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emberfrostlovesloki · 5 months

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Freud Said We Should Fuck [Hotch x Reader]

Photo credits: Left and Right (@shakespearesdaughters) Center (@hotchs-big-hands)

Prompt: When Aaron makes a Freudian slip on the jet, he and the reader get flushed, and later, once the case is finished, the reader finds him in his office on a lonely Saturday and teases him about it. Aka, when the reader and Hotch do something in his office other than paperwork.

Pairing: Aaron x fem BAU-reader. The reader uses she/her pronouns

Category: Fluff/angst/smut

Word Count: 9.9K

A/N: Hi loves! First off, this story is 18+, minors DNI. Please respect this boundary. I’m finally back writing again and I’m so happy about it. However, I feel like it’s going to take me a bit to get back into the swing of things. I had a lot of my AU written and then I just thought it was moving too slow. So I’ve put that on hold for a bit and gone back to what I love smut. I don’t think the sex here is the best I’ve ever written, but I still like it. This idea came about because @silk-spun and I were chatting about Aaron and office sex and I couldn’t stop thinking about it - so naturally I wrote it. Please have a look at the notes before reading as there are some things that some plot points that some readers might want to avoid. I hope you like this and if you do, likes, comments, and replies are appreciated! Content Warnings under the cut. I hope you are having a good week. Love Levi - ❤️

Content Warnings: There are two unsubs mentioned in this fic: The one most talked about is a family annihilator [There are mentions of wives and children being killed, depiction of dead bodies, description of a bloody room, mention of suicide via gun (unsub)] The second unsub kills at random [There are mentions of poisoning, falling to one’s death and drowning (the body is briefly described)] Mention of past trauma and abuse [Hotch] and the mention of an absent father. There is also sex: touching over the clothes, sex in a semi-public setting [Hotch’s office] fellatio, p in v (unprotected] Very slight dom vibes from the reader and Hotch and the slightest mention of a size kink. If I missed any, please let me know.

List with all stories

_y/n_ = your name

_c/t_ = coffee or tea (whichever you prefer)

_u/sf/d_ = up/straight forward/down (depending on height).

_s/l_ = short or long

_kl/s/m_ = knee length/short/mini (pick your favorite skirt length)

_y/f/c/s_ = your favorite color and style (bra)

_y/f/t/f_= your favorite type of food

The team sat in the jet as they moved toward Evansville Indiana. The skilled agents were bantering ideas off of each other, as they normally did. This unsub was very blatant with their modus operandi. As Aaron had debriefed in the conference room an hour earlier with the team and Garcia, he said, “The unsub we’re dealing with allegedly has three distinct personalities. Although I would be hesitant to diagnose anyone with a split personality disorder or DID. Many people with this condition are stigmatized due to the negative stereotypes associated with that name. If our unsub does have this condition, then we work from there. But with what we know now, this might just be a part of the ritual and pattern. The police are adamant that it’s a suspect from a mental hospital, but be wary of this. J.J. I want you to cut this off at the bud as soon as we get to the station. The media liaison nodded and replied, “You got it Hotch. I’ll clear that up and make sure they haven’t come up with any nicknames either. That always gets the press in a stir.” Aaron nodded. There wasn’t time for that kind of coverage right now. The team needed to jump in immediately once they touched down. This unsub had a swift turnaround time, killing in heinous and various ways almost every other night. His signature was that at the body of each victim, the unsub left a note from either the Id, the Ego, or the Superego, and by how killing his victims, the unsub had ‘cured them,’ and how the cure had worked. The killer's notes were reminiscent of Freud’s case notes, detailed and a bit deranged. The methods of death had been drowning, poisoning, being drowned, and most recently a fatal fall from a high cliff on a popular walking trail. _y/n_ had cringed at the sight of the drowned victim’s bloated body. It was blue and purple from its extended time in the water. The poisoned victim didn’t look any better. As was usual with BAU cases, the victims had suffered significantly before their deaths. _y/n_ had asked the group as a whole once the note element came out, “Is this guy serious? I mean, Freud is more infamous than famous at this point. His clients were all wealthy Swiss members of society, and he was ridiculed later in life for changing his theories all the time. I mean, how many Fruedians are still honestly out there?” Spencer happily replied, “In terms of clinical, licensed therapists? I’d say very few. Probably around 0.5 percent at this point. But that doesn’t mean that psychoanalysis isn’t still used in a good deal of therapeutic systems. I mean ‘Talk Therapy’ is the norm in most EBT therapy systems. So although Freud and Heidegger might have faded to obscurity, their theories remain.” Hotch had nodded and said stoically, “Wheels up in thirty. We can continue this discussion on the plane. If the unsub sticks to his pattern. They might have a new victim already.”

Thus the team, plus Penelope were on the plane like normal. Once the jet hit cruising altitude, the team seemed to relax a bit They all fell into their usual clusters, and Hotch observed them. _y/n_, Rossi, and Spencer were continuing the psychological aspect of the case with _y/n_, while Em, Derek, and Garcia talked about the victimology and methods of the murders. Lastly, JJ was writing up a short press brief for the police and the public. Aaron knew we could never be thankful enough for the work that JJ did for the team. She covered their backs more than he could ever imagine. It was hard enough doing the job they did, but having JJ backing them up meant they weren’t smeared in the press even more. Hotch made his way to her. He sat on the seat next to hers and looked over her work. The blond woman handed him a notebook page with her statement from the police force. She said, “This is what I’ve got so far. If you have any more legal or profiler things you’d like me to add, just note them in the margins.” The woman handed him a blue ballpoint pen, and Hotch did his best to look carefully and thoroughly over the short blurb. He added a few police procedural things, but otherwise, it looked good. Aaron pushed the paper back on the small table and said, “Looks good J. I just added a few notes. Let me know when you have the one for the public done, and look it over too.” JJ looked up at him as he stood and said, “You got it Hotch. And I’ll make those corrections after I’m done with this.” Aaron then moved to Em, Morgan, and Garcia. They were looking at a map both on the seat and on Penelope's computer. Derek and Em were pinpointing the sites of the victim's body on the physical map while Garcia did the same on her laptop. The trio was trying to make a geographic profile and also see if the sites were linked to a road, river, or some natural feature. All three victims had been found in parks or locations adjacent to parks. As Hotch looked over the map, Emily said, “Given the natural locations of the dump sites and how well-versed the unsub seems to be with local and national parks in the area, this person may be a game warden or resource officer or something like that. Those positions are often isolating and not well-paid. Maybe the unsub has emotions tied to their work. That they’re not achieving enough, or making enough of an impact?” Hotch nodded at the logic of her statement and said to Garcia, “Once you’ve done that work, Garcia, look up the databases for Park Service workers and Game Wardens and make a preliminary risk. Target those who work in the parks where the victims were found and those that have been having problems at work or have had problems at work in the last two months.” Garcia loved getting directions from Aaron. She always thought that his brain was close to hers, except that he was just the quiet version of her. She smiled and said, “Aye, aye captain. Coming right up.” Aaron gave Garcia a small smile and said, “Thanks Penelope.”

Aaron got up again. Before he moved to the last group, he was going to get a cup of coffee for himself _c/t_ for _y/n_. It was their ritual on the plane now. When they were in the office, _y/n_ got him coffee from the breakroom, and when they were on the jet, he got her drink. Aaron’s and _y/n_ relationship had moved from a strong friendship to a light romance, to, in the last six months, a much more heated and sexual affair. Of course, neither of them could say, and much less do anything while they were at work but show small gestures of affection for the other. Aaron and _y/n_ were both professional and could easily keep their relationship work-coded. That didn’t however, mean that Hotch didn’t think about the things they did off the clock. The sound of _y/n_’s bright laugh had his mind reeling back to last weekend. It had been a lazy Saturday morning at his place. She had mentioned getting a snack from the coffee shop down the street before going on a walk in the park or going to get a new book for Jack, who was currently at Haley’s. Aaron had sleepily said something like, “I think you’re enough of a snack as it is, _y/n_” as he rolled onto his back.

There was a moment of silence before _y/n_ started softly laughing. Hotch moved his eyes to her. He expected her to stop laughing after a minute, but his gaze only had her laughing more loudly. She was nearly in stitches as her mirth overflowed. Hotch, not quite sure what had caused her to be so joyful, poked her side and said, “Alright, I give up. What’s so funny? Is my breath bad or something?” Even as Hotch asked, he couldn’t stop himself from starting to laugh too. This was something unique with _y/n_. She allowed him to open up emotionally in ways that he rarely even had. After _y/n_ had caught her breath she said, “Is that your attempt at dirty talk Hotch? If so you need to take a course.” Aaron scoffed at that and said teasingly, “I’ll make you eat those words _y/n_.” As he finished that sentence, he leaned over her and kissed her. He started lightly but became more intense as _y/n_ ran her tongue over his bottom lip. Soon enough, he was undoing the buttons of her night shift and moving his mouth lazily downward with _y/n_ saying his name breathily every time he nipped her skin lightly with his mouth. His breath was hot on the cool expanse of her body. Aaron realized as he started to make the encounter more intimate and relished in how her body responded to his.

Hotch knew that apart from being with _y/n_, he was about as closed off as human could be, and he knew it. His past as a child had inherently shown him that weakness meant pain and suffering and as hard as he had tried to grow out of that, he still had some of those mental barriers up, and they often rose when he was in situations that dealt with lots of emotions. Often he found himself unable to reciprocate. That was part of the reason that he assumed that he was so good at being a prosecutor and a profiler. People’s emotions, whether they be the unsub’s or the victim’s didn’t cause him to bluster, or lose sight of the bigger picture. He was sympathetic to the victims and listened to them with sincerity, but their pain often didn’t affect him the way it did _y/n_. This was the reason that after he spoke to the various victims, he would direct them over to _y/n_ to talk further. So they could cry unabashedly and have someone to hold them tight as they did so. Often Aaron would catch her eyes as they made the silent trade-off. There was always a silent conversation that happened in these looks. It was Aaron saying, ‘Thank you,’ and _y/n_ responded, ‘I got you.’ With time Aaron had slowly started dropping those barriers with _y/n_. She made him feel more human. More intact with his emotions such as joy and the ability to do the unexpected. Things and emotions which he had hidden inside himself a long time ago. The first time that Aaron had been very open to _y/n_ was the first time that he realized that he might have deeper feelings for _y/n_ than respect or camaraderie.

It had been a difficult case. One of the worst. The unsub had been a family annihilator. The man, Mr. Platheville, was targeting young families with only one child. The madman had killed two mothers and their children leaving the fathers to watch in horror and live with the site of the massacre they had witnessed. The first man they had found was shell-shocked and unable to move. An ambulance and mental health experts had been called for him. The next man had been so angry that Hotch and Derek had to hold the man back from hitting and punching himself or the wall or anyone within striking distance. _y/n_ had watched on with apprehension, trying to calm the man down with her words. Although those two cases had been horrible, it was nothing compared to the last. The unsub had called and said where he was and that he had another family hostage. There were audible screams on the other side of the phone. Mr. Plathville had said, “Come quickly. Please. I can’t stop myself anymore.” At first, the team felt like this was a good step. A great step even. The man was giving himself up and asking for help. However, as the tapped line was about to be disconnected, a child’s voice cut in. It sounded scared and small as it said, “Daddy? What’s wrong with Mommy?” That had the whole team freeze. The realization that Plathville had his own family captive now had the team feel like the floor was dropping out from under them -- everyone’s stomach sinking into knots. Hotch dropped the phone first and softly said, “Everyone, move, now.” After a second, he found his voice and said loudly, authoritatively, “Move. Now.” Aaron started running to the van, and he watched as his team followed him to both his car and the other SUV. _y/n_ and Rossi piled into Hotch’s car and hurriedly buckled as Hotch hit the gas pedal. The rubber tires squealed and burned on the concrete. _y/n_ had snatched the passenger seat in the front. Hotch’s jaw was set in a tight grimace as he sped down the road. His driving was close to erratic. It wasn’t something _y/n_ had seen in him before. _y/n_’s eyes found Rossi’s in the review mirror. The older man also looked a bit concerned as well. Gently, _y/n_ placed a hand on Aaron’s upper arm. She could feel the muscle tight under his sleeve as his hands gripped the wheel. At her touch, Hotch’s eyes briefly left the road and met hers. Whatever expression she had on her face was enough to slow his driving speed. For him to pay closer attention to the road.

Hotch was making her nervous. He didn’t seem like himself, but she didn’t say anything. There would be time for that later. The vans came to a raging halt outside the address that Plathville had disclosed. The house seemed quiet. Eerily so. Derek and Hotch approached the door softly. Derek breached the door and the team rushed inside. The front foyer was dark and there was no sound reverberating around the open area. The team fanned out in the ranch-style house. Derek and Spencer moved to the left side of the house toward the kitchen and guest bedroom. Rossi and Emily took the upstairs, and Hotch and _y/n_ moved left toward the living room and master bedroom. The other families had been found in the living room, and _y/n_ braced herself for a similar scene. Hotch’s shoulders tensed as he moved into the entryway of the living room. It meant that this family was already dead too. _y/n_ felt a part of her break inside, but she pulled the pieces back together for the team. For those who had passed. Both agents stepped into the room. The fact that the walls, carpet, and sofa were cream-colored only highlighted the dark splatters marring the walls, couch, and carpet which was soaked with a dark stain. _y/n_ pointed to the light switch and mouthed, “Should I turn it on?” Hotch nodded his head no and inclined this head toward the bedroom door, indicating that Mr. Plathville might still be in the bedroom. It was the only space they hadn’t breached. If Plathville was still in the house either alive or dead, it was in that room. As the calls of Spencer and Emily echoed through the house stating, “Clear,” a small sound came from behind the closed door. Both agents' eyes snapped to the door, and they moved forward. Once they got to the door. Aaron held out a hand to stop her. He shook his head no. He leaned forward and whispered, “Go look at the bodies. And then stop the rest of the team from entering the living room.” _y/n_ met his dark eyes. They seemed to go on forever. He had the look he had before when the child had spoken on the phone. The same look he had had in the car. _y/n_ desperately wanted to know what was going on in his head, but again, now wasn’t the time. _y/n_ nodded and moved back from the door. She moved to the two bodies on the floor but continued to watch as Aaron opened the door, stepped inside, and said, “Mr. Plathville. Don’t do this. Do you think this is the ending your wife and daughter would have wanted for you?” Hotch closed the door behind him, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Hotch could hear soft movement from the other side of the door. It was _y/n_ and it sounded like she was crying. Aaron pushed aside the soft sounds and focused only on Plathville. The cold metal weapon the unsub was holding in his dominant hand wasn’t pointed in any direction, but it could be in an instant. Hotch didn’t want _y/n_ in the room. Because Aaron knew family annihilators, he knew them because he lived with one of them as a child. As an adult, once he learned the proper terms for killers and sadists, he realized that if he hadn’t taken the brunt of what his father doled out, his own father might have been a Plathville as well. Aaron didn’t want _y/n_ to see what might happen. He didn’t want her to see this. Hotch put up his hands and said, “Put down the gun Mr. Plathville. You’ve been a coward with how you’ve treated others because they didn’t do what you liked. Don’t be a coward now, at the end. Face what you’ve done and prove that you’re actually a man.”

