#Sobbing over this fic as a WHOLE/pos

[rainyraisin]

HOLY SHIT

I DONT JUST LIKE IT I LOVE IT WITH ALL MY HEART FYLNXGKNGCBK AHHHHHH THIS WAS SO WORTH THE WAIT THANK YOU SM DUDE THIS IS SUH AN AWESOME SECRET SANTA GIFT YIPPEE YIPPEE YAY‼️‼️‼️💖💖💖🌸🌸🌸🌸🫂🫂🫂🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 Will be freaking out about this for the rest of time omigosh!!!!!

Cerebral

tws/cws: body horror, brain fuckery (idk what else to call it), descriptions of overstimulation/sensory ickyness, very brief mentions of both vomiting and self harm, shitty writing from yours truly

wordcount: 929

notes: did a secret santa event in a discord server and this is what I did, but I might end up continuing it . idk yet . I hope they like it because this thing took me foreverrr

Access denied.

Access denied.

Access denied.

Tendrils. Twisting, touching, examining, attaching. Like curious little leeches. Except instead of draining and taking they gave.

Sensations. Textures. Feelings. Information. So much information. They felt like their brain would explode right out of their skull. Buzzing, electrical, diluted thoughts.

They're being exposed to information they never would've known. It's unnatural yet far from artificial. Currents of consciousness flickered in and out, barely understandable among the others. Rain falling into the ocean, individual yet part of the whole.

Unexpectedly, the technodrome wasn't one mind, a strand of being, but an entire network of interconnections, spiraling together like a knot, neverending conflicting thoughts and feelings of their own. Sprawling out into this vessel. The technodrome. They almost forgot where they were.

It was so easy to lose yourself in the constant stream of feelings. Maybe that was on purpose. They weren't sure if it(?) even had programming, but they knew that if it did, everything written in code was purposeful.

A purpose. What was the purpose of this thing? It felt wrong to call it that. A thing. It was a living database, collections of information and ideas. Like brains, almost, even if artificial. How advanced was kraang technology? Questions, yet no answers.

Another thread among the others. Their thoughts buzzed along with the rest. Lost among the current. Wondering if they would even get a response. Inputs, outputs.

Error messages blare in the background. Panic. What was happening? There was a disconnect from their outer vessel body. It was barely theirs. Poking and prodding. Examination. Was it fit for use? Leeches again. Inspection. Mess of tentacles. Sensory hell, slime and feelings and fluid and gross. Eugh. Don't slip back, focus. What happened.

Access denied.

Access denied.

Access denied? To what? They weren't trying to access anything. Everything was orderly until a few moments ago. A disturbance. Busy. No more poking.

Noise. Outside noise. Voices. Talking. External. Threat. Familiar voices. Who?

The asset you are trying to access is occupied.

...Asset? Which asset? What was trying to access it?

It was incredibly difficult to see outside of the console. Despite having an external form, it wasn't as active or useful because of the disturbance. Plus they weren't sure how to function it while being able to concentrate on other things. Everything was foreign. New. Scary. what am i even doing what is happening nononono everything is wrong all wrong wrong wrong wrong

Responses. Electrical sensations. Everything was fine. Everything would be as long as this thing threat was gone.

Movements, pulling, dragging, attachment. Leeches are back. This time their body was being moved, puppeted, not simply inspected. It was fit for use. A good vessel. No longer theirs.

Their vision is shifted out of wherever it was before. Everything is blurred and yellow-tinted, like they're looking through a dirty camera lense.

They try to blink to clear their vision. Nothing happens. They try to move something, anything, desperately, but nothing happens.

They feel things happening. Their body being altered to better fit its new purpose.

Tendrils trail around their body, sticking onto their scales and fusing with their being. It felt horrid. Sickening sensations. They would've vomited by now if they had any semblance of control.

Their skin feels itchy and gross. They can do nothing to fix it. Scratch it get it off out out get out of me get off leave please this is mine not yours off-

Their body shambles towards whatever was infront of them. Their vision was still strange, so they couldn't really tell, but they could make out colors. Different shades of green. Red, blue, orange..

Wait.

shit shit shit shit shit shit shit SHIT nononono anything but this shit FUCK.

The threat had been identified.

