can't stop won't stop loving Blade

If someone had the ability to have all the love languages, Jing Yuan is one of them. That man will throw gifts at you while also praising you for the simplest thing he noticed. You got a haircut? You look amazing. Tried out a new outfit? He's in love!!

All while holding your hand, he wants you to feel the love he has for you, even if he's busy with all his general duties.

He's the definition of clingy, he will complain if you're gone for a day much more a week or longer. He claims you're his lucky charm, refusing to do anything without you near him.

Jing Yuan will not hesitate on spoiling you, so don't take him shopping cause he'll try buying the whole store. His priority is your happiness, even if his methods are kind of annoying to you.

"You're heavy.." But the man just laughed, it was truly a sight. You almost weren't seen by people except for the fact that he kept kissing your head. He's engulfed you into another hug, his arms around you as he made up another reason to stop working. He needs rest he says, except he's the one who woke up two hours after the meeting he was supposed to attend.

He glances down. The little earrings—meant for his wing, apparently—gleam in the light. They're delicate in their intricacy, petal-edged, softer than his usual rapier points. The metal shines like the stars. It rates as gold, he knows, but the yellow of it is peculiar, a quirk of the planet it comes from. There is nothing else in the universe like it.

"I do not doubt their origin."

"Mhm," you say. "You should."

"Because of your assessment from—" he considers the distance between the two of you "—over 10 feet away?"

"Yup."

Sunday raises an eyebrow. He should go. His schedule is never-ending, always brimming with the duties that weigh down the curves of his slim shoulders. He has little spare time, and even littler to spend with someone like you. But—

"And you are an expert in the subject matter, I presume," he says dryly.

You smile. "Something like that."

His eyes dart back to the earrings. They gleam. There's nothing to even suggest that they're anything less than what the honey-mouthed diplomat had claimed. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

You laugh. "They said you were polite," you say. "But you do have teeth, don't you?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I suppose," you say. "Give them here. I'll test them."

He arches his brow again.

"They're not worth stealing, if that's what you're worried about."

"Hardly."

"Then give them here."

Sunday does. He steps closer and presses the box into your open palm, the velvet of it soft against your glittering palm. Gems, he thinks, inlaid in your skin like a jeweled glove. He follows their path up your forearm, your bicep, until they disappear under your gossamer sleeve, barely visible save the faint sheen of them flickering through the thin fabric like fireflies each time you move. Something rings in the back of his mind, a memory just out of reach.

You push yourself up from your indolent sprawl, and those same gems spill out across your neck, your collarbone, into the soft curve of your breast.

Perhaps you are an expert.

"Wow," you say, laughter curling in the corners of your lips again. "I didn't think you would."

Sunday didn't think he would either. It's unnerving.

You pop the small earrings out of their case, rolling them against your palm. They clack against your bejeweled palm, teeth against teeth.

"They're close, I'll give you that," you say. "Good fakes, expertly-made, really."

"There's no purpose in gifting me fakes," Sunday says. "And this hardly proves anything other than your commitment to your assumption."

You smile again. "There's always a purpose," you say.

You bring the earrings up to your face, holding one between your fingers. Sunday watches you, waits. You meet his gaze, something knowing in your eyes, and then—

You slip the earring between your lips.

Sunday starts. A surprised noise—an undignified one, likely—almost leaves him, but he bites it down with his iron control. He should—he should scold you, he supposes, or demand you spit it out, but there's laughter sparkling in your eyes. It feels like a challenge; a dare he can't afford to lose.

There's also the matter of your tongue.

He can see it pressing against the inside of your cheeks, your lips, as you roll the earring in your mouth. Sometimes, there's a flicker of the pink of it peeking out from between your lips.

Before he can gather himself enough to protest, the earring clicks against your teeth. You press it against your lips until they part, the metal gleaming wetly before it drops into your hand with a soft chime. There's a thin string of saliva connected to it. It's vulgar; it's mesmerizing.

The string snaps.

Sunday refocuses just in time to hear the end of the list of metals you're listing off. All of them are far from the prized yellow-gold of the planet the earrings purportedly came from.

"You can—" he starts, before catching himself.

"Taste it," you finish.