The unsub, eyes dark and glazed looked like he was about to set the gun on the bed. Aaron hoped that was what he was doing, but he didn’t trust the man either. Just as the gun seemed to be safe, Plathville turned the weapon on himself. Outside the closed door, _y/n_ heard a very loud bang. A deafening sound. At this point, _y/n was standing by the hallway with Derek. Em, and Rossi. She was doing her best to keep the three other agents at bay. When the BAU team heard the gunshot, they all rushed back into the room. Derek drew his sidearm as they all did and breached the door. _y/n_’s heart pounded in her chest because she had left him alone. Alone with an unsub who they knew had a gun; and if Aaron was dead, she would never be able to forgive herself. Not for all time. As the team rushed into the room. Hotch’s strong profile stood out against the window. His nose and jawline were distinct against the streetlight that seeped light into the room through the casement window. Aaron seemed frozen on the spot and the still and bloodied body of Mr. Plathville was slumped on the bed. _y/n_ moved forward and avoided her gaze from the new body. She took Aaron’s arm and pulled him out of the room. Not just the room but the house as well. She sensed that he needed the space away from the darkness emanating from the home. The graveyard.

When they were at the side of the house opposite the bedroom, _y/n_ stopped. She looked down at his shoes, they had blood splatters on the toe. She looked _u/sf/d_ at him. His face was also splattered with blood. _y/n_ reached over, pulling the cuff of her white sleeve over her palm; she started wiping away the viscous red fluid from his sharp facial features. _y/n_ reflected for a moment on how attractive Aaron really was, with his stoicism and strong jaw, and how terrible a time it was for such thoughts to surface. _y/n_ pushed them away as Hotch seemed to come to himself, as she moved her hand to the other side of his face. The blood smears here were larger. There was other matter that _y/n_ would rather not speculate on. Aaron’s left hand raised and pushed her own dirtied sleeve away from his face. Hotch seemed to take a small breath, and he looked like a child who had been caught doing something wrong. _y/n_ wondered if it was his showing emotion out in the open that he perceived as being bad. She looked back at him before he seemingly crumpled into _y/n_’s arms. Low sobs reverberated on her shoulder. Tears staining _y/n_’s already soiled shirt. _y/n_ was grateful the police cruisers were on the other side of the house. Parked on the gravel drive. _y/n_knew that they would have to move soon or else the team would come looking for them. She was sure Hotch would not want to be found in such a compromised state.

_y/n_ didn’t know what else to say than, “I’m sorry Hotch. I know it’s sick and fucked up, but at least there’s no one else he can hurt. Not even himself.” And it was true. It burned _y/n_ that Mr. Plathville would face no consequences for his crimes of passion, but when an unsub took the end into their own hands, there was a certain finality to the matter. There would be fewer interviews and less press. There wouldn’t be a trial or the need for written testimony from everyone involved. It felt like a twisted prize for a game no one had asked to play. After a moment, Aaron replied softly, “It’s not that. Or it is that and some other stuff. I don’t know why I’m like this. I’m sorry.” _y/n_ frowned and pulled away a bit. Hotch looked at her with eyes asking, begging for her to stay. She took his right hand which was hanging limply at his side and said, “Let’s just walk down the drive and back. It will give you a moment to compose yourself. Get your thoughts in order. “Aaron seemed to hesitate and said, “But the police… the team, they might.” _y/n_ cut him off gently saying, “They can wait. The cops have plenty of people to interview and material to bag and tag. They can wait while we take a five-minute walk.

_y/n_ found that walking got people talking. Particularly if the people were not wanting to open up. The movement and change of scenery seemed to give whomever she was walking with a breather and a chance to let out some thoughts if they wanted. If they didn’t, then at least they’d both gotten some fresh air. This technique had worked with Morgan, JJ, and Em. I had not worked with Spencer, but Spencer spoke so freely all the time that if he had something he didn’t want to share, then he didn’t want to share, and she understood that. This was the first time she was trying this method on Aaron. As they made it halfway up the drive, and not so much to her shock, Hotch let out a sigh and said, “It was Jack’s birthday yesterday…” _y/n_ looked over to him briefly. His eyes were on the ground, Glued to it. She knew that wasn’t the whole issue, but _y/n_ replied, “I’m sorry you had to miss that for this mess.”

They kept walking. and Aaron let out another breath and continued, “When I see people like Plathville, I see my father. I see a bit of myself in him as well.” _y/n_ furrowed her brow and turned to look at him, walking backward, matching his pace. She didn’t know a lot about Hotch’s father apart from the fact that he was dead and had hurt Aaron very badly. Perhaps she could see a correlation there between the unsub and Hotchner Sr., but she couldn’t see how Hotch was at all like either man. She asked for clarity saying, “What do you mean? I don’t see how you’re like either of those monsters. You’re tied to your father by blood, but he’s gone.” Aaron looked at her and then back down the dark path they were on. A lone streetlamp shone at the end of the road. They reached it and turned back before Aaron said, “It’s a pattern. They were both absent fathers. They both lashed out at things and people. And look at me. I hardly see Jack. It feels like once in a blue moon. And I might not be lashing out at people because my job takes out that stress. But look at me in the office, I’m still anal about things. I just see these patterns. I don’t want to fail as a father, and I feel like I am.” And there it was. There was the crux of his emotions and _y/n_ ached for his pain, for his fear, even if it seemed unfounded to her. It certainly wasn’t unfounded to him, and she’d never say that. As they moved back toward the house. _y/n_ was wording and rewording her response again and again in her head; she couldn’t quite seem to come up with the perfect response. It all sounded too close to “I love you and other people love you too, can’t you see that?” She felt the hairs picked up on the back of her neck and she looked over to Aaron. He was staring at her, Asking for some kind of reply. They were near the house again and she stopped, and he stopped too. Now _y/n_ gave a sigh, her breath making a little cloud in front of her face. She finally replied, “Aaron, I don’t know what this is going to sound like to you, but here it is. I think you’re tired. I haven’t seen you sleep in three days straight because this case is so close to you. It’s close because it involves a group of people who can’t protect themselves, or their children. And I think in some ways after Haley filed, you think that you can’t protect her or Jack either. But Aaron, you’ve handled everything there with as much grace and compassion as you could. You did what Haley wanted and you still try and look after them. And maybe you don’t see Jack as often as you like, but you try. I hear you call him at night when the team’s away. And the stories you tell about when he spends the weekends over make it sound like you don’t just shower him with gifts or love bomb him. You’re trying to have a relationship with him. And I never hear you badmouth Haley, ever, which means your son can know that not all relationships work out but there can still be a kind of love and respect. A lot of kids don’t get that.” _y/n_ took a breath and she saw in his eyes that he was coming more to himself, as she finished stating, “And about you being like your father, yeah, genes are passed down, but I don’t believe that people are born bad. I think something bad happens to them and you either continue the cycle or break it. And you’re far too kind of a person, even if you don’t show it, to keep doing what you’re father did. You’d never do those things to another person. You’re not him Hotch. You never will be.”

_y/n_ looked at him to see what his reaction to her words would be. Aaron looked like he might cry again, but was holding back those emotions. She hoped she hadn’t overstepped some emotional or professional line, but she didn’t have time to ask as Hotch stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug. His warm body enveloped her in the cold night. His breath fanned the _s/l_ hair at the nape of her neck. He whispered, “Thank you for that, _y/n_. I needed to hear that.” When Aaron pulled back, he was himself again. He nodded and motioned his head toward the house. As he attempted to move forward, _y/n_ grabbed his coat sleeve, and he looked at her confused. _y/n_ said, “Wipe the left side of your face Hotch. It’s still bloody.” Aaron rolled his eyes and chuckled softly. They both started walking back to the house, and he wiped off his face. As they walked back, there was an understanding that something deeper had happened between them. As Aaron moved past the cruisers with red and blue lights still flashing, he raised the caution tape for _y/n_, and as she stepped under it. Aaron looked at her and felt a warmth seep through him. It bit through the cold outside, and he didn’t mind it.

Aaron pulled his mind out of the haze that was focused on the sounds that _y/n_ had made last Saturday morning. Her moans and whimpers rang in his ears for a second longer. He was thankfully snapped back to the interior of the jet as a bit of turbulence rocked the aircraft. Aaron cleared his throat and moved to the coffee maker. He made himself a cup of black coffee first. He shot a prayer up to any possible deity up there that his body and mind had not synced enough for him to be aroused by his mind's inappropriate wandering. Having to hide an erection wasn’t his idea of a fun time. It had happened once or twice before and he had to rush to the bathroom and splash cold water on his face and neck. When Hotch’s cup was done, he moved another clean styrofoam cup under the dispenser and started making _y/n_’s _t/c_. He stifled a yawn. He had spent much of the last two days working on field reports and revising the FBI’s security training. It was woefully behind the times. He had coordinated with Penelope and as helpful as Garcia was in terms of the technological aspects of cyber security, the lingo and Pen’s energy had worn him out a bit. The Keurig beeped, indicating _y/n_’s drink was done. He doctored the beverage as she liked. Aaron half blamed his wandering mind on his lack of sleep and the case. Spencer’s clear voice cut through all the others and he was talking about the more interesting sexual elements of Freud’s theories including the more lurid Oedipus and Xena complexes. Reid was going on about how the notes from the unsub seemed to really dive into those theories even though there was no sexual aspect to the case yet. Hotch grabbed _y/n_’s cup and moved back to the final group he had not spoken with yet.

He sat next to _y/n_ and handed her her cup. _y/n_ looked at Hotch and gave him a small smile before taking a sip of her drink. _y/n_ had a random thought, as she mulled over the bizarre nature of the case. She said aloud, “What do you think Freud would think about people using his theories like this? I mean he was odd and problematic, but not that odd.” Aaron had his eyes closed, and he replied without even thinking said, “I think Freud would say we should fuck.” _y/n_ nearly spat out her drink. The liquid burned her throat as it went down. Hotch caught his mistake and flushed, quickly amending his statement saying, “I mean if Freud were still here, he would probably think the unsub would want to have intercourse with his victims. It could either be latent sexual attraction or transference of sexual desire for an authority figure like a parent or teacher. An attraction that shouldn’t be acted out.” Hotch could feel his ears burning, and he hid his face by taking a long drink of his coffee. The dark liquid burned his mouth but this pain was better than having to face to look of utter shock of his friends. Thankfully the awkwardness only lasted a second longer as Spencer picked up on his hurried line of thinking saying, “You could be right. This unsub might be impotent and killing as a means of sexual release. Or they could be killing as a displacement tactic for unwanted feelings.” Reid jumped into that conversation with a fervor and _y/n_ added her thoughts in too along with taking some notes on the comments Spence made.

Although Spencer didn’t choose to comment on what Hotch had said, when the Unit Chief looked over at Rossi, his friend had an eyebrow raised and an expression that said, “Really, Aaron?” Hotch closed his eyes, sighed, and rubbed a hand over his eyelids as if saying, “I’m tired. Alright?” When Aaron opened his eyes again, Rossi just gave a little shrug as if saying, “Hey. I have three ex-wives. I’m not one to judge.” The older man ever so slightly looked over to _y/n_ and gave a small smile. The team knew that Hotch was seeing _y/n_. They were all too perceptive not to tell. But what he had just said was more personal than the team needed to know. At least not yet. Aaron liked keeping his private life private, and he would have to apologize to _y/n_ for putting their personal business out there like that. He was just thankful that he had made that slip of the tongue in front of Spencer and Dave and not Morgan and Garcia. There would be no end to the gossip if that had been the case. Aaron sat back in his seat and did his best to put back on the Unit Chief facade. One great thing was that he was able to compartmentalize his emotions and what had just happened was just a blunder. He fell easily back into the conversation and made himself useful to the team.

The case was a wild one with the team being kept on their feet, as the unsub devolved into crazier and more complex kills. Thankfully the unsub, one Kathy Kittery got sloppy as her mind crumbled under the weight of her own brain. Thus, only one other victim was lost, the others, though traumatized would make it through the ordeal. Ms. Kittery was a therapist who had had her license revoked after having an affair with a client. Once she had taken that blow, she had moved to a second career that had always interested her. Being a Ranger in a State Park. However, as it turned out, the mental isolation did not help with her already troubled state and she had slipped into acting on her delusions, thus the need for the team to come in the first place. After the unsub had been arrested, the team, as normal, was assured that she wouldn’t be seeing freedom for a good long while. On the jet home, Aaron’s sexual comment was almost forgotten by everyone, including himself, but _y/n_ remembered and as she closed her eyes to sleep on the short flight back, her brain played out certain scenarios that she also wouldn’t want to be voiced in front of the others. When the jet touched down, the team disembarked and _y/n_ asked Aaron as they walked back to the main office, “So, what are you doing tomorrow?” Tomorrow was Saturday and she hoped that they could spend the day together or with Jack if he was staying over at Hotch’s that weekend. It felt like a while since they had had a good day to themselves. Work had piled up, and she longed for just a few solid hours with Aaron. Hotch, however, didn’t seem to pick up on her tone as he was tired. He replied in a monotone, “Probably filling out paperwork in the office I’m behind on like three cases worth and this makes a fourth.” _y/n_ pouted slightly. She knew she was being silly, but sometimes Aaron needed a break for his own good, and an idea started brewing in the back of her mind. If she had the nerve to do even half of what her head was cooking up, she would have done something she had been imagining for a long time. Longer than was appropriate probably. For the moment she just said, “Mhm. Sounds productive.” Hotch scoffed as they both entered the sliding glass door. Even he knew his life, and particularly weekends sounded miserable sometimes. After all, he was the one that put him through them.

