrap and clean him. idk. a million billion. i love him so bad

He’s looking down at his hands—or his wrists, or his fingers, or the spaces between his fingers; you’re not sure. But he’s looking down, emptily, when you nudge the cracked bathroom door further open.

He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet. He has no shirt on. His bandages are unraveling at each end of their respective reaches. It’s long past time they should be changed, long past time the flesh beneath them breathe and be washed.

Changing the bandages is just something that has to be done; he will not give them up, nor will he give up the habit evidenced beneath them, and you’ve been with him long enough to know this is how he survives. The bandages do the holding-together when you’re not there to, which is far more often than he’d like. Ideally, he’d be able to shrink you down and keep you in his pocket for safe-keeping and take you out whenever he needs, like a good luck charm; he’d be able to have you on his arm all day, every day, but that’s not possible when you’re an adult with a job and a life. Like him. Right? Right.  He’d shuck this skin sooner than the habit, anyway, so, like showering, it’s just something that has to be done.

He doesn’t particularly love when you watch him do it, or offer to do it for him, but you certainly drive off the impulses, hazes, and tremors that come with doing it alone. So, he lets you.

He didn’t always; he went out of his way, bent over backwards for a long time to make sure you never could, much less had to. Somewhere deep down, though, beneath that resolve and the facade stilted upon it, he knew he couldn’t hide his ugliness from you forever.

Despite the normality—the domestic intimacy that standing beneath the water with you suggests now, so much that he has to admit it stills the expansion of the ever-growing black hole inside him—he still always fears it’ll be the last time you want to look at it.

“Osamu?” you mumble from the doorframe. 

He does not move, does not look at you over the white noise of the shower running—if he’s noticed you’re here, he doesn't show it. You move to him, slowly, like approaching a skittish cat.

Before you touch him, you bend down—beneath the sink are the rolls of fresh bandages, the clean, new ones that make him look less like a mummy unearthed from Victorian times and more like what he understands himself to be in his purest form: a basket case of the modern era, the worst gift you unwrap every Christmas and birthday and have to pretend to fawn over until it’s safe to be rid of it. You’ll never be rid of him, he thinks regretfully while you shuffle next  to him; he’ll never get by without you now, and it almost makes him wish he never met you in the first place, just so he never could’ve inflicted himself upon you.

But you never send him back. Dazai can’t seem to understand, even with all that sharp intelligence of his, that you don’t ever plan to.

Four rolls. One for each of his legs, one for both of his arms, the rest for miscellaneous spots like around his neck or across his chest or wherever else he decides he needs them this time. That’s how many you set on the counter before you land in front of him, your hands pushing his hair back, your proximity forcing his cheek to lay tired against your stomach while those hands curl around the backs of your legs and pull you closer to stand between his.

You cradle Dazai’s head like you’re some sort of saint. To him, you might as well be.

Thumbs brushing his temple and the base of his skull, you speak again, just as quiet. “Come on, let’s wash.” Or, let me unwrap you and look at all that ugliness. He can’t help that he doesn’t move for a firm fifteen seconds; why would he want to, when you hold him so sweetly like this?

But eventually, he rises.

You don’t feed him formalities or those silly questions anymore when you do this. No more can I? Or, you’re gorgeous, or, is this okay? He doesn’t want those during this, you’ve come to find out; you’ll tell him you love him plenty in a few minutes, when he’s only marginally more ready to receive it, but right now you go to work like a tinker repairing a broken doll. Your touch is objective, but not cold or clinical. You treat him with a tenderness he couldn’t have fathomed until he knew you.

After he steps out of his slacks, you loosen the strips with one hand and twirl them around the other; they accumulate in a graying mass of two or more weeks worth of sweat, and you place them in the trash, softly, like you adore and respect those, too, as he skitters past you toward the water for a sense of cover. He knows you’ll be in right after him, but at least the light behind the shower curtain is dimmer. When he disappears, it’s as if he was never there. 

But he says, “I’m okay,” unprompted, as you step beneath the water. 

He is, really. It’s just jarring when it’s the focus.

The process of becoming accustomed to vulnerability is often more painful than the vulnerability itself, Dazai has learned. While the realization can be sudden, like the flipping of a switch, the vulnerability on its own can actually be quite nice. Peaceful. He knows this because you showed him—continue to show him.

He’s just a man in the shower with his beloved, so, now you’ll talk to him.