Maybe they would get lucky. Maybe it wouldn't be able to pilot their body well enough to do any damage. They knew this was all wishful thinking, but if there was any time for irrational thoughts it was probably now.

They didn't doubt their siblings abilities, but they didn't doubt theirs either. They'd kicked a lot of ass, and this made their body stronger. It didn't have any sense of mercy either, so in short, them and everyone involved were fucked.

Like an idiot, they tried to move their body again. The definition of insanity was trying the same thing over and over again in hopes of a different result, so maybe they've lost it. It was better then doing nothing and letting it happen. They hoped that somehow their efforts would amount to something, even though they knew better.

Their body moved again, (if you could even call it theirs anymore) getting closer to their siblings. It seemed inexperienced with piloting a body like theirs, but it was unfortunately a fast learner. Shuffling quickly turned into full steps. Closer, closer.

They weren't sure what was happening anymore. As time went on they felt more distant from their physical form. The dissonance of the technodrome's inner workings began to buzz in the back of their mind again. They felt themself slipping despite their rising panic and desperate efforts.

Despite their hatred for metaphors they felt like they were a fly in a spider's web. Trying and struggling again and again with no result. Small. Afraid. Unable to fix anything. Save themself.

Everything felt distant. They felt their hands grip something metal. High grade titanium familiar against their palms, familiar shape curled around their fingers. Thoughts about fighting tactics and a specific battle style being picked through.

They didn't know what happened next.

[lowkeyren]

Hii I hope I'm not intruding, but I was overcome with the urge to rant after I read your alhaitham childhood sweetheart fic. Truly amazing piece of work. Genuinely, my jaw is hanging. I had to clutch my heart in fear it would grow legs and leap out of my chest. Was absolutely swooning.

Anyways. I just wanted to say how Fanfiction is one of the best things to ever exist in this world. It has the potential to ruin and destroy but also heal and fulfill. And I can't appreciate artists enough in this regard because they bring to life, life. If that makes sense. They color a black and white world. They fill the heart with so much imagination and instill so much hope. Love exists because of their creative liberty. And the way writers incorporate all these seemingly minor details to a character just builds them in a light we either yearn for or relate to. I'm rambling this off to you solely because of how much I love alhaitham and how much your fic truly brought me to life. It was insanely well written in my eyes. I loved alhaithams portrayal. I loved the idea.

You captured it so well that i could taste the sweetness of a sweet on my tongue. Oooh and that little moment with alhaitham, cyno, nari and kaveh left me grinning so hard. LIKE I LOVE THE DIALOGUE. nothing too wow or dramatic but it fits and flows o well together with the characters and the story. oh lord and when alhaitham meets us at the end. I'm in love with the way he loves us. [without waiting for an answer, you decide to indulge him, linking your pinky with his. as your thumbs briefly touch, you catch the look in his eyes —serious, yet with a softness that makes your heart skip. “a promise that i’ll be by your side as long as sugar tastes sweet,” he says, his voice low and sincere.] This needs to be framed and hung on my wall. AS LONG AS SUGAR TASTES SWEET? GET OUT OF HERE. adorable. Heart twisting, gut wrenching. I'm rolling on the dirt floor crying. And then u have him say ["so come back with me"]

I'm in a romantic mood. I'll go cry about this. Not getting over it ever. You're amazing. Thank you

YOU😭🥺💧Eu💧💧E E😭😭 E EUE🥺🥺😭UUUUE😭🥺💧🥺😭 ue 💧ee😭🥺💧ue 🥺e e e😭e💧🥺😭Uueuuue💧💧you😭🥺ee e🥺🥺😭eUEE 💧🥺💧EEE 💧💧😭U E 🥺😭EE H💧🥺😭E EUU💧🥺😭yo u🥺💧😭EUEH🥺😭💧💧ue e😭😭eeeeee💧💧💧uu🥺😭 euuuee😭🥺YOUUU🥺😭💧

HEYA NO URE NOT INTRUDING AT ALL!!!! u actually made my made my whole week. no joke :') TYSM FOR READING THE FIC IM SO GLAD PPL LIKED IT AHHHHHH

your ask legit left me speechless for like 3 days straight. to hear that my fic had that kind of impact on you, esp on alhaitham's characterization, is beyond rewarding. genuinely, thank you for taking the time to share your comments with me —it seriously means the world to me!!!! (GOD URE SO SWEET URE SO SWEET URE SO S— cavities.)