The next afternoon, _y/n_ pulled up to the Quantico field office. She parked her car next to Aaron’s and set her employee parking pass on the dash so it could be seen by security. _y/n_ chuckled remembering the one time that Derek had forgotten his pass and had his Corvette towed on a Saturday. Her athletic friend had been so flustered, saying, “Oh come on! I work at the freaking FBI you’d think there would be some camera’s in this lot and they’d know I work here!” _y/n_ had laughed, patted his shoulder, and offered him a ride to the impound lot to pick up his flashy car. As _y/n_ moved through the mostly empty lot she smiled. Not that she expected there to be a lot of people at the office on a Saturday afternoon, but it boded well for what she had in mind. As entered the office and was waived through security quickly, she hadn’t brought her gun or anything important with her. She entered the bullpen and looked up at Hotch’s office. His lights were on and she could see him looking at something on his desk. It was most likely a field report. The bullpen was empty and most of the lamps on the desks were off. One or two burned brightly in the soft space. One or two of the agents must have forgotten to turn them off in the rush to get home on Friday. She turned off the lamps as she texted Aaron, “Hey, you at the office?” She looked up at his office window and his head turned to the side. Clearly, he had just received her message. His left hand raised and a second later her phone beeped. Hotch had sent back a simple “Yes.” He was never one to be overly elaborate over text. If he was forced to type more than one full paragraph he would just give up and call instead. _y/n_ always chalked it up to his hands being too big for the small phone screen. He probably made a lot of accidental typos with his thumbs and had to go back and correct them which seemed like a thing that would annoy him to no end, even if he did have autocorrect on his phone. _y/n_ took a breath as she looked at Aaron again. He was back to his paper. _y/n_ had jokingly said she would do this if the spirit led her, but somehow seemed like the dirty things she was picturing in her head were driving her up the stairs and not ‘the spirit.’ Outside Hotch’s door, she knocked once and then turned the knob. She stepped into the dimly lit room and closed the door behind her. She softly said, “Hey Hotch, how are the papers going?” Aaron looked up from his desk. He did a bit of a double take as his eyes flicked to his phone and then back to her. His eyes held a hint of surprise, warmth, and general confusion as he said, “_y/n_. What are you doing here? Do you need something?” _y/n_ couldn’t help but flush already. Hotch was just too cute sometimes; especially when he wasn’t trying.

_y/n_ smiled at him and took a seat across from him at his desk. _y/n_ sighed and said, “I was just bored I guess. I had nothing better to do, so why not give you a hand with your paperwork? Maybe I can get you out of here earlier than five p.m. on a Saturday?” Aaron raised a brow. He highly doubted that that was _y/n_’s only reason for being here, but he wouldn’t question her. Instead, he picked up a case file, and set it in front of her saying, “Suit yourself, love.” _y/n_ flushed again and pulled one of Aaron’s ballpoint pens out of the cup he kept a stash in. _y/n_ wondered how many pens he dried up per year, but wasn’t in the mood for calculus problems right now. Instead, she opened the file and started working on the first page. She had to take it for at least ten minutes before she made a move. _y/n_ assumed if she outright said, “Hey wanna have sex in your office there would be two simultaneous outcomes. The first was that she would no longer be Aaron Hotchner’s partner and that she would be a former FBI Behavioral Analyst. Neither of which sounded very appealing. So she took her time.

When Aaron seemed absorbed in his work again, she slipped off her shoe and moved her foot across the space between her side of the desk and his. It was a bit of a reach, but she managed to brush Aaron’s ankle and the inside of his trouser leg. That did it and Aaron’s eyes snapped to hers. They were dark, hiding emotions that he often kept at bay. He cleared his throat and said, “_y/n_, really?” You chuckled and said, “Sorry. I just like to see you flustered.” _y/n_ pulled her leg back and Aaron watched as she flushed but returned to her papers. _y/n_ knew he liked it when she was a tease sometimes and that was her plan for this potentially risky act she was trying to have with Hotch. After another ten minutes, _y/n_ repeated the same action, except this time she moved her foot higher up his leg She applied gentle pressure to the inside of his leg. His grey trousers were cool under her foot as they moved up past the knee and onto his inner thigh. Her dark stockings were the only barrier between her skin and the fabric of his pants. _y/n_ looked up at him and he let out a soft breath as if his brain hadn’t caught up with his body yet. When the two entities of mind of body did collide his brows furrowed trying to reconcile the pleasure coursing through his body and the fact that this shouldn’t be happening in his office.

Before he could make any protestation, _y/n_ cut him off saying, “So, ‘Freud said we should fuck’ did he?” This reminder of his slip of the tongue gagged Aaron momentarily. It gave _y/n_ enough time to shift lower in her chair and slip her foot high enough to press over his crotch. Aaron let out a little grunt at the contact. _y/n_ continued to run her foot over his zipper, up and down in a rhythmic pattern. _y/n_ smiled as his eyes grew hazy with desire. A look she’d seen on him often, just not in his office. Never in his office. But she had dreamed about it plenty. She’d woken soaked on occasions with the notion of Aaron having her in his office, blinds drawn tight as they made love in the enclosed space. Aaron stuttered trying to make a coherent sentence, but his cock slowly hardening in his pants was not helping him at all. _y/n_ could feel it under her foot and continued to tease him saying, “You know you really shouldn’t make comments about our sex lives in front of a team of profilers. I think you owe me an apology?” _y/n_ pulled her foot away and Aaron groaned at the loss of contact, but suddenly his mind was more clear. Half of Aaron’s brain cursed _y/n_ for knowing just the right way to turn him on. The other half was already imagining her splayed out on his desk as he ate her out, or pounded into her so hard that the desk left marks on her hips. Those thoughts alone had his member twitch against his belt and fly. To consumed in his thoughts, Aaron slipped off his own left shoe, and perhaps more gently than _y/n_ had, he moved his foot up her leg and to her cunt. _y/n_ opened her legs for him slightly pushing her _kl/s/m_ length skirt up a bit. Even wearing socks, Aaron could tell that _y/n_ was wet. The moan she made as he just brushed over her sex and him realize that he couldn’t wait. That he needed her, now. Hotch took away his foot and reveled in the needy noise _y/n_ also made at the lack of contact. Hotch moved quickly to his door, locking it from the inside before closing the shades to the office. His movements were hasty, jerky even. _y/n_ watched him, knowing the sexual tension must have built up since the last time they had been intimate.

_y/n_ wasn’t sure what Aaron had in mind but she did have to ask, “There aren’t any hidden cameras in here, right?” Hotch chuckled, the sound was throaty, and he replied, “Not that I know of. And if they are, then at least we’ll both be fired.” _y/n_ laughed at this and took his hand; she led him back to his office chair. _y/n_ appreciated that he had a sense of humor in these moments that were new to him. _y/n_ knew that she pushed him to do things he hadn’t before both in and out of the bedroom, but he never complained and the bulge in his pants told her that he was already looking forward to what she was about to do for him. Aaron looked up at her a bit amazed at the things she could make him do. Never in his life had he thought he would be able to act out his fantasy. _y/n_ leaned down and kissed him softly at first and then with more hunger and ferocity. Aaron reciprocated in turn. As their lips looked in a passionate heated kiss, _y/n_ moved her hands to the belt that kept his trousers in place over his trim hips. It wasn’t as hard as _y/n_ had imagined taking off his belt without looking. The cool metal of the clasp heated against your skin. You moved to his pant’s button and zipper next. _y/n_ didn’t want to wait around anymore and once his grey briefs and thick arousal were freed, _y/n_ started palming his erection with a steady hand. Once her hand started stroking him, Aaron let out a gasp. He opened his mouth enough for her to slip her tongue into his mouth. He breathed in her throat and had her make a small contented noise as she explored the well-known concaves of his mouth. _y/n_ would never consider herself a sex expert, but when it came to new positions or scenarios with intimacy and Hotch, she often found it helpful if she took the lead. Warming him up to the idea. Making him feel comfortable and safe before they kept doing whatever it was they were trying. Oftentimes Aaron would jump on board and take the reigns, which she adored. She loved it when he told her what to do, how to lie. Everything. It was one of Aaron’s most attractive traits.

_y/n_ pulled her mouth away from his and wrapped her hand around his cock, more steadily pumping his length. Aaron said her name as he started moving his hips to meet her pace. His body responded to her touch. _y/n_ smiled at him and moved away for a moment, pushing his chair back enough for her to kneel under his desk. Aaron pushed his hips up and let _y/n_ pull his pants down, exposing his cock to the cold air. Hotch took a few steadying breaths. He knew what was to come, _y/n_ gave some of the best head that he had ever had and the anticipation of her lips on her member had him panting already. He said, “Can you not kneel all the way down like that, love? I want to touch you while you’re dining me?” _y/n_ smiled, relishing the fact that he was already taking a small amount of control of the situation. She nodded and said, “Of course Aaron, anything you ask.” With his request in mind, _y/n_ got up on her knees. It was helpful because she needed the reach to be able to lean over and take his tip in her mouth. She swirled her tongue over the top and slit, sucking at it like some rare candy. Hotch groaned as she moved her head down his length slightly. _y/n_ took in his width and length with surprising ease. He was always surprised by her ability to take him. It only made her more attractive to him. As his head swam with pleasure and endorphins, he moved his own body forward and down a little. His head almost rested on her shoulder as he moved his long arm to feel between her legs and upper thighs. He slid his hand down and over between her skirt. As he started rubbing her clothed sex, _y/n_ moaned over his cock. She took a second before she kept moving her head further down him. Her mouth and tongue doing things to him that almost made him see stars. His left hand kept massaging her wet, clothed folds while his right pushed up her shift and kneaded her breasts in turn over her _y/f/c/a/s_ bra. Aaron could feel her nipples grow rigid under her bra and he moved his hand under the intimate article of clothing that covered her chest. He squeezed her right breast and squeezed her nipple. As _y/n_ started moving her head up and down his whole length, Aaron matched her pace with his hand on her clit, pushing and pulling sensations out of her. It turned out Hotch was so aroused, so excited that he kept moving his hand faster over her sex and clit, and _y/n_ kept up her own pace. Aaron panted and tipped his head back as he released some precome and she moved off him sucking it off of him. As she moved to take him in her mouth again, Aaron stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. _y/n_’s mind and body were also hazy with desire. Her entrance ached to be filled by Hotch more fully. His hand was amazing, but nothing beat him seating himself in her fully and then fucking her to the heavens.

Aaron could see this desire in her. A desire for him alone. Aaron pulled her onto shaky feet. He stood as well. He kissed her again, the beginning of stubble running over her chin and jaw. He pushed his pants and briefs fully off his legs and undid the side zipper of her skirt. He let it fall onto the beige carpet. He pulled back from her mouth and slipped his hands at the elastic of her stockings. He was too impatient to pull them down gingerly. Instead, he used just a bit of his strength to rip them down the center seam. _y/n_ let out an exhalation of breath. She knew it was going to get good now. Not that it hadn’t been good before, but she knew that it could get even better than his thumb and middle finger rubbing against her sex and clit. Aaron looked at her panties and noticed how they matched her bra. He murmured, “You had this all planned, didn’t you, you little devil?” _y/n_ gave him a wink and said, “Maybe just a little. You mad about it?” Hotch let out a little throaty growl and slipped his fingers under the band of her underwear. When they were on the floor, he moved to the desk. He pushed his files to the side along with the batch that _y/n_ had been working so diligently on a few minutes ago. He might desperately want to bend her over his desk, but he wasn’t so stupid to waste three good hours of work by having his files fly all over the place while he fucked _y/n_.

Once the forms were safely on the other side of the desk, Aaron grabbed her hips, turned her body 180 degrees, and then pressed her upper body flush to the hard dark wood of his desk. Hotch had unbuttoned her shirt and her skin felt cool against Hotch’s desk. She anticipated Aaron’s next move as he moved behind her slowly. Hotch pumped his throbbing length once or twice to ready himself. Another bead of precum moved to his tip and he wet his member with it. Even if he was ready and _y/n_ was ready, some of her wetness was even dripping down her thigh, Hotch was going to tease her still, as she had teased him. Aaron moved right next to her and slid his cock up and down her entrance, slightly pressing at the space that was begging for him. Aaron used his left hand to stroke over her weeping sex and _y/n_ moaned saying, “A-aron. Please. Please fuck me. Oh god.” Aaron looked at his length now coated in his and _y/n_’s excitement. It didn’t take more than her words for him to press himself into her fully with a measured thrust. _y/n_ let her out a breath and Hotch could feel her body press into the side of the desk. Aaron pulled out and pressed in again. _y/n_ let out a whimper and there was a slight squelching sound and he began to move in and out of her more quickly. Aaron's thick cock filled her fully and Hotch watched as he pushed in and out of her building his speed. The veins of his length ribbed her insides and _y/n_ almost let her feet go from under her, the desk and Aaron holding up her weight as he kept pressing into her with a relentless pace. _y/n_ could feel him fill her fully, pressing his whole member deep inside her. Aaron knew just how to move his hips to hit her sweet spot and she was panting and babbling in under a minute. Aaron moved one hand to her mouth whispering, “Shhh, now. We wouldn’t want to get caught, now would we?” _y/n_ wanted to protest and say, ‘You know no one is out there, Hotch,’ but her head was so full of lust, desire, and longing to let go. Aaron’s movements had her desire building and she knew Aaron could feel it too. Hotch picked up the pace, rapidly thrusting into her. He moved his left hand to her clit and let go of her mouth so she could let out a litany of sounds. As he kept his fast pace and circled her clit, her body pushed roughly against his desk with every thrust, she whimpered, “I...I’m gonna come, Aaron.” Hotch smiled and leaned down so his chest was flush with her back. His hand on her outer erogenous zone moved quickly and _y/n_’s walls fluttered and then contracted against his cock. _y/n_ cried out and let go of everything, letting the pure bliss of her orgasm overcome her. The sounds of her release had Aaron climax as well. He groaned as he pushed into her a few more times as he let his spent his ejaculation into her. Their shared sounds of pleasure filled the room and Aaron considered how this was better than he could have ever imagined. _y/n_ though spent, felt the same way.