The echo of memory from earlier solidifies; a species from a distant planet that rarely leave their home, the way they can taste precious stones and metal alike, can break them down to their core. One of the diplomats had boasted of coaxing one off-world.

If that is you—and it must be you—you are an expert indeed.

As if sensing his thoughts, you smile again. You press the earring into his hand; your gemstones are cold, but Sunday can't help but focus on the wet, still warm earring against his palm.

you raise an eyebrow and look at your short nails. “won’t that hurt?”

he holds your nails in his palms and presses on the edge of them, feeling for the sharpness. “sweetheart, these wouldn’t even hurt a pup. you remember i’m a werewolf, riiight?” he smiles. “i’ve been scratched by newborns with longer claws.”

you hum and consider it. “well… even if i did want to scratch you, my nails would break before they got long enough.”

valko pats the tops of your hands and lets them go, going back to cooking. “i’ll pay for you to get acrylics. any shape, length, color you want- you could even get a design.”

“are you sure?” you ask skeptically. despite knowing that your boyfriend was rich rich, you still felt bad spending his money.

the very next day, you had long stiletto nails in a deep plum color.

valko was ecstatic when he saw them, but paused when he examined them further. you’d gotten his initials painted on your ring fingers- a suggestion from the nail artist. you’d been worried it was too much… what if valko didn’t like it?

…valko liked it. probably a little too much, considering how he was fucking you so deep into the memory foam mattress that you were sure your indentation would be there for years to come.

“nnghhhh!! ‘ko- shit!” you breathed out, gasping for air as his thick cock drilled against your cervix.

your nails pressed dully into his skin, not quite scratching or piercing the skin.

valko groaned and moved forward, pressing your knees fully beside your head into a deep mating press. “scratch me. dig your nails in- hmmmm.” he whined out.

you pressed down harder, raking your nails down the expanse of his back and raising the skin in red streaks.

“yes- fuck, perfect. harder, dig in harder, i know you’re strong. show me how strong you are.” valko’s breath hitched and he let out a pleased moan when you followed his instructions.

you whined and babbled incoherently about how good he felt, how deep he was in you while your nails left scratches on his back in every direction.

you mindlessly clawed at his skin, searching desperately for something to hold onto and he fucked you harder than you’d ever felt.

“s’ good.. such a good mate, so accommodating, scratching the shit out of me.” valko praises, voice gruff in your ear.

“mmhmmm.” you whine. he switches his angle ever so slightly, hitting upward and bullying the spot deep inside you that makes your vision white out.

you screech and dig your nails into his back hard, hard enough to make him groan and stutter.

“fuck! cumming- cu- shit, holy shit.” valko moans out, collapsing on top of you as he fills you the condom full of his thick cum.

you’re both in a hazy sort of bliss that only sex can give for a handful of minutes after. you’re only brought out of it when valko stands to go get a warm towel for you and your eyes meet his back- your canvas.

you gasp and sit up weakly. "valko!”

valko turns, on high alert and scanning the room. “what- what? fuck, don’t scare me like that-”

“your back is bleeding!” you interrupt, crawling towards him on shaky limbs.

valko pauses and reaches to touch his back, looking at his bloody fingers. “oh.”

“i’m so sorry- oh my god, i’m evil, i’m terrible!” you ramble, tears brimming your eyes.

when you look up at valko, he’s… smiling?! ear to ear, at that! “what the hell is the matter with you?! i injured you!” you yell, tossing a pillow at him in frustration.

valko smiles and walks to the edge of the bed, cradling your cheek with his clean hand. “you marked me up, just like every good mate should. here, take a picture for me.” he grabs his phone from the nightstand and hands it to you, turning around.

you open the camera and snap a picture, trying not to drool over it. you’d marked him up good- he had red streaks in all directions, blood trickling from most of them. weirdly, the sight made a new wetness form between your legs.

valko looked at the picture cleared his throat, a flush rising on his cheek. something else rose, right beside your face, thick and leaking pre again.

since that day, your nails were always done and valko’s back was always painted ruby red.

a/n: no one be sad!!!! everyone be happy!! valko lives on, i promiseeee yall everything will be okay. do you really think mama rhi would let anything happen to our valko? no!!