AND YOU LOVING THE DIALOGUE? THANK YOU, I STRUGGLED WITH THAT SO MUCH ARRUGHHH (cus i was like dang this is such a perfect chance to include a 4ggravate scene but i was so worried i wld mischaracterize them LMAO)

dw i lowkey giggled at alhaitham's last few lines too (so come back w me / as long as sugar tastes sweet) i tried out other lines, but i ended up sticking with these ones because it felt the most impactful to me SO IM THRILLED TO HEAR THAT OTHERS THINK SO TOO (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

you, you're amazing, dear reader. thank you for your kind words, you lovely wonderful sweet soul <3

[v3nusxsky]

Hi Mars! I hope your well!<3 I have a request, it's a larissa weems x fem reader where r and larissa do the nasty then r finds out she's pregnant and after r gives birth she struggles with postpartum depression and one day when larissa comes home from work she finds r holding the baby close to her chest and crying so r tells larissa everything and larissa comforts r and then like maybe years later r and larissa has the most stubborn but cute little girl who loves ice cream and teddy bears?. This might be a bit much but I hope you can do it❤️ thank you Mars!🙏I love your fics🙌

Breaking through the darkness

*Authors note~ another instalment of YAMW and the last in the series but honestly I’d love to write one shots for this universe so if you have any ideas on what you’d like to see hit my asks up. And I’ll see y’all in Sinful Souls*

Trigger warnings~ pregnancy giving birth mentions breast feeding an infant postpartum depression hurt and comfort etc Larissa being the most wonderfully loving wife possible

Prompt~ see ask^^^^

Tag list

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Larissa had a few more nightmares at the beginning of your pregnancy, most about failing you and your unborn child. Yet one thing that didn’t change was her insistence that the baby would be a girl. There is absolutely no doubt in the blondes mind on the child’s gender yet you were adamant that you should decide on a name for both genders. Just in case. Your stubborn nature got you to convince, so boy or girl you’d both decided on their name.

Alongside the debate over names and the insane cravings that often found Larissa fluttering from store to store, in and around Jericho, pregnancy only heightened your stubbornness and insistence that you were simply pregnant not disabled and Larissa’s dedication and truthfulness. However, despite all the new hormones and adjustments to your daily lives you were both committed to each other and overcoming every challenge as a pair.

Anticipation grew as you reached six months pregnant, your ability becoming hyper sensitive and uncontrollable. Deciding to wait to find out if you’d have a son or a daughter is what got you through the changes to your body. Nevermore’s students were abuzz with theories and suggestions about the child. A few of the staff members had thrown you and Larissa a baby shower that was modest and gender neutral but beautiful, the gifts being thoughtful and generous mixed with your new levels of hormones had you in tears at the love and care for your unborn child.

Around the last month of your pregnancy you began to fear you’d fail the baby. You obviously want the best for them, but your parents weren’t exactly the best role models and that led to your mind concocting the most distressing nightmares that often woke Larissa by your screams and sobs, to which Larissa would spend hours consoling you despite her long work hours.

By the end of your pregnancy, you were totally over the whole situation. Not only were you carrying the weight of a whole other human but your back hurt all the time, your ankles were the size of beach balls and the Braxton and Hicks contractions were borderline torture. Sleep being hard to come by all contributed to you wanting your baby earth side now. Larissa liked to suggest that perhaps the child was a perfect mix of your stubbornness and her determination was why your due date came and went with no signs of labour. No. In fact it was 8 days later that things got real, just in time for the end of semester holidays.

After twelve hours of relentless contractions, broken sobs and curses to your lover and little sleep did you bring your child into the world with a massive gasp of relief. Hearing their cry of protest brought tears to both of your eyes as the nurses took the child away to clean them off before bringing them back and placing them on your bare chest without revealing. The doctors and nurses fluttering round the room to ensure you and the baby got the best postpartum treatment before coming to congratulate both of the new mothers.

“You did so well sweet girl, so proud of my girl” Larissa murmured pressing sweet kisses to your forehead as you both gazed down lovingly at the content newborn. “Georgina Faye Weems” you murmured happily as your index finger came to trace her little cheek.