Hotch took a moment to catch his breath and after a minute he let out a contented sigh. He pulled out of _y/n_ gently. As _y/n_ similarly let out a hum of happiness. She loved the way he was so gentle with her at the end of their intimate encounters. Aaron helped her stand and led her to the couch at the side of the room. Neither exactly felt like saying anything in the soft afterglow of their shared experience. Aaron had her sit on the couch and pulled moved back to his desk. He opened the left drawer and pulled out a pocket square that he rarely wore. He found the linen handkerchiefs too formal and stuffy. And as someone who came off as formal and stuffy already, he didn’t need a fashion accessory to add to the impression. But now, the fabric would come in handy. Aaron walked back to the couch with the confidence of a man who had performed very well. _y/n_ would have laughed at his cockiness if he wasn’t so damn good at sex. The first they had done it, she was so tight that it would have hurt if he hadn’t helped prep her very well. Now he fit her perfectly and he knew it.

She smiled lazily at him as he knelt down and gently cleaned her up. He loved her, but if his or her release started staging his furniture, it might lead to awkward conversations later. When he was done cleaning her body, he wiped himself. He raised his head and said, “Was that everything you wanted darling? You did very well by the way. You felt so good for me. I hope I was the same for you?” _y/n_ beamed and said, “It was everything I wanted and more. Thanks for indulging me. Aar. But I do think you should get out of this office. Being cramped up in here isn’t good for you mentally, sexually, or physically. So what do you say we get out of here and get an early dinner and watch a Christmas movie at my place, huh?” Aaron chuckled and folded the soiled handkerchief to the clean side facing out. He put it in his pocket and smoothed down his now very crumpled shirt. He grabbed his pants and underwear along with _y/n_’s skirt and panties. He tossed them over to her and they both changed. As Aaron zipped up his pants, he said, “Sounds like I good plan. These papers can wait till Monday morning.” Somehow _y/n_ always seemed to know what he needed, and he wasn’t going to fight her on it now. Not after what they’d just done. As _y/n_ put her clothes back on, he paced his briefcase and packed _y/n_’s ripped tights inside with his other work. He wouldn’t just throw those away in the trash by the door. As he did this, _y/n_ moved behind him and gave him a hug saying softly, “You know I really liked those tights, so I expect a replacement stat, mister.” Hotch chuckled and said, “You got it, _y/n_, but you know I couldn’t help myself. Not when you tease me like that.” There was a shared laughter as Aaron turned off his lamp, grabbed his and _y/n_’s bag, and opened the door for both of them. He locked the door to his office behind him and trailed _y/n_. He had suddenly grown an appetite and asked, “So, what type of food are you feeling.” _y/n_ thought about it as they descended the stairs. She took his hand and said, “How about _y/f/t/f_?” Aaron smiled and said, “Sounds great!” _y/n_ rested her head against Aaorn’s shoulder and contemplated how lucky she was for him, and for Freudian slips.

______________________________________________________________

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finniestoncrane · 4 months

Text

Christmas Gift Exchange

Scarecrow x Riddler x Batman, word count: 1.4k this is just a silly, flirty little thing for wonderful @constantron as part of the gift exchange for the arkham server!! request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: no sex, but plenty of suggestive stuff (also tiny cw for dubcon)

Edward knocked the end of his pristinely polished, golden cane against the door at the back entrance of the warehouse, signalling his arrival with a distinct rhythm before entering. Once inside, the door securely locked behind him, he reached a gloved hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled a silken handkerchief, monogrammed in a bright green with his initials. He ran it idly over the top of the cane where he had touched the door with it as he walked towards the centre of the dark space.

“Crane…? Have you forgotten our meeting? Or are you perhaps hiding in the shadows, intent on trying to scare me?”

A voice replied to him from somewhere to his right, obscured by the darkness, but recognisable as his dear friend.

“You know me all too well, Nygma.”

Appearing almost instantly, magically, as he stepped out from the pitch black and into the glow cast from the solitary, low-hanging ceiling lamp, Jonathan smiled as he devoured the sight of Edward. He was dressed as smart as usual, a distinct flare, however, in the exquisite patterned tie obviously a new purchase, as it wasn’t one he recognised.

“Dressed for the occasion?”

“As always. And I see you aren’t… as always.”

Edward let his own eyes drift judgmentally up and down Jonathan’s slender frame, taking in the scruffy, hole-ridden clothes he refused to give up wearing. The sentimentality behind them pushed Edward’s lips up into a small smile, one not missed by Jonathan, who offered his in return.

“If I were to dress differently, you might think that there was something wrong. I know how your mind works. Always overthinking, trying so hard to use that big brain when there really isn’t much call for it.”

“Charming.”

Edward rolled his eyes, unable to refute the very astute observation. Sometimes, more often than he cared to admit, he could completely forget that Jonathan wasn’t just a slender, nightmarish vision in decades old garments, but that he was an accomplished academic. Nowhere near as smart as Edward, but enough for him to begrudgingly consider him a peer.

“Well, would you care to exchange gifts?”

“Seems apt.”

Edward’s response was dripping with sarcasm, a playful cruelty that had Jonathan’s eyebrow raised. That was until he opened the wrapping paper and held up the overly stylish shirt, in Edward’s signature, emerald shade, against his torso.

“I… see. A gift for yourself when I inevitably don’t wear it?”

“Tut tut, Crane. As if I would ever be so selfish. Now! My turn! Give it here!”

Edward put his hands out expectantly, grunting as Jonathan landed a small pile of three presents onto his palms. Eddie looked at the wrapped gifts, then back to Jonathan, and then back to the gifts.

“Well, open them.”

Jonathan splayed his hand out, inviting Edward to partake in his side of the festive tradition of their gift exchange. When he had all three of the gifts in his hands, unwrapped and visible, he took another look around the warehouse, almost knowingly, as though he had found the answer to a question he had been pondering the entire time.

“These are hardly any different from the kind of gifts you usually get me, Crane.”

A bottle of flavoured lube, a pair of new, shiny handcuffs, and a Wartenburg wheel in the shape of a question mark. A nice touch, but nothing he wouldn’t have expected.

“I suppose the location is what makes this different?”

Jonathan shook his head, a half-smile crossing his face.

“In a way, yes. The location serves a… purpose. But don’t be so ungrateful Edward. These gifts here, these are just… appetisers, if you will. This… is your main course.”

With a flourish, Jonathan held out his hand, gesturing to his right. His left hand flicked a switch on the wall behind him.

“Now, I know we agreed not to make a big deal out of all of this, but…”

The lights flickered, a gentle buzzing and a sharp, high-pitched clink sounding out as they came to life. They highlighted Edward’s gift, like a priceless artefact in a museum, like a jewel behind bulletproof glass. The light above his present perfectly illuminated it. All that was missing was the slow rotation of a lazy Susan to give that gameshow-esque prize treatment.

“Tah dah.”

Jonathan’s smile was smug, so self-satisfied. Not only had he made Edward feel guilty about his previous attitude towards his gift, but he had surprised him, something that was almost impossible to do when The Riddler was always four steps ahead.

“Oh, Jonathan… you’ve outdone yourself! It’s - he’s - perfect.”

“I can’t offer any self-effacing modesty, I really have won this year’s exchange.”

Edward crouched down, looking into Batman’s eyes, as unimpressed as they were, and laughed incredulously as he rolled them.

“So… how did you do it?”

“It wasn’t as difficult as you might think. We managed to come to an… amicable agreement.”

With eyebrows raised, Edward turned his head swiftly to Jonathan in disbelief.

“You got him to agree to this? Willingly?”

Jonathan tilted his head from side to side, as though measuring up the facts surrounding the capture of Batman and his hour-long monologue which had been delivered to his kidnappee before Edward had arrived.

“Perhaps not entirely willingly. But! He did agree, once we had our gentlemanly discussion. And certainly with more enthusiasm than I thought he would.”

Turning his attention once more towards the hulking mass of muscles that sat in the chair, tied up with copious amounts of rope, Edward smiled with an air of arrogance as he lifted up the strong chin of his new plaything, their eyes meeting.

“Is that so, Batman?”

The caped crusader narrowed his eyes below his mask, refusing to blink, not wanting to give Eddie the satisfaction.

“At least if I know you two are distracted by whatever this is, then you’re not out there terrorising innocent people.”

“Oh, I dare say there’ll be hours of freedom for the good people of Gotham. I plan to get as much out of you as I can.”

Trying hard to keep his breath steady, remaining cool and collected as expected from him, Batman gritted his teeth, his spit frothing behind his words as he demanded an answer from them with the kind of aggression he felt they expected, or wanted, to see.

“So what kind of sick plan do you have for me? Am I here to witness the kind of acts you described to me in your lengthy monologue, Crane?”

Jonathan stepped up to Edward, standing next to him before crouching slightly to get closer to Batman as his smile spread wide enough for his crooked teeth to show.

“Afraid not, dear Bat. You are the main attraction for this evening. Although, I’m sure you already knew that, given how quickly you gave in to my proposal. You practically tied those ropes yourself.”

As Jonathan taunted him, Edward had made his way around to the back of the chair and was draping himself over Batman’s wide, squared shoulders. His hands drifted lazily down the front of the kevlar coated suit, the curvature and ridges of the defined muscles speaking to him through his palms. With a quick grunt, Batman shifted his body ever so slightly, struggling briefly against the ropes as he played up the charade of trying to move himself away from Edward’s gentle, teasing touch. Tutting out loud, Edward let go and returned to Jonathan as he spoke.

“Pretend all you want, but you’re putting up very little fight for someone who has beaten me half to death for a lot less than kidnapping and the looming threat of sexual exploration.”

The two men stood side by side, eyes sparkling with lust and excitement as they waited with bated breath for the other to make the first move. Jonathan gave in, typically not one to deny himself any pleasure in the name of keeping face.

“Now, Eddie… shall we continue our conquest of the virginal vigilante?”

Edward took Jonathan’s hand in his own, beaming with excitement and joy at the events that were to unfold before him.

“Oh, Jonathan. You make this terrible season almost tolerable."

#scriddlebat #scriddler #batman #riddler #scarecrow #finnie writes #edward nygma #arkham #arkham riddler #arkham!riddler #arkhamverse #jonathan crane #arkham!scriddler #arkham scriddler #scarecrow x riddler #jonathan crane x edward nigma

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grison-in-space · 26 days

Text

You know, we tend to think about play centered around the boundaries and interactions of power dynamics as a kink thing, but I think that's a bit short-sighted. Perhaps it's that I have mostly taught adults—which imposes a distinct but limited power dynamic on the working relationship—but I find I use play constantly to help frustrated or shy students relax, especially when relaxing about the possibility that I am particularly upset, impatient, or judgemental about their temporary struggle. Lots of smiling, careful observation of body language—if they stiffen further they're not necessarily parsing that it's play and I need to change tactics. I often make an explicit statement like "oh no, the horror, you're learning," smile as warmly as I can project, validate the frustration and point to any clear progress I see, and then ask questions about the place where they're struggling.

Trying to use cuts more to spare dashes, but the more I think about it, the more I keep coming up with examples of boundary/hierarchy play in cases of strong working relationships between established dynamics. It's not something I only engage in from top down, either: I also offer play gestures around boundaries to people who are supervising me, if and only if I otherwise like and trust them enough to do so.

Often students will engage in mock boundary pushing at "boundaries" that they have observed that I don't give a shit about, like the time one of my students was asked to explain why his DNA signature was "found" on a broken pipette in genetics class (implied: he was being charged with breaking it as part of an exercise in interpreting DNA fingerprinting data) and he submitted a two page legal brief with fully referenced case law mock accusing the class of stealing his genetic material without a warrant. (I was delighted. I often think fondly of that student, who had been enlisted military and clearly enjoyed play mocking the "brass," but was also absolutely respectful and engaged when it actually mattered.)

I see that with my dogs, too. For example, yesterday I observed Tribble catch my eye, start briefly digging in the garden—a behavior I pointedly discourage and have for most of her life—wiggle, and then take off to race around the yard while I stomped after her and pretended to be mad until she bounced up to the door and requested to come inside. (She was almost certainly getting cold.)

It's always risky to make inferences about animal signals and especially intentionality without good falsifiable hypotheses about what is being intentionally conveyed and unpacked, so just to be specific: she wiggled using very loose body language of the kind that we usually use when playing as we made eye contact, dug until I made an exaggerated outrage face and took a step towards her, and sprinted away to zoom around the yard in a way that a nearly thirteen year old dog generally does not do unless she has a strong, motivated point to make. I was also using exaggerated play versions of outrage: mock stomping my feet with big steps with no stiffness, waving my head from side to side in a gesture I make when playing with animals, a very offended high pitched "oh!" noise I don't make when I'm actually annoyed. Play around mock offense over a mock transgressed boundary, taking delight in each other's attention.

And I mean, she and I have known each other for almost twelve years. This is the dog I accidentally trained using only my idiosyncratic body language for cues; she never bothered to listen for vocal cues until Tay tried to ask her for things with slightly different hand signals and she was bewildered. We're both pretty good at reading each other at this point.

I just think there is a strong tendency to carve out hierarchy and boundaries as Very Serious Business all the time, especially when we are thinking about ethical power dynamics. But it's not always, not even close: ethical play across boundaries should be consensual and bidirectional (even if the social hierarchy isn't entirely consensual, as with parent/child or dog/handler relationships), and if it's not it should cease. We've all seen the mortification of bosses who attempt play with subordinates who are Not Enjoying Themselves, right? You've all seen The Office?

I'm just enjoying thinking about boundaries and hierarchies in this way this morning. We (by virtue of the fact that you're interacting with me on the Anglophone Internet, anyway) live in a culture that finds hierarchy and explicitly acknowledged power dynamics really distasteful and uncomfortable, but those dynamics are still real and they absolutely exist. As someone who has some distinct scars from people who had power over me but wanted to pretend that we were peers when that was convenient, I think there's something valuable about acknowledging how much play can be held in a healthy, solid nonsexual relationship that still has power dynamics and firm boundaries.