“I know,” you say. And you do, really. The hardest part is over, and he’s practically pranced through it this time. You crack a smile. 

And he mirrors your smile, not so bright and smug as under normal circumstances but soft and searching. Dazai reaches for your arms, your waist, and pulls you into him; the water hits your back—hot, how he likes it—and you tuck your head into his shoulder and wrap yourself around his middle, whispering I love yous into his shoulder.

It's peaceful. He sways you ever so subtly.

But in true Dazai fashion, he'll shatter the peace. Ever the disruptor.

“I'm sorry you have to love this part of me, too.”

The ugliness, he means. Not just the marred and keloided skin that maps out his history of self-destruction, but his resignation to it. The scabs that touch the small of your back are freshly healing and peeling. If you didn't have him beneath your watch right now they'd probably be scratched open, raw and bleeding again, but as previously mentioned, your presence staves off the itching need to do so.

The tips of his fingers squeeze you when you pull back to look up at him, sliding your hands up his shoulders and behind his neck to link.

“I love every part of you,” you murmur as his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your stunted slow-dance deepens as he sighs himself back into his body, back into the clearer image of you in his grasp. “Don’t be sorry about it. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

The demons snap at his ankles, though. “What if you change your mind one day?”

If he was a hair more insane, he might take you hostage. Keep you to himself forever, and never let you leave. But that would take the peace out of it, he thinks. Your volition makes it all sweeter. You want to be here. You want to love him.

He just doesn’t want that to change.

You hum patiently, although hating when he what ifs. That’s the plague of the ever-moving mind he keeps, you suppose; so intelligent, but so restless. “I don’t think I will.”

You don’t think you will, but that doesn’t settle the insecurity that’s settled in his stomach like a coiled snake. 

You don’t think you will, but you will. He knows you will, because that’s how it’s fated to unfold for him. 

Your short words don’t corral him away from the snake, but the less you treat him like he’s a gaping wound, the better. You see it. You don’t cry or gasp or lament or promise how you could never leave him, will never leave him; you don’t like to make promises that reach beyond your control.

The human existence is so strange and fluid, and while you’re confident you won’t tire of him, well, your reciprocated touches aren’t the only things stitching you together, you know; there’s a world, much larger than both of you, that you live in, and a universe even more incomprehensible and its whims are fickle—but they’re also serendipitous. Everything is a miracle, if you think about it. A big, beautiful mistake. You don’t know how much he buys into this, and you’d rather him not read into it as an excuse not to answer with a resounding I’ll never leave you, my love, so you just do what you always do best: spin it in a direction his troubled mind can find solace in, pair it with kisses that have all your soul for him to inhale, and promise what you can: your hope. 

You start with his lips. The best place, arguably; one of your hands tilts his chin toward yours and you kiss him softly, simply. Dazai responds hesitantly, still holding onto you tight. You kiss him for minutes, until he's humming, until his grip loosens comfortably and his shoulders untense and his palms rest on either of your hips.

You have a habit of kissing him silly, literally. Your lips move against his and he feels high. His head gets light, and his hands get restless, and between the short puffs of air he draws in through his nose he croons at the way your fingers push his hair back, trail down his neck. 

“I’m confident,” you say, sliding across his cheek to beneath his ear while he grabs at you in soft and absent-minded desperation, “that I’ll love you ‘til the end of my days.” 

“But what if the e—”

“I’m certain—” You cut him off, first with speech and then with a kiss before you begin pressing your lips into a necklace around his throat, “—that I want to get old with you.” On one side, you bite softly. “That I want to die with you.” You bite the other. “That I want to be buried next to you.” 

Osamu’s breath catches on the words buried next to you. Of course it’s crossed his mind before that if you were to go before him, he certainly wouldn’t be long after you. The thought that you want to live a full life with him before any of that can happen, however, makes his heart swell almost uncomfortably, like it’s no longer meant to fit inside his chest—like it wants to crawl up his throat and go home to yours. It will one day, you say, when you’re rotting next to each other. He wants to melt at the idea of it. 

“And then… I don’t know what, if anything, will happen after that. But it’s my purest hope—” You traverse from one shoulder, across his collarbones, stopping only above his sternum to finish, “—that I’ll be with you forever,” before making your way to the other. He’s a mistake you’d make again and again, given the opportunity. If reincarnation is real, you’re sure of it, more than anything—you will.