“I thought we decided on Ophelia darling” Larissa murmured just basking in her beauty and the knowledge that she was right all along, now she’d be able to hold her girls. “Georgina for your aunt Isa.”

“That’s beautiful sweetheart, Georgina Faye Weems, you are one beautiful little angel, your momma and mommy love you so much. Everyone at Nevermore is going to love her” Larissa pondered choking back the emotion of her daughters name honouring her long lost aunt.

Adjusting to motherhood isn’t as easy as everyone else makes it look, thankfully Larissa could take the time in the holidays to spend time with her perfect little family as you healed from the birth. Larissa happily woke up to settle Georgina using the milk you’d expressed to allow you some sleep. Being in your blissful bubble of love with her and Georgina was utterly perfect, until the start of school popped that bubble. Larissa had your cover arranged, you’d gone over and over the work they’d be teaching and ensured the teacher would have access to all the materials. What you weren’t expecting was for how hard you’d find the day with your newborn alone.

Larissa couldn’t help but notice how irritated you’d become with her when she’d leave her office for the day. The irritation could rival your stubbornness at the earlier days in your relationship with ease. The poor blonde didn’t know what to do to help you through this time. You were taking on the night shifts now but Larissa had no idea how much sleep you were losing just unable to sleep. Then you noticed that you’d lose concentration for simple tasks, household tasks piling up, being unable to calm your fussy daughter and a huge lack of appetite. You’d make something to eat only to feel physically sick when you managed to sit down to eat.

You were crouched down against the wall, your daughter clutched to your chest as she wailed alongside your sobs and pleas for her to quieten. At this point, you were almost ready to tear your hair out, she is a beautiful girl and there’s no denying that but it seems your brain could only convince you that you’d fail her. That you are failing her. She deserved more than you for a mother. If Larissa was here she’d know how to soothe the baby. Despite being the one to carry her for nine months, birth her and being with her all day every day for at least two weeks without the tall shifter, it was like you were a stranger to her.

Georgina’s little cheeks were bright red now as she wailed unhappily, little fists balled up, the louder her cries were the more tears you shed as you absentmindedly rocked back and forth at a loss for what would help. You’d fed changed and cuddled Georgina, yet nothing seemed to settle her. Until Larissa came in to save the day.

“Oh my little flower, what’s wrong sweet girl? What’s the tears for Gina?” Larissa murmured softly coming to take the baby from you, allowing you the chance to stand up and breathe. Only, you couldn’t. Georgina settled down as she snuggled into the blondes chest, seemingly tired herself out from all the crying. Meanwhile you only seemed to curl into a ball and sob harder. “I failed her” and “she hates me” were mumbled over and over again. Only then did all the symptoms make sense to the principal. Postpartum depression. She’d read about it in all the books but seemingly missed all the signs in you. Her lover.

Placing the now sleeping baby into her bassinet Larissa immediately came to wrap you in her arms like you are a precious china doll. “Oh my darling girl, I’m so sorry I failed you my love, how long has it been this way?” She whispered as her hand rubbed soothing circles on your back. “I’m a terrible mom, she hates me. She loves you, what do I do wrong?” You sobbed your heart out on her shoulder, now the feelings started to flow there was absolutely no stopping the flow. And Larissa, being your stable shoulder to cry on, she held you through it all, promising to take some more time off Nevermore, to help you through this every step of the way. With her love and support you managed to heal and feel more like yourself again.

As your daughter grew, her own little personality began to shine through, it is apparent that she is as stubborn as you yet as truthful and gentle as the Principal of Nevermore. Students of Nevermore adored little Gina more than life itself, Enid particularly loved to gift her soft plushy’s and even Wednesday gifted her a small black swan plush teddy to go alongside the white dove Enid had crocheted.

However, Georgina’s favoured teddy happened to be a soft blush pink bear that you had gifted her for her first birthday. That bear never left her side, a special connection for you and your daughter. At a year and a half Georgina discovered Ice cream for the first time. Smearing it all around her face as you giggled with your daughter, Larissa walking unsuspectingly into the ice cream covered one year old. Now covering the bottoms of her mamas work skirt in vanilla ice cream.

Her little aura seemed to grow daily, beautiful twists and twirls of orange, green, lavender and light blue seemed to brighten with every day of her life, a perfect little blend of you and Larissa Weems, who would’ve knew that Larissa had unknowingly grown your family on your anniversary night. Your daughter being three and incredibly beautiful and brilliant would be a brilliant big sister.