#boundaries #hierarchies #play #relationships #social interactions

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oh-saints · 1 year

Text

sweetest devotion (prologue)

it was only supposed to be another one night fling for mason. being married was never the aftermath he'd imagined himself to be, not when he's nothing but proud of his hit-and-run reputation around the town.

playboy!mason mount x princess!oc

word count: 1.5k

tw: as mentioned in the masterlist only

note: i know, i know. i'm not supposed to make this rabbit a bad guy but the tatler interview still rang well in my ears. and he won this poll anyway, so here it is. and the country name's taken from ana huang's twisted series teheeee but as usual, i happen to write at dawn so this is yet to be beta-read.

tag list: @mehrmonga who'd told me to do it anyway <3 (but lemme know if you wanna be added!)

this series' masterlist here part 1 here! >>

it all happened so fast.

as fast as the sound of his pen carving the cursive of his signature against the papers. as fast as the sound of mason mount giving what felt like his entire life away to a bunch of papers.

mason mount was only supposed to find another rebound to pale his heartache from being left behind by his girlfriend. he was only supposed to find another rebound to fuck before deserting them like a used piece of clothing that was covering his body against the cold of the night, and against the cold of his frozen heart.

he was only supposed to find another rebound to numb his recurring pain, just like a dozen of times before.

he thought he did exactly that in the morning, his modus operandi. and she never contacted him back either, despite knowing where to reach him. they were still following one another in Instagram anyway.

so of course, he didn’t expect anything drastic when the owner of the club he loves asked for his presence on one fine day at the cobham.

however, as he stepped inside the four walls made of glass, he certainly didn’t know what to make of himself. hell, he could guarantee any common living thing that they’d have no clue what to do when it was you and the king of eldorra himself.

a seething king of eldorra, mason should rather add.

the monarch didn’t waste a single breath as soon as the owner stepped out of the room for some privacy. “my daughter’s pregnant, mr. mount, and it’s yours.”

“I’m sorry?” mason had to mask his nervousness behind the pathetic excuse of a laughter. “I’m actually not following.”

“of course you are not,” the king sat up straighter, his posture telling everyone he wasn’t mad, except his eyes blaring fire so big it could burn down the amazon. “you don’t keep track of your one night stands, after all.”

if that was declan, mason would’ve heeded no mind. but coming from the man before him… mason couldn’t lie if that comment didn’t place a deep claw on his pride.

“father…”

“I suppose you might not remember her,” and mason couldn’t fault the king flaring his nostrils at each words spat. mason would probably be acting the same way, had this involved his own daughter. “you met her at a nightclub in london before you took her to your home and bed her.”

it didn’t escape mason, the disgust slipped into the last two words of the king’s sentence.

you’d be surprised to hear your daughter’s reaction to my cock was everything but disgust, mason smirked inwardly as he scanned the distinctive face of the said daughter. who, by the way, sported a faint hint of displeasure—at and of what, he didn’t know. he could only pray she wasn’t thrilled about the whole ordeal, so he could make a pity party out of them both.

of course, he remembered her—serena, final year student in king’s collage. he remembered her because no one as smart as her had pulled the same face card, and he was drawn in by the classic beauty she sported in her face and the royal elegance she exuded before he could help himself.

he remembered her because in bed, she was a beast long waiting for someone to wake her up. and mason loved nothing more than a duality striking on and off the bed.

“father, I appreciate if you grant us some space,” contrary to the faint warning she gave earlier, she was firm—rather stern, even—this time. “I’m sure it’s not an easy news for him either.”

the king spared his daughter a momentary glance before he stood up from his seat, buttoning the lapels of his suit back to its immaculate place. all while throwing lasers at mason’s way. if the footballer didn’t have his life at stake, he’d definitely succumb to the pressure.

there was a reason why the salt-and-paper man was the king, after all.

as soon as the powerful man went out of sight, mason shot his own daggers. “how are you so sure it’s mine?”

mason was only met by the profound proof that she was the king’s daughter and the princess. the woman in black slid a manila envelope towards his way ever so calm—as if the tension around them was as high as spending a mere summer together—without compromising his personal space. “your DNA test, as well as your contract.”

“contract?”

now, mason didn’t see this one coming.

“my father expects nothing less than you to man up and marry me,” shit, mason knew where this was heading. “it’s actually a crime in my country to be pregnant out of wedlock. combine that with the fact that you accidentally knocked up a princess, you can imagine the mess you’re about to ensue in my country,”

despite knowing the direction of this conversation, mason’s heart still dropped at the sight of marriage contract written in big, fat bold letters.

“however, I understand you have another life outside the well-being of your… child and mine,” if this wasn’t a dire situation in need of immediate attention, he’d praise her for how well she chose her words to simplify matters at hand. “so I took the liberty to construct this agreement so it will benefit us two. feel free to add your own terms.”

“what do you get out of this… arrangement?”

“I get to live another day, which means your child does too,” right, a punishable crime in the eyes of eldorran law. “and I get to provide only the best for my child. bar the father, of course, should you choose to walk away from the child’s life after this contract ends.”

dagnabit, she’d covered that part too under the agreement. she certainly had thoroughly thought about this. “is this what you both are planning from the beginning?”

“my father knows nothing of this existence and I wish to remain that way,” that’d explain why she asked for privacy for both of them, and somehow that relieved some parts of mason. “except for our lawyers, it’s only going to be between us until the end—whichever end may be—so I need you to put on some excellent acting when needed.”

rights and obligations… dang, mason should have a day off to discern all this. mason inwardly cursed himself for putting himself through this, all rooting from letting himself swayed and distracted by her sultry voice that he forgot to tap before he dabbed. wait, did I have a way out of this…

nope.

mason was raised better than to desert his own flesh and blood. and he was also certainly raised better than to have the mother of his child to be punished severely on her own when the child was obviously a joint creation of them both.

“we’ll figure out the nitty-gritty along the way,” sensing the footballer was weighing his thoughts, the princess stood up this time, reaching for her purse along the way. “after all, time is what we’re going to have until deaths do us part.”

mason could feel the tip of his mouth curving up slightly—credits when it’s due.

“have a thorough look at them and give me your answer when you’re ready. for now I will tell my father that you’re figuring out how to break the news to your kin first before saying yes.”

but before mason could bid her goodbye, the woman fourth in the throne line of eldorra had closed the mahogany door shut behind her, leaving mason alone dealing with the aftermaths of his rendezvous immediately and the tears of the girlfriend he recently rekindled later into the night.

“I promise you we can be together again, my love,” mason repeated those words like a mantra, in hope to soothe the heartbreaks both he and his girlfriend were respectively having inside. in hope it could build a foundation, a purpose for him to truck through a year of hell with a stranger he never dreamt of having to share his ultimate dream with. “I promise you that. we’ll figure it out meanwhile, okay?”

but mason didn’t get to hear whatever it was that came out of his ex’s mouth as a reply, as he took the hardest steps away from his girlfriend’s house. and he couldn’t seem to be able to recall them now, especially when the priest standing before him asked him the million-dollar question in front of thousands of people important for the existence of the eldorran kingdom.

“do you, mason mount, take serena, princess of eldorra, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

his wife.

the woman standing in front of him, who was staring back at him with a pair of eyes he couldn’t read at all. the woman standing in front of him, who actually enticed a bit of fear in him for such uncomprehensive orbs she owned.

the woman standing in front of him, whom everyone dubbed as calm beauty like her name, was to be his wife.

the woman standing in front of him, who he had no idea about aside from her name and her reputation of a princess from a conservative country, was to be his wife.

all because a stupid, drunken one-night stint.

he let out a sigh that might be perceived as letting of the nervous steam. just when he wanted to organise his life and start fresh…

“I do.”

well, at least the princess was an exquisite sight to wake up to every day.

#oh-saints writes #mason mount #mason mount fic #mason mount fics #mason mount fanfic #mason mount fanfics #mason mount fanfiction #mason mount angst #mason mount fluff #mason mount smut #mason mount series #mason mount imagine #mason mount imagines #mason mount drabble #mason mount drabbles

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corruworks · 5 months

Note

Hiya! I recently started (and got so excited that I have almost finished) playing (what’s currently out for) corru.observer, and as an artist I am very excited by the prospect of making a fan-sona/oc! I’ve been gathering references of the characters shown in the game, but was wondering if you had a guide or list of rules/attributes for how the characters are designed. There also seems to be a few different species/sub-species (unsure) so if you could share about what makes them different that would also be super helpful!

P.S. I would also totally understand if you want to keep this mysterious/let things come up as new parts come out. If this is too much like asking for spoilers, dw about responding to it lol ^^

hello bloomshift! thank you so much for playing!! forgive my partial non-answer - I like to keep everything people can learn directly in the game, so I can't answer your lore questions outright... but there are hints to them scattered throughout the game, and there is also a discord where people often discuss corru.observer stuff (if that's your kinda thing)!

that said, beyond the canon, I can tell you that our design goal is usually to make them "iconic" - in the literal sense of being like an easily drawn and remembered sort of emblem!

they usually have distinct silhouettes made up at least partially of abstract shapes, and depending on the "style" indicated by their signature info, they may have different limitations - for example, Tozik or Gakvu's sharp edges versus the more organic looks of the rest of the team. they also typically do not use yellow from the palette!

#corru.observer

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pluck-heartstrings · 28 days

Note

My mind is in shambles, I hope you know that. Here I am tangled up into like 3 different gauges and types of threads trying to determin the difference between steel grey and platinum and what becomes a hand and what becomes a dress while making her look like a creature of distinct parts. Should I double strand some cool pastels into her dress to make an Aurora affect ton mimic sun and moon taking on sun rise and set adjacent coloring? Or try and make her as acurate as possible with flat coloring so my brain doesnt itch? Maybe I could try and ombre her skirt in an attempt to make her face as striking as possible? Like a singular blinding star in the sky. Do I use micro thread for a tiny, figurine like statue, or more versatile larger gauges that look messier but allow for more variety, but a floppier plush like design? How much do I have to pay you for a reference sheet or should I go all and just freehand her a dress design? What color is the gem on her circlet I cant find a reference?!?! I know its non canon but she's about to get my ballet slipper pattern feet and become and en point queen. I could streamline the design by forgoing feet altogether and make a stand and thick skirts and pose her and straight up make like 10 of her! GOLDEN PRINCESS PLUSH! Oh my god, sleeping beauty dress split in sun and moon colors I can't. I feel a deep connection with Sun to the point of pulling my hair this princess has me in a death grip. Her aesthetic got me quaking. *her god damn head is a nightmare!!!!!!!* I've got a third of a two year project left to do *that I was paid for, and can not put on hold* or else I would be elbow deep in dragon scale patterns trying to make 3D eyelashes!

And part of this design process is trying to like... reverse enjineer Fazco type branding. What parts of ger are most marketable and thus, simplified and emphasized? With her and sun being the only two without "cool accessories" my brain wants to go whole fucking ham into the rose prop that will most likely be her signature and remove her legs so her skirts can become an inverted rose. I'll bet they'll be all over her merch.

Ima go die now. Or lie down and shake from overstimulation. Princess fixation always be hitting at 2 am.

Nelly I'm shaking you. I'm kicking my feet in a furious attempt to keep it together.

If there was a head of merch at Castle Faz I'd hire you in a heartbeat. You understand. /italian gesture hand/ No matter what happens Castle Faz is still a FazCo business and they'll do whatever it takes to make a profit.

Shitty little cheap plushies of the Princess? Fly off the shelves. Every little girl either buys one of the Princess cap crowns or a plush. Their parents bring them back to Castle Faz because the doll basically disintegrates with too much playing so they have to return to get a replacement. But the die-hard fans that follow the company and turn a blind eye to all the mysterious circumstances of the past? Those are the ones that shell out BIG BUCKS for the high resolution, hand painted figures. Especially one of the newest character in their lineup, the first in however many years. The Princess isn't well known yet, but if the business does well then she'll be the marketing face for the brand.

Her aesthetic is platinum, with an array of subtle colours. Picture fine particles of glitter that catch the light and refract into a multitude of colours. Because of her simplistic mask and hat, she looks good in all colours. That means her merch can change often, and it does! Dress up Princess dolls with changeable outfits for every occasion, holiday, theme.

See now you got me goin'

#ask pluck #medieval times au

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waterfallofspace · 10 months

Text

Timing Is Everything.

Characters: Y/uta, G/ojo, I/numaki, M/aki, and P/anda. (feat. I/nuokku pairing implied <3) Word Count: 2.1k

Just a little gift for @ithadtobesneezing as she's been FEEDING us with Y/uta content <33

It's nothing amazing, but you've sparked the fire of love for your guy, so here's a lil something I hope you can enjoy~

All Characters 18+, picture early 20's AU (+ no bad stuff has happened <3)