And you know not expect anything but speechlessness from Osamu until after you’ve kissed a circle around that heart of his that’s beating so frantically for you, until after you’ve brought his knuckles to your lips, all twenty-eight of them, until after you’ve made your way back up one arm just to kiss down the other, until you’ve bent to scatter kisses across his stomach, his hips, until you’ve knelt to descend the ladder marking each of his thighs, until you’ve sat at his feet with your arms looped around the backs of his knees with your head pressed against him like he’s the saint this time. You sit at the feet of a sinner and make him taste redemption. It tastes like the shower water that’s touched your skin and the dinner you both ate before wandering into this strange place between his disillusion and his sheer need. You kiss him back into his humanity.

When you stand, level with him again, he smiles that smile you love so much—not the cocky, performative smile nor the uneasy, misgiving one that wants to trust but has forgotten how to but the smile that’s altogether subtle and plain and sad and the most radiant thing you’ve ever known. Every time he falls apart, you just stitch him right back up what he’s always wanted to be: loved, held, loving and holding. 

Osamu touches your lips with his fingertips like you’re not quite real, like you’ve not just reminded every other inch of him that you very much are; he speaks, not a progenitor of pretty promises himself—but he owes you forever, he thinks, as long as it’s what you want. “Thank you.” 

You laugh once, breathy, in no need. “Thank you,” you echo, “for being the most wonderful thing to love.” 

Not the easiest, you both know—but it’s just something that has to be done, and there’s no law forbidding you from reminding him how beautiful he is in the process. Until you can be buried next to him. There’s hardly anything keeping forever from beginning right now. 

He holds you, and you hold him, and he feels clean. 

[michaela-o]

please please PLEASE can we have an Autobot version of the how to catch a human post?! Begging on my knees here lol

Im sorry this took a bit longer i had so much fun writing this ! And besides that i got distracted by some of the TF comics that can be found online ! I just read the two whole comics about Drift becoming an autobot and man alive was that cool :3🧡

I'm also currently job-hunting and studying so there was not as much time to be online or make art as much as i'd like :'(🧡

But i hope you'll enjoy this one !! ( ｡ớ ᴗờ)🧡

P.s. - I know this is a bit different from the decepticon one bc i made this one in the more First Contact universe♡

Autobot recommendation for handling/capturing fragile organics: Humans

Foreword on behalf of Autobots

Humans are delicate, skittish creatures who rely on their instincts, emotions, and have a surprising amount of unpredictability. They are small, fragile, and prone to bouts of irrational behavior when startled or cornered. Despite their size and vulnerability, they possess an extraordinary will to survive, making them both a challenge and a responsibility to handle correctly.

This guide was written for Autobots tasked with capturing, securing, or calming a human in scenarios where their cooperation is necessary but unlikely. Treat them as you would a frightened turbomouse: with patience and care.

1: Recognizing the human creature

1.1 PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS

Humans are organics with relatively uniform structure but remarkable fragility. Standing approximately not even quarter of the height of a minicon, they lack protective exoskeletons or natural armor. Their bodies are composed of soft tissues supported by brittle bones, making them particularly susceptible to external forces.

Their skin is their first line of defense, but it is thin and prone to tearing. Cybertronian scanners often mistake minor abrasions as critical damage—while rarely life-threatening, these injuries cause them significant distress. Be mindful of their soft exteriors.

Humans rely heavily on their sensory organs to navigate their environment. Their eyes are sensitive to bright light, and their ears to loud or unexpected noises. Both can cause disorientation, so avoid shining headlights directly at them or using amplified vocalizers during interactions.

1.2 BEHAVIORAL TRAITS

Humans exhibit a wide range of behaviors, often dictated by their emotional state. Unlike Cybertronians, who generally act with calculated logic, humans are impulsive. When frightened, their actions often defy rationality.

• Flight Response: A common reaction to danger, humans may attempt to flee without assessing their surroundings. This can lead them into greater peril, such as running toward an active battlefield or hazardous terrain. They are pretty fast for their size, but their stamina is limited. A frightened human will often collapse after prolonged exertion.

• Fight Response: Though rare, humans under stress may lash out. Their attacks, though feeble, can include throwing objects, kicking, or attempting to strike a Cybertronians. While their strength is negligible, their determination should not be underestimated.

• Freeze Response: Some humans become motionless when overwhelmed, effectively shutting down all voluntary movement. This reaction can make them difficult to rescue, as they may refuse to cooperate or acknowledge external stimuli.