(References to implied contagion, and high fever, and near fainting/dizziness, just incase anyone doesn't like those!)

~~~~~~~

A light breeze drifts through the air, the first hint of fall approaching. Summer had dragged on late into September, leaving the cool touch a welcome change to everyone.

Almost everyone, that is.

Burrowing deeper in his uniform, Yuta grits his teeth against the cold nestling in his bones. Despite the heat smothering him inside out, each chill seems to leave him trembling. Casting his gaze back to the field, it’s clear no one notices. Their attention is caught by the scene unfolding.

Maki and Gojo are ‘sparring’, a term used loosely. More accurately, Maki is throwing things at Gojo’s infinity. Inumaki and Panda are both laughing, Panda cheering Maki on as Inumaki passes her more weapons to aim. Amidst the chaos, Yuta’s silence is largely overlooked.

It’s not unusual for him to be a bit subdued during a meetup with his friends; being a special grade sorcerer has some deficits to go along with the profits. Still, he can’t help noticing that Gojo is right in the middle of the group, cheerful as ever despite his own long week.

A pang of guilt finds its home in Yuta’s chest, the familiar burning leaping to his eyes. The feelings that always seem to grow in ferocity when his mind gets clouded. With a rough sniff, he rubs a sleeve across his face, sucking in a deep breath. Frustration swells, only dispelled when a gasp slips through his parted lips.

He quickly ducks into his fist, massaging the twitching appendage before it blows his cover. Sunken eyes flicker back to the group, the breath he didn’t realize was trapped in his chest breaking free. They’re all still absorbed in their own world, Inumaki and Panda joining in on the game.

Taking advantage of the privacy while it lasts, Yuta allows himself a deep sigh, his sleeve-coated hand scrubbing at his nose. The slow crawl of ticklish desire had been creeping its way deeper since this morning.

He’d hoped to fight it off until he got home, or at least escaped from sight. The glimmer of light dancing across his face as a tear drifts down his flushed cheeks suggests no such hope should be dwelled on.

“Yuutaaaa~”

The tone is distinct, a melodic sound echoing throughout the yard. Sure enough, as Yuta raises his head from the safety of his hands, Gojo is waving him over. Maki and Panda are yelling about something he can’t quite make out, Inumaki holding up a popsicle stick figure with Panda’s head on it.

Raising from his seat Yuta lurches forward, the floor beginning to shift under him. He instinctively drops his hand to steady himself, eyes squeezing shut. Once the world decides to let him off the unrequested roller coaster, his eyes begin to reopen. Relief floods his system as none of the others seem to pay him much mind.

“I did not say that! In fact, I recall you were the one who filled out that report, therefore it was your responsibility to follow up.” Inumaki raises a Maki stick.

“Oh really? Then why is your signature on the form?” Inumaki raises a Panda stick.

“What?” Snatching the paper from his hands, Maki groans, aiming a swing at Panda’s chest. “You forged my signature again?!”

Gojo’s simply watching, a childlike giggle bubbling from his chest as Inumaki raises the Panda stick once more. This time Maki knocks it from his hand, Inumaki glaring at her and huffing out, “Bonito flakes.”

Once he’s sure the next step won’t realign the world, Yuta begins his trek across the mere feet between him and the others. His breath snags dangerously, the sensation nipping at his sinuses. A hand flies to his face, catching his nose and tightening against the onslaught.

Catching Inumaki’s eyes, Yuta feels his hand snap back to his side. A single sniffle is all he allows himself before taking in a rush of air and painting his usual timid smile across his cheeks. Inumaki stares for a second longer, but ultimately shakes it off, raising an arm to gesture him closer.

“What are they arguing about this time?” Yuta asks, aiming the question towards Gojo as Maki takes another swing at Panda’s legs. He’d heard it all quite clearly from the chair, but each vibration from his throat seems to bring new levels of itch to his breath. Best to give Gojo a chance to start rambling.

For a moment Yuta’s convinced he’s been caught. Normally that kind of question would get Gojo bouncing as he gives a play by play. Today, instead, he simply shrugs, tilting his head just enough to let a single brilliant blue peek from behind his glasses.

Yuta meets the look with a smile, letting his eyes flutter shut to sell the lie, ignoring the watering that begins as soon as his lashes touch down. It seems to work, however, Gojo yelling something nonsensical at Maki, strutting over with a raised hand.

The itch chooses this moment to begin another resurgence, scratching through his restraint with a hungry determination. Yuta risks a glance at Inumaki, who appears preoccupied with fixing his popsicle stick Panda. Gojo is still shouting, Maki echoing the noises as she chases Panda around.

“hHehh!” The hitch breaks through his control, unnoticed by the group. Deciding this is the ideal time to smother one without being caught, Yuta twists himself away from the group, raising an arm to his face. With the other he clutches his shoulder, bracing himself against the fierce tickle.

“Hey Yuta, we want you to break a tie.”

Panic grips Yuta’s chest as the field suddenly falls silent, each hitch spouting from his lips seeming to shatter against the peaceful quiet. He attempts to pry open his eyes, to no avail. After permission was given, the sneeze was far too strong to hold off anymore.

“hH’ihhTZZdj’ehhh-!”

All eyes turn to him, a shimmering ocean beginning to well in his own. Before he can utter a word, his breath catches in his throat. “ihHKzzTSChhiyeww-!” This time he only manages to raise a single hand, bending over with the force of the pitchy whine that bursts forth.

As the earth begins to tilt again, Yuta drops to his knees, only steading himself as a hand grips his shoulder. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, Yuta leans his head against it. After a minute the buzzing fades from his ears, and he slowly rejoins the world.

He expects to see a few faces of disgust, maybe some anger. To his surprise, no one seems to be looking his way at all. Maki’s yelling something at Gojo, attempting to whack him with her staff. His infinity blocks it easily, though he looks distraught anyways.

“-are you aiming that at me?! I didn’t do anything!”

“You-” Maki pauses to swipe Panda off his feet behind her, returning her glare to Gojo as the sound of fur hitting grass sounds off. “You ‘didn’t do anything’? You got him sick!”

Gojo huffs, crossing his arms with an indignant look. “You and Inumaki were sick just a few days ago, how do you know you didn’t get him sick?” The smirk he’s wearing suggests he’s proud of this little deduction, but Maki simply growls in response.

There’s a break from the conversation as Yuta ducks towards the ground again, raising his arm to catch a fatigued “hH’KNchhZZSHyeww-!”, so few sneezes already sucking all the energy from his body.

Inumaki’s hand tightens on his shoulder, Yuta humming a soft “Thanks.”

“Maybe we did, remind me for a minute though,” Maki says with a sigh aimed towards the duo, swinging her weapon towards Gojo again. “Who got us sick?”

The sheepish look scrawled across Gojo’s face says it all, and Maki lets up on her assault, instead learning against her pole. “I already had to deal with Inumaki’s symptoms.”

A vaguely offended, “Salmon roe.” sounds from where Inumaki’s crouched, Maki shooting him a soft look.

“Sorry- Look, okay, I just don’t want to deal with-”

“hH’TzzzcSHHyieew-!” Yuta interrupts, groaning faintly as the force of it sends his head careening into his arm far harsher than he’d expected.

“With that,” Maki finishes, gesturing to Yuta’s trembling form.

As Yuta gears up for another outburst, Inumaki lightly rubs his arm, humming something unintelligible under his breath. “hH’TIezzsshh’kiew-!”

Once he’s sure this one didn’t readjust the world too much, Inumaki raises his gaze from Yuta to shoot a glare at Maki. She raises her hands in mock surrender, grumbling under her breath. It quickly fades as Yuta dissolves into a fit of coughing that leaves him gasping for air, Inumaki dropping back to his side.

“Okay, okay, sorry…” Maki sighs, Yuta managing to catch a glimpse of concern in her eyes as his cough fades enough for a full breath. Maki continues with a softer tone, “I didn’t mean that. I just…”

Yuta gives her a weary smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I know. It’s… it…” His eyes drift over her shoulder, vision starting to swim. He manages a breath, dancing the edge of control as the tickle retreats.

“Sorry, thought I was…” Yuta hums, breathless as he attempts to continue the sentence, quickly dissolving into stammering, voice stolen by the pinprick itch spreading through his nose. “Wait, no I am… I’m… I’m uh… hH’yieTZZzshhYEWW-!”

This time Yuta feels himself tipping forward, the world around him softening at the edges. The grounding touch against his shoulder begins to slip away, a dark sensation touching the corners of his thoughts. Just before he loses consciousness, a sharp pain cuts through the darkness, pulling him back to the light.

Inumaki’s still gripping his shoulder, but the ache radiates from his face. Managing to get a grasp of his surroundings, Yuta finds Maki kneeling in front of him. Her hand is hovering in the air, as if she was unsure where to leave it.

“Did… you slap me..?” Yuta manages, voice wavering with a mixture of relief and fatigue.

“Did you just nearly faint?” Comes the retort, Maki’s own voice not as solid as it would normally be. There’s a quiver to it that wasn’t there a minute ago, her eyes burning into his skull with an intensity not unlike her.

Still, there was something different to this gaze. Something distinctly afraid. Blushing under his gaze, she huffs. “You should be thanking me."

Opening his mouth, Yuta attempts to oblige, instead only managing a whimper as his lungs begin to spasm again.

Maki watches for a minute, glare still pointed at him, before finally she lets up. “Oh just forget it, okay? Just… just try to breathe. You’re alright.” Her tone is soft, a single finger gently brushing some hair away from his eyes. “I think you have a fever, have you taken anything?”

The silence is an answer, just as true as any sounds would be. At this admission, Maki turns to Panda with a pointed look. Panda gives a thumbs up, running off towards the school to grab some supplies Shoko still keeps there. Attention back on Yuta’s fragile state, Inumaki gently tucks an arm around his back, raising him to a standing position.

They stand for a minute, Maki securing herself on the other side before beginning the walk back to the school. Yuta holds his breath, a strangled sob dying in his throat as tears begin to pour. At this, Inumaki begins humming again, something quiet and soft. Maki copies the tune, rolling her eyes with a barely contained smile.

“Where was this softness when I was sick?” Gojo calls, the trio whipping around, nearly toppling Yuta in the process. Both supporters cast glares Gojo’s way, Yuta too busy righting the world in his head to copy their motions.

“When you were sick you were clinging to our legs and rubbing your germs on everything.”

Gojo pouts, attempting to sniffle, and instead simply inhaling. “I was sick! None of you did anything for me, I just needed som-” He’s quickly cut off by Maki tossing a dagger at his chest, infinity stopping it easily. Still, he gasps in mock hurt, chuckling as this earns him another (attempted) blow to the gut.

Yuta soon forgotten, Maki lunges back towards him, daring him to drop infinity and fight her head on. The rest of the battle fades into the background as Inumaki positions himself on the ground, pulling Yuta down beside him.

A yawn sneaks out from Yuta’s jaw, his eyes beginning to pool again. The same breath turns into a hitch, Yuta muffling a “hieH’tzZZchhyEW-!” into Inumaki’s chest.

Inumaki hums gently into his ear in lieu of a blessing. Then, draping his arm around Yuta’s shoulder, Inumaki pulls him close, running his fingers through Yuta’s messy hair.

By the time Panda gets back with the medication, Yuta and Inumaki are asleep, dozing to the soft sounds of Maki and Gojo’s sparring.

Even through the tangled mess of limbs, Inumaki’s arm remains protectively draped across Yuta’s back.

#waterfallwrites #i hope you can enjoy itttt~#i did just write this in a night and im not gonna look at it too hard #bc recently if i look too hard i decide to scrap it #but ANYWAYS hopefully this is an acceptable lil contribution to #The Y/uta Obsession <33 #you've made QUITE a stir for your lil guy #y/uta #j/jk #snzfic #snz #snzkink #i dont remember all my tags anymore LMAO

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twistedapple · 6 months

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On rose and incense

With the reception of my Perfume Rant, I decided to dedicate a part to my OC, Nuria, especially since her own scent has already been mentioned twice (+18 smut, Raphael's intro PoV sample).

You can follow the links for Part One (On cherry and musk) and Part Two (On bergamot and aged brandy). Part One also has all of the technical terms that may be helpful for you to understand this post better, if you are not familiar with perfume terminology and concepts.

Now to the heart of the topic.

In the previous posts, we learned about the various concentrations of perfume, the olfactive families, the concepts of time and seasons, as well as the effect left by the perfume (projection or sillage). We've noted that Raphael's perfume is more on the enticing and opulent side, while Astarion's is lighter and elegant. Both of these perfumes complement the characters particularly well and serve as a conduit to express what sort of person they are.

Similarly, Nuria has a signature scent that has been described as a damp, metallic rose and incense. The rose is an incredibly common scent for perfumes - especially feminine ones. The trick with the rose is to make it stand out because we are so used to it - there is a risk of making it feel like a grandma perfume. I'm talking from personal experience, but I've encountered only two perfumes IRL that had an interesting twist on the rose: the late Imogen Rose by Lush (curse you Lush for not producing it anymore), and La Fille de Berlin by Serge Lutens. One is a youthful and dewy rose with a youthful powdery finish, and the other has more of a distinctive edge to it with cold top notes followed by spices. I drew from both perfumes to create Nuria's scent. Edit 23/04/2024: Siren Song Elixir's Black Baccara Rose also fits the bill with a smoky rose. The following points are in top-heart-base note order, like in the previous posts.

1. Metallic rose: Nuria is an Air Genasi, a constant of her descriptions is how cool her skin is. As such, a perfume suitable to develop in lower temperatures fits her better, on top of serving her characterisation. This is where the metallic rose steps in, with a cold rose, sharpened by a minty raspberry. The goal is to create a counterpoint to Raphael's sulfur, hidden under other scents. Here, the danger is announced right from the start: the rose is a beauty, yet its thorns are bloody. However, there is a twist to it...

2. Damp palmarosa: a subtle blend of sensual vetiver, orris root and oakmoss grounds the perfume in a dewy atmosphere, like a garden in the rain. The delicate sweetness of that heart is meant to distract from the initial edge, to tempt into an approach and lull into a false sense of security - the bait for a trap, just like the way the scent of petrichor may hide a rainstorm behind calm waters.

3. Animalistic incense: the damp notes turn into an enveloping smoke, made of pepper and clove, sharp myrrh and honeyed frankincense to lower the heat a bit while respecting the rich balsamic tone, with a touch of musk to deepen the smoke. It could remind of a temple, but the only temple Nuria is truly familiar with is the Festhall of Eternal Delight, dedicated to Sharess, where she learned a good part of her trade to operate as a spy. It is a sinful base, meant to catch people hook, line and sinker. It also fits Nuria, who smiles at people and touches them in the exact same way, regardless of whether it's to share a bed or meeting an early end.

4. Powdery temptation: Nuria's perfume isn't solely what she applies on her skin, but also in the complementary hair oil she uses to maintain her long curls. Her hair oil is just as tricky as her perfume, with calming poppy and lavender, charming patchouli and enticing ylang-ylang. These plants are among the ones commonly found in the gardens of the Festhall of Eternal Delight as well, hinting at the origin of a part of her skillset.

Overall, I decided to go for an oriental floral scent that is, in turn, complementary, in turn counter to Raphael's own perfume, to play with a contrast between them. They have a common point, however, and it's the aphrodisiac scents at the centre of their respective perfume - palmarosa and pepper. Paradoxally, Nuria lays it on more thickly with lavender, ylang-ylang, and vetiver, but with a subtle and clever blend that hides behind an apparent impression of cleanliness through the fresh dampness and incense effects. Her perfume is also opposite to Raphael's in that it has more sillage than projection. It tricks people into getting closer to her rather than imposing itself and also leaves an enticing ghost of her after her departure, fixing her in the mind of whoever fell in the trap.

The very precise image I have for her perfume is that of a rose amidst a moody storm in a temple garden. One may be tempted to grab the delicate rose to protect it from the storm, but that would be ignoring both the bloodied thorns and the storm itself - a grave mistake. The perfume is threateningly tricky and as misdirecting as its owner - vicious, one might be tempted to say. And that would probably please Nuria.

Overall, I'd say it is a complex and luxurious impressionist scent that makes Nuria feel expensive in turn. And we know about a certain devil with a clear taste for luxury...

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 raphael #bg3 OC #bg3 OC nuria #nuria yr ashemmi el kacem #The Perfume Rant #nuria isn't a nice person btw #if a rose could be venenous this is what she'd be #well technically you can get tetanus from a scratch on the thorns of a rose SO we're not that far off lol #as a sidenote I highly recommend Serge Lutens' perfumes #and I curse Lush again for not producing Imogen Rose anymore because it was such a good perfume

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neostriatum · 11 months

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And sometimes the sun wears thunderclouds

[AO3 TBA] [Dreamwidth]

They were just as beautiful as he remembered her.

All things considered, it hadn’t taken very long to find them. Maybe it was something about their elvish origin, or maybe they had glowed with such a lovely pale light that Smaug had decided to group like items together, but after Gandalf had assured himself that the line of Durin was still breathing the wizard had made his rounds through the Treasury to extricate any unpleasant surprises that the dragon might have left.

“‘A little bit of curse’,” Glóin grumbled, sorting his vellum with a huff, “How can you have a little bit of a curse?”

Bilbo shrugged, checking for any scratches or flaws with the jeweler’s lens that had been loaned to him by Bombur, “Probably the same way you can have only a little bit of butter on your bread.”

The dwarf paused over a sheet marking out which family’s accounts might still be open, considering the words. He tapped a finger on the margin, sighing as he conceded the reasoning, “I suppose so. Still, he could do with telling us what that means.”

“Damn wizards,” They said in unison, Glóin’s voice frustrated and Bilbo’s amused at the frequent repetition.

Beginning his day with the ongoing figures of running one’s kingdom – even extended out to a base camp that he was increasingly finding comfortable due to particular individuals over the ground-in memories of the last time they had been pitched – was a long-instilled habit that would likely outlast this age. Thranduil was no stranger to poring over calculations, reports, and schedules.

It was having this interrupted, where in the past he had welcomed it on various occasions, that disgruntled him in the middle of sorting requests for particular trade items from the other kingdoms.

“Yes?” He asked, putting down his pen with a sigh and reaching for a pinch of sand that would settle his notes onto the page. The quiet shh of sand falling upon wet ink was well-matched to the rustle of waxed canvas as his steward greeted him.

“My king,” Galion said, holding up a missive in the distinctive rolled vellum that marked dwarvish craftsmanship, “A message from the office of King Thorin.”

The sigh he could withhold, but the tinge of exasperation he didn’t bother with. Despite having camps bordered on each other, and indeed within frequent eyesight of, there was a steady stream of written messages delivered like clockwork.

Perhaps it was to avoid causing undue conflict, and he would appreciate this acknowledgment of how short-tempered he and Thorin could be when in the same room, but it went unwritten that both preferred to speak in person. That Galion had not said it was directly from the dwarf meant that it was likely one of the man’s retinue.

Or, given the events of the past few months, more possibly from one of the Company and co-opting Thorin’s status to pass messages.

It was not outside the realm of believability, and he accepted the scroll with a nod, leaning back in his chair to unravel it without putting his work into disarray. Dwarves rather had the tendency of disrupting his hard-earned plans like that.

Instead of the studious lettering that denoted Westron as a second lettering, precise as the edge of an axe, it held the fluid phrasing of one who had grown up with the language and held its form as an instinctive nature. He arched a brow, seeing how Galion looked intrigued from the other side of the partitioned room.

“Who delivered this to you?” He asked, scanning the message for any inconsistencies. No, it did appear to be Bilbo Baggins’ writing, and not as a mere scribe. The flourish of a signature at the end spoke of confidence rather than presentation, making him frown and hoping that another problem was not about to be delivered on his doorstep.

Galion’s curiosity increased, smooth as his answer was, “One of the dwarves frequently assigned to passing messages to Lord Bard, sir.”

A part of him wondered if it was a decoy, or if it was another of Master Baggins’ predilections for efficiency. Were it not for the bureaucratic headaches that tended to flower in the hobbit’s steps, he would almost be impressed at the amount of entertainment one person was capable of creating.

He was glad that he had already sent his son to Imladris – knowing his son so well, such an individual of firm opinions that was yet swayed into the sort of mischief that led one to travel halfway across the land would have been a potent combination. For now, though, his kingdom was still standing, and thank the stars for that averted disaster.

“Master Baggins has a gift for me,” He surmised, eyes flitting over the delicately-wrought words.

“Again?” Galion asked, eyebrows rising just as high as Thranduil’s own had been.

They shared a rueful smile, knowing that such combinations involving the hobbit consistently created a stir. The first had begun a war, the second had ended it, and Thranduil was not sure he could endure a third.

Galion bowed, “Shall I fetch refreshments?”

Thranduil smiled, rolling the missive back up and returning it to its bag, “I feel it would be unwise if we did not.”

One of these days, Thranduil was going to speculate on how he became accustomed to hobbit negotiation standards. The wine, having been brought for him and indulged with a fortifying sip before the informal meeting could begin, sat smoothly on his tongue.

The spread of food upon his table, arranged in little bites of foods that Master Baggins had politely informed him was customary for the meal at this hour of the morning, had been left primarily for his guest. Rolling the stem of his wineglass contemplatively as it sat on the table, Thranduil wondered whether he could divulge these recipes with the Mannish camp, as he was given the impression such sharing of food was an indicator of trust and respect.

He annotated one of the pages of inventory, one hand reaching absently toward a platter of sandwiches that was within reach.

“Those sandwiches were always my favourite,” Bilbo said wistfully, appearing abruptly and filching a sandwich of his own with a deft movement.

Thranduil startled, fingers tapping too loudly on the plate and making him whip his head toward the noise, “How did you get in here?”

What he wanted to say was ‘without anyone noticing’, but was rather interpreted literally and probably as a form of amusement.

Bilbo took a bite of his sandwich, making a pleased noise as he turned and pointed to the tent flaps, “Why, through there, my lord. How else?”

Knowing when the argument was cornered, Thranduil refrained from following that particular trail of inquiry and instead plucked a sandwich before they could disappear into that unenviable pit of a stomach. Master Baggins seemed content to while away the silence with eating, having perched into the only other chair with an ease that spoke of having elevenses with kings as a matter of course.

He knew for a fact this was not true, having gleaned from Bard, who in turn had contrived it out of his children, that Thorin had offered a retrospectively – and unintentional – insult and had packed up his Company before first breakfast could even chime in the Shire. Eyeing the meaning-laden braid tucked neatly behind the hobbit’s ear, he was both dreading and looking forward to meals being used as a form of socialization.

Certainly, hobbits had it perfected to an art.

Only after a respectable amount of time had passed did their meeting truly begin. Bilbo rifled through the inner pockets of his jacket, retrieving a lacquered box and setting it upon the table, far enough away from his piles of work that Thranduil acknowledged the consideration with a tilt of his head.

Despite the fine craftsmanship, he could tell it was of a plain design, inasmuch as dwarves could accomplish a minimalistic art. The interlocking patterns that decorated the edges of each face were cut into a pleasing texture, and he was oddly reminded of his home. Flicking a glance up, he saw the quiet preening on his guest’s face, and concluded that it was a deliberate choice.

It was touching. He rested his fingertips gently atop the box, “You are talented at making an impression, Master Baggins.”

“I do my best,” The hobbit demurred, a grin on his face.

Bilbo then gestured to the item between them, eyes twinkling, “There’s no special occasion, but I believe this at least warrants some attention. Between friends, if you would?”

“Friendship I will always give you,” Thranduil replied, marvelling at how this current twist of life was playing out.

He felt no trepidation in opening the box, but if he had known its contents, perhaps… perhaps he might have felt tempted to decline, if only because of the familiarity of its pain. His breath caught, and Bilbo across from him was admirably still, letting the moment spool into its conclusion. Certainly this was no idly-given gift, and he beat back the temptation to firmly shut the lid.

“How came you by these?” He asked, hoping his voice wasn’t as fragile as he felt.

Bilbo watched him for a moment, a myriad of thoughts upon his face, “It was in the hoard,” The hobbit finally said, quiet, “Not very far from the Arkenstone.”

His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt the sting of fire upon his skin once more, the memory as sharp as his grief. Bilbo looked as he felt, and it passed unvoiced between them the same conclusion of how the two contested gems came to be in such proximity. It was rather convenient that Bilbo insisted they take their meetings sitting down as peers, for the bolt of shock that had passed through him left a remarkable feeling of weakness in his limbs.

It was a foregone conclusion that he would never see these gems again. The manner of their parting, so finalized by Smaug, had felt like a second death of his wife – trodding over the searing pain of his soul being ripped apart so abruptly once more. Even being so close to a fragment of her memory by way of Laketown’s burning and the following battle had reminded him sharply of Thrór’s betrayal in those last tempestuous days.

For a moment he was torn between curling over those gems and evicting Bilbo from his presence, but the decision was – perhaps kindly – relieved from him.

“I can’t claim to know what it’s like,” Bilbo said softly, his steps silent on the ground, “But I know it’s something I would have wanted.”

He didn’t hear the burglar leave, ears too full of the crackle and roar of fire.

Time could not have fled his grasp so direly, for he knew that the rebuilding of the kingdoms serving as his neighbors would have roused his attentions in the time frame that mortals comprehended. So it was that he was… not content, but permissive of the slow trickle of minutes and hours slipping from his attention.

Memories roiled beneath the habitual control of his mind, entangling upon each other as his mind devised an unsettling amount of torments to occupy him. He kept a fragile thread of orientation upon the world with the box that beheld the least-healed of lashings on his heart.

He could hear words in his ears, but it took a long moment to parse that it was only one voice, and not one that was twisted tightly by the past.

“… and I’ll be right here as long as you need me to, Thranduil,” He heard, the voice accompanied by warmth across his shoulders, something about it settling the acrid etchings of memories that pulled him under, “I’ve already put my kids to bed, and the night watch started a little while ago. Galion let me know it was alright to be here…”

Fatigue slipped across his senses as gently as the fingers upon his brow, and he let himself be lulled amidst the crashing waves of his grief.

He awoke to warmth, and comfort. His hands felt unusually sore, muscles cramping as if they had been locked into place for hours on end. It was a mystery his mind was too slumberous to answer, his eyelids a leaden weight that convinced a sigh to be stoked from deep in his chest.

Arms tightened around him, and he murmured wordlessly, unwilling to move.

It was a languid situation he was unwilling to relinquish, unable to remember the last time he had felt so secluded from the pitfalls of his own mind. There was not even the perpetual background buzz rattling in his ears, neither from old injuries nor the headily-sweet wine that sat so thickly on his tongue.

Thranduil could not remember the last time he was so unburdened by the weight of memories and duties. Sinking into the strange hold around him was second nature to that, content to let his mind puddle and limbs grow heavy. It was just as he was beginning to flit back into sleep that a deep, kind-toned voice tugged him to full wakefulness, as gentle as the hand soothing down his back.

“Hullo,” It said, coalescing slowly into the recognition of a Man he had come to know. Bard, his mind murmured, and his fingers curled, a twinge of pain accompanying it that was quickly soothed with a brief tightening of arms around him, “Did you sleep well?”

He hummed, voice rough, the sensation unusual enough that he pried his eyes open. They did so stickily, and the memory floated up to the top of his thoughts that it had been an exceptionally long time indeed since he had been so unwarily well-rested.

Sighing, he asked, “How long?”

“Oh,” Bard said, a smile quite clearly in his tone, even if Thranduil’s own sleep-glazed eyes took their time to pick out the shape of the other’s lips when he tilted his head up, “Most of the night. It’s not quite morning, now.”

He blinked.

“I remember-” A yawn bubbled up, and how curious was that sensation, difficult to stifle as his hand – rather, his free hand – had uncinched itself from Bard’s coat to cover his mouth, “It was… quite light, when I-”

His tongue felt stoppered, unable to complete the sentence as his mind froze upon his most recent memories. The glow of his wife’s gems was burned into the back of his eyelids, and the sight had arrested his senses, forcing all else to flee from him. It was as if the sharp knife of her death had been plunged into his ribs once more, and his throat closed up.

“Aye,” Bard interrupted the spiraling thoughts that threatened to subsume him once more, tugging Thranduil closer with a hushing noise, “It’s alright.”

“It is not,” Thranduil said, “I had waited so long, and- now I rather cannot bear looking upon them.”

Bard made a thoughtful noise, the sound reverberating in the man’s chest from where Thranduil’s head laid – were it not for the apparent fact that he had slept thusly for an entire night, the tinge of hesitancy would have reared its head more sharply. As it were, he could only swallow, wondering how peculiar situations were occurring with greater frequency.

“There was a ribbon my wife adored,” Bard continued, fingers slowly stroking down Thranduil’s back in an almost absent gesture, “It was something she had picked up at the market one day, keen on surprising me.”

A quiet laugh, “It looked so delicate in her hair, the way she had it braided up. I was always teased whenever she took it off, holding it like the threads would fray if I was careless with it.”

Bard removed a hand from where it was resting atop Thranduil’s shoulder, shaking it a bit so the sleeve slid down. Upon his wrist was a tightly bound strip of fabric, twined upon itself so that it looked like a continuous whole. Thranduil shifted, peering at it curiously, “Is that… the same ribbon?”

“It is,” Bard confirmed, sounding fond as he watched him reach a hand out to brush at its edges with the back of his finger. The embroidered fabric was soft with age, warm from continuous wear, “I had put it into her keepsake box when she died, too afraid to touch it.”

Thranduil could parse what this story was intended to convey, and he focused on the reassuring, steadfast presence of Bard to gather his quailing courage, “What passed, that you would wear it?”