2: Identifying stress signals

2.1 VOCAL CUES

Humans communicate distress through an array of strange vocalizations, often at high volume. Screaming is the most obvious indicator of fear, but rapid speech, muttering, or even complete silence can also signal distress. Listen carefully to their tone—shaky or uneven sounds often betray underlying anxiety.

2.2 PHYSICAL REACTIONS

Their bodies exhibit telltale signs of stress: trembling limbs, widened organic optics, or clenched fists. Sweating, though imperceptible to Cybertronian optics, is another key indicator. Advanced scanners can detect elevated heart rates and shallow breathing, both of which correlate with heightened fear.

2.3 ERRATIC MOVEMENTS

Humans under duress often behave unpredictably, darting in random directions or making illogical choices. For example, a human might attempt to climb unstable structures or hide in areas that provide no real protection. These behaviors stem from primal survival instincts and should not be interpreted as strategic actions.

3: Non-threatening approaches

3.1 MINIMIZING YOUR PRESENCE

Humans perceive large objects, especially moving ones, as threats. To avoid provoking unnecessary fear, always begin your approach in a non-intimidating manner. Transforming into vehicle mode is highly effective; many humans associate vehicles with utility and safety, not danger.

When in robot mode, avoid towering over them. Lowering yourself to their eye level by kneeling or sitting creates a sense of equality and reduces the perception of dominance.

3.2 VOCAL REASURRANCE

Humans respond well to calm, steady voices. Speak slowly, using simple phrases even though they will not understand Cybertronian language. Avoid Cybertronian technical jargon or complicated explanations, as humand won't even understand and will confuse or frighten them further.

If the human continues to panic, repeat your reassurances while maintaining a soft tone. Over time, they will begin to associate your voice tone with safety.

3.3 BODY LANGUAGE

Body language is as important as spoken words. Humans are highly visual creatures and will interpret your movements as cues for intent. Keep your gestures slow and deliberate. Avoid sudden movements, as these can be perceived as aggression.

Extend a hand palm-up when offering assistance, a universal gesture of peace. Keep your frame neutral—crossed arms, clenched fists, or rigid postures might be misinterpreted as hostility.

4: Techniques for securing a human

4.1 NON-CONTACT METHODS

Whenever possible, prioritize techniques that do not involve physical interaction.

• Guided Pathways: Create barriers using objects or your own body to funnel the human toward safety. This method is particularly effective in open environments where direct contact might cause them to flee in the wrong direction.

• Stasis Bubbles: Deploy low-energy containment fields to immobilize the human. These fields should be calibrated to avoid discomfort and allow full mobility once the immediate danger has passed.

4.2 DIRECT CONTACT METHODS

Important note: When physical interaction is unavoidable, use the utmost care.

• Lifting and Restraint: Cradle the human gently in both hands, supporting their head and limbs. Apply no more force than necessary to prevent them from struggling or falling.

• Transport Compartments: Many Autobots have interior compartments designed for transporting fragile cargo. Ensure these are padded, ventilated, and free of sharp edges before placing a human inside.

4.3 ENVIROMEMTAL ADJUSTMENTS

Humans are profoundly influenced by their surroundings. Dim lighting, soft sounds, and warm temperatures can help calm them during capture. Conversely, loud noises, flashing lights, or sudden temperature changes will heighten their distress.

5: Transporting the human

5.1 SAFE COMPARTMENTS

Select a secure compartment that protects the human from external hazards while allowing them to move comfortably. The space should include basic life-support features such as climate control and breathable air.

5.2 CONTINUOUS MONITORING

Scan the human regularly for signs of injury or stress. If their condition deteriorates, stop immediately and address their needs. Humans are highly vulnerable to dehydration, exhaustion, and emotional fatigue.

6: Release and recovery

6.1 GRADUAL DISENGAGMENT

When the mission is complete, release the human in a controlled manner. Begin by reducing your proximity, allowing them to acclimate to their surroundings. Avoid abrupt departures, which may leave them feeling abandoned or confused.

6.2 PROVIDING REASSURANCE

Humans value closure. Rather than explain, show your actions and reassure them of their safety. If possible, provide additional assistance, such as guiding them back to their community or offering resources for recovery.

Closing thoughts

Humans may be small and fragile, but they are resilient in their own way. By treating them with care and understanding, they will give you theirs in return.

"We honor the principles that make us Autobots." - Autobots