Bard let his hand fall back down, obscuring the ribbon. The weight was grounding through the silent pause, “I couldn’t remember what she looked like with it on.”

He felt his heart squeeze at the admission, so ruefully and easily said. The birds were just beginning to rouse outside, slowly drawing to a close whatever intimacy this moment enclosed. With little thought to the contrary, he shifted, just enough to overlap his arm with Bard’s. It was a comforting weight, something he could feel Bard also sunk into by the sigh he could feel depressing the man’s ribs.

“I think,” Thranduil murmured, “That I can only remember what she looked like when I see our son.”

“Yeah?” Bard asked, letting himself be weighed down into the bed.

He nodded, feeling the weather-roughened wool burr against his cheek, “They smile the same – so full of joy. I have done my best to give him happiness, but…”

“It never feels like enough,” Bard finished in a tone of agreement.

They laid there, the inside of the tent slowly becoming more visible even to a Man’s eyes, and Thranduil found himself loathe to depart the moment. Soon, he would need to ready himself for the day, putting the past once more behind him.

Bard, as if intuiting the demands that would be levied on them, merely stretched, bones creaking. The man made a relieved sigh, settling himself more securely around Thranduil, “I don’t mind this.”

“No,” He agreed, allowing those hands to once more bring his mind to ground, instead of flitting about the trees of his woes, “We have a little more time.”

Author's Notes

I've read various interpretations on why Thranduil would behave differently compared to book canon and movie canon, and while I haven't (yet) read the Silmarillion outside of looking up certain passages, I feel like the Gems of Lasgalen would be a sticking point in how Thranduil interacts with the Quest for Erebor due mostly to the fact that they were mentioned at all.

It is admittedly difficult to imagine Thranduil's POV, because the time scale of his existence in particular means that there has to be some granularity when approaching his priorities. Insofar as I know, Tolkien never writes of Thranduil's death, so conceivably and narratively Thranduil lives until the end of the world. In that light, how important must these gems be? Certainly not for their physical value or craftsmanship, so that leaves their sentimental value.

Thranduil had experienced by the time the Battle of the Five Armies ended, approximately, three or so near-death experiences, and more than a single lifetime's worth of dead kinsmen around him. In the movie, he bade Legolas to leave him, and I believe it was likely because he saw everything that happened in order to retake Erebor and how very easily everyone in that region could have been overrun. To have what was probably a long-forsaken memento of his dead wife returned to him shortly after his only child left him, who he realized had a good chance of never returning to him, is likely more of a gut-punch than I think the narrative gives credit. Especially in the time-span of "forever".

Thranduil has over the course of canon evolved so much as a character, something I think has netted him a lot of skills and a certain sense of watchful sedateness - he came to the throne on the death of his father (which might or might not have been strictly on hereditary reasons), led his people through an era-defining series of battle that nearly wiped all of them out, survived the death of his wife when such situations ordinarily appear to kill an elf, and came through all of that with a strict sense of defending what he has left through any means necessary. It makes me think that he didn't march on the mountain because of his wife, but rather a that continuous habit to maintain the delicate, tenuous peace that Smaug's very presence threatens. A Smaug out of the mountain is much more volatile than a Smaug dozing away on enough gold that might well have effectively tranquilized an inherently malevolent entity. Thranduil gambles quite a bit with Erebor, so having the Gems of Lasgalen could in such a context been more rubbing salt in the wound rather than letting it heal.

(Also I exceptionally love the image of a Thranduil who has become scarily competent at bureaucracy. There's got to be some reason for him to more or less lounge in a throne, but still have the wherewithal to lop an Orc's head off during an interrogation. He's very much a "hell or high water" sort of person, and doing that for millennia on end is going to burn him out somehow.)

The idea that Bilbo and Thranduil could have, in canon, a shared sense of grief sounds quite potent, and I think a good way for them to talk to each other like peers. Neither of them would have much opportunity to discuss that with others, I think, given the touch of fate both of them seem to have.

Bard… hmm. I think here he really typifies the "Gift of Man" - his mortality means that his perspective is perhaps a bit more grounded on the physicality of death. Thranduil feels a bit adrift, and I think that really is due to him outstubborning fading away, but elves developing soulmates as a form of marriage has absolutely got to be an unending form of agony. I don't abide by Tolkien's worldbuilding of how he approaches marriage for elves (otherwise I wouldn't be writing Barduil in the first place), but I think being an effectively soul-based being makes for some interesting consequences.

#the hobbit #barduil #my stories

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coramatus · 1 year

Text

Under the City Streets (part 8)

The Old Man of the Mountain and the not-very-sudden-but-very-inevitable betrayal.

Happy New Year! Have an update!

For why Emmet and Volo are bothering with a weird old dude who might be Arceus in disguise, read part 7.1 - 7.5, but mainly 7.5.

When Emmet and Volo reach the foot of a mountain (more like an overlarge hill) with rotting wooden steps dug into the side, Volo insists that he is going no further. Emmet doesn’t care and says Volo can do whatever.

And yet Volo still frets as he watches Emmet ascend the steps.

As Emmet crests the hill, he finds a decrepit old shack surrounded by a veritable junkyard of wood and metal objects. A covered porch lines the sides of the shack, where an old man sits in a rocking chair facing away from him, whittling away at a piece of wood into some kind of doll.

“Hello!” Emmet greets the old man, sharply adopting his signature point and call pose, “I am—!”

“Emmet!” a chipper wizened voice finishes for him. The man doesn’t turn around as he chuckles, “Don’chu worry none. I know who ya are.”

Emmet’s pose slips. He’s never been interrupted like that before.

“Um… then, you are—?”

“Yep! I’m the Ol’ Man yet lookin’ fer. Be wit'cha inna minute, kiddo,” the man quips easily, “Just gotta put on some finishin’ touches fer ya.”

The carving knife is set aside in favor of a stump of an old black grease pencil which deftly makes a few marks on the doll.

“Aaaand done!” the Old Man announces. He turns to face Emmet with a gap-toothed grin as he tosses a small wooden doll at Emmet, who barely catches it in time. The man eyes him expectantly, “Whaddya say? Pretty spot on, I reckon.”

Blinking in confusion, Emmet gets his first look at the doll and is given pause.

It’s a simple, stylized human figure, its stumpy left arm pointed forwards with its right pointed to the side. It’s painted in white with trademark brown bands along the sides and along its flared sleeve cuffs. A familiar white hat sits on its head, bearing the distinct blue and white livery of Gear Station. Its simple face bears a v-shaped smile and unmistakable pointed gray sideburns.

“O-oh! This is… me?” Emmet says with a puzzled tilt of his head. For a long moment, he stares blankly at the effigy of himself before a faint smile breaks across his face, “Neat.”

The man snaps his knee with a gleeful cackle, “Boy howdy, you’re the first fella in a while to not up and run off on me! The second I give ‘em their doll, it’s like they seen a ghost! I like ya, kiddo!”

“Thanks?” Emmet says, his smile hesitant, not entirely sure why anyone would flee from a display of an omniscient person’s power.

He looks back down at the doll, noting that it depicts him in his complete outfit, not his current shredded, torn and injured state. A state he wishes he could go back to. Pushing past the feeling of loss, he refocuses on the Old Man, smiling with faint hope,

“Then you really know everything?”

“Just about. ‘Round these parts anyways. And whatever else comes through!” the Old Man laughs as he rises from his chair onto stooped legs to hobble past Emmet. A shaky hand grips a knobbled, white cane, its pointed tip covered in polished brass. He shakes his head as he pushes open a sliding, wooden door and shuffles in, “Ain’t never a dull day in these here parts, kiddo. Always folks wantin’ to find answers until they get ones they don’t like. Then it gets real messy.”

Old Man invites Emmet into a mildly hoarded out cabin. He is a very gracious host, offering food and drink. But Emmet cuts to the chase.

“Something happened to my brother and I need to know what that was. People call him the Woodsman but his real name is Ingo.”

“Straight to the point. I can respect that,” the Old Man nods as he hobbles along. He prepares some tea on a banked fire, as he recounts, “Yeah, I know that fella. Kid’s got a real mean streak in him. And he used to be so nice too.”

“Yep… he was the nicest…” Emmet confirms, a fond smile playing at the corners of his lips. However, it quickly fades as reality reasserts itself, a deep sadness settling in his chest, “But now I’m not sure who he is anymore…” He looks up to the Old Man, pleading, “What happened to him? I need to know.”

The Old Man sucks on his pipe, his previous manic demeanor falling away to an alert calmness, staring at him evenly, “And why would that be?”

“Because I do not understand!” Emmet shouts, shooting to his feet. His fingers grab his hair as he paces the cabin, his thoughts and feelings boiling over as he rants in desperation, “I cannot understand! Why won’t he listen to me? Amnesia does not explain his refusal to listen!” He groans, despairing, “What am I missing? What am I doing wrong?!”

Emmet is left shaking and panting, struggling to hold back tears. He’s not sure why he lost control like that in front of someone he just met, but it hardly matters now. He doesn’t resist as the Old Man guides him to a seat. The Old Man patiently stays by Emmet’s side as he works his tangled knot of emotions under control, taking careful, controlled breaths.

“I’m sorry…” Emmet whispers, his dull voice choking with pain, “I just want him back so, so much…”

The Old Man soothingly rubs Emmet’s back, not unlike a doting grandparent would to an upset grandchild, “That fellah’s got no clue how lucky he is to have such a wonderful brother lookin’ out fer him.”

“How wonderful can I be if I can’t even get him to believe me?” Emmet answers mournfully.

He shifts but he accidentally jostles his burn, making him cry out in pain as he doubles over. He’s left cradling his injured arm to his chest, shaking and whimpering as fresh tears form in his eyes.

The Old Man offers to take a look at the wound and Emmet lets him, holding out his trembling arm. With great care, the Old Man unwraps Emmet’s tie and audibly winces at the sight. But as he examines Emmet’s burn, his expression darkens. He asks if Emmet is feeling any different, to which he just sighs and admits that he feels a lot more tired. The Old Man warns him that he needs to keep a closer eye on his moods. This wound has the potential to take his life if he's not careful.

Emmet isn’t sure what he means but guesses that it could get infected and go septic. He just nods along halfheartedly, letting the Old Man apply a salve to ease the pain before wrapping his arm back up.

From Emmet’s sullen demeanor, the Old Man surmises that he’s had it rough enough and could use a real break.

So the Old Man offers a wager. He likes Emmet and will give him information no matter what. But which sort of info that will be depends on if he can best the Old Man. If Emmet wins, the Old Man will tell him that which he wants to know. If Emmet fails, he will be told what he needs to know. Emmet figures the end result will be the same so he easily agrees.

The Old Man nods sagely.

The challenge?

“Hit me.”

Emmet stills, uncertain he heard correctly.

“…say again?”

The Old Man grins wide at him with his nearly toothless mouth, “You heard me. Hit me. Deck me. Punch me. Slap me. Kick me. Ya land a hit, ya win. If you don’t by the time I get bored, then ya lose.”

Emmet thinks about this. He pushes up his tattered sleeves. With a spark of life back in his eyes, he drops into a fighting stance, declaring,

“I am Emmet. And I like winning more than anything else!”

“I know ya do, kiddo,” the Old Man gives him another gap-toothed grin.

Unfortunately for Emmet, the Old Man is far more spry than he lets on. No matter how much Emmet swings at the Old Man, his opponent slips just out of reach or catches his blows and throws him off or simply trips him. More than once, Emmet finds himself crashing into a wall.

In the end, Emmet doesn’t hit the Old Man. But he does tackle him, which is better than not touching him at all. The Old Man laughs at his clever tilting of the rules. Emmet didn’t win but neither did he lose.

So the Old Man offers Emmet a tidbit of both what he wants and needs to know.

Emmet is told how his brother disappeared. Simply put, his brother did not leave of his own free will, slipping through an unexpected tear in space-time. It was just bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.

A weight lifts off Emmet’s chest. He was always afraid Ingo left because he’d grown sick and tired of his weirdo twin. It’s a relief to know Ingo didn’t choose to be here.

As for why any of this happened?

The Old Man won’t say it himself, but he grimly informs Emmet that he needs to ask his little Starly friend.

Volo knows exactly why.

Volo hops back and forth before the hill steps, sort of a Starly version of pacing. He’s deep in thought, having begun to piece things together. For a moment, there’s a faint flutter of hope that perhaps his ordeal might see an end.

But when Emmet returns, Volo needs only one look at him to shatter that hope.

Emmet’s thin smile has vanished entirely. He watches silently as Volo tries fussing over him, nervously asking if he learned anything useful.

Instead of answering, Emmet quietly asks Volo what he has to do with everything that’s happened.

Volo’s heart sinks as he realizes what the Old Man must have said to Emmet. He tries to beg off but Emmet isn’t having it.

“Tell me the truth, Volo,” Emmet says, his flat voice rendered positively frigid. His silvery eyes bore burning holes into Volo, “Are you the reason why my brother was taken? Was Ingo’s disappearance your fault this whole time?”

“I-I can’t… I wasn’t targeting him specifically-! He came through by accident-!” Volo sputters, unable to stop the words even as he internally screams at himself to shut up.

Emmet’s eyes widen in shock, but it’s quickly replaced by a disgusted glare.

“You knew,” he hisses.

Volo is quick to make excuses, his wings outspread, pleading, “I-I’m sorry! It was such a long time ago, I didn’t think-!”

“This whole time, it was your fault,” Emmet whispers. He turns away from Volo, unable to face him as his voice trembles from barely restrained anger, “…I trusted you.”

“E-Emmet, it was an accident-! I didn’t think he was anyone important—!”

Emmet can’t even look at Volo, only uttering a single word:

“Leave.”

“Emmet-!”

“I SAID LEAVE!!!” Emmet screams, spinning on his heel to glare daggers at Volo. His face, usually so open and friendly to a fault, is now twisted into a snarl of such pure rage and hatred that it stops Volo dead in his tracks. For a split second, Volo thinks Emmet is about to stomp him flat. But instead, Emmet sharply turns away from Volo and storms off without another word.

All Volo can do is watch as what was once his only friend walks out of his life. Anger bubbles up in his chest, the unfairness of it all making him snap.

“Fine! Fine! You know what?” Volo spits back at Emmet, furiously flapping his wings to hover in place, “I will! I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again! How do you like that!!”

Emmet doesn’t even acknowledge him. There is not a hint of hesitation as he marches forwards in furious determination. His eyes are set ahead, resolutely ignoring everything else around him.

This just sets Volo off even more, “Yeah! That’s right! Leave! Just walk away like everyone else! Don’t bother looking at the only reason you even got this far! I don’t matter to anyone in the end!!!”

But by this time, Emmet has already walked well out of sight. Realizing he’s completely alone, Volo’s indignant fury deflates, fluttering to the ground, his wings drooping and despondent as he stares out at where he last saw Emmet.

For all his rage, even Volo knows he deserves this in the end.

“Emmet… Sinnoh, I am so sorry…”

Part 9

#pokemon #pokemon legends arceus #pokemon black and white #pokemon black 2 and white 2 #under the city streets au #submas #subway boss ingo #volo #starly #arceus #maybe?#coramatus's artwork

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