Word count ~ 1718

[kindlespark]

cohortswap anon here, aouhgkdhgkdh hi

im so emo over the idea of robin getting to pick up his cantonese again, like that experience of going back to a place where nobodys going to second guess you based on your appearance or treat you differently is so ough. im curious about his adjustment period though cause from personal experience and friends experience ppl from one's home country can usually clock someone as diaspora and its kind of jarring to have that feeling of being out of place no matter which country you're in.

thank you for the fun fact and good luck on your play >:) and tell eren i said hi >:)

HI ANON im so sorry this took so long for me to get to i've been soooo busy but my play just opened so im almost free!! i actually wrote a whole a response to this on mobile a week ago and then my tumblr app crashed and i lost it all so i gave up :sob:

yeah i think it's such a deliberate choice by kuang to have robin and the majority of his cohort lose their home languages and it made me feel crazy (/pos) as someone who is also chinese diaspora and is only fluent in english; my parents didn't pass down any of their chinese dialects to me (and some of them are endangered)! it clearly draws from kuang's own experience as well.

there's no way robin doesn't feel a kind of alienation even when he returns to canton and people don't look twice at him; i think he would feel that even if he could (and when he does eventually) speak cantonese. that boy's survivor's guilt is off the charts, and living/looking at the reality he tried so hard to ignore and was ultimately complicit in while living in luxury at babel would make him feel like he shouldn't even have the right to set foot in his home country anymore. but i think he would simultaneously feel the most useful while there; finally living up to ramy's expectations of him and helping however he can to smuggle silverworking practice into canton; this is him atoning for being alive and doing all the hard work that ramy told him not to run from.

robin can get by in canton with just mandarin well enough that i think it takes him a while to try speaking in cantonese again, out of a kind of guilt and embarrassment, but it does become necessary and i think robin's journey with relearning would also be a part of him learning chinese silverworking tradition; there's this really good fic i read that's an in-universe academic paper about silver-working in asia, and it's simply canon to me now. robin using chinese silver-working techniques in his work against the british empire is simply so real to me

thanks for the interest anon!! kinda got rambly here idk if this answered ur request but i never get sick of talking abt this book and this au >:)

[unriding]

very messy word dump below the cut + in tags :^) heh

okay it’s officially been a full day since reading this and i’m going to write down everything i remember feeling from day 1! and then in the tags im going to reread this (for the third time within 24 hours) and add thoughts that i didn’t put down here. SORRY FOR THE MESS & NO PRESSURE TO READ ALL THIS SJKDMF IT IS JUST A LOT OF WORD VOMIT BC IM INSANE OVER THIS FIC

okay i should start from the beginning. Wait I’ll use caps so it’s easier to read if you’re reading it bahahhaa OKAY. The way you write alpha / omega!!! It’s different from what I’m used to reading— and I mean it has a lot of a depth. The way you wrote reader being an alpha = being so protective over Aventurine fucked me up so bad /pos. Reader just wants him safe and they’re so real for that.

Going off on that, I LOVE HOW U WROTE THE READER. Understands Aventurine so well. Will literally do anything to keep him safe. Understands what sets him off and what he’s comfortable with. The part where Aventurine was talking about the next mission & reader seeing right through him ): are you serious /pos. WAIT I SKIPPED TOO FAR AHEAD. When Aventurine was trying to get reader to join the IPC? Dead. Evie DEAD. Reader saw right through him omg. Being able to notice the little changes in his scent, the way he tries to mask it etc etc. I love that so bad.

WHEN READER FOUND HIM IN HEAT FUUUCK. ARE YOU SERIOUS /pos. Fighting the urge to help him vs waiting to just make it better because reader has the power to ): I loved that so much. The struggle was so real. Literally bringing a doctor just to hear that he needs an alpha to help anyways omg. Lowkey when the doctor said that I was like PLEASE LET US HELP YOU PLEASEEEEEEE. But also. I didn’t want him to be scared either you know ):

I skipped over another scene sighs. THE part where reader said ‘I like your eyes because they’re yours” and then the end. Him saying he likes our scent because it’s ours. Are you serious /pos. Be so serious /pos.

Okay the scent gland scenes actually fucked me up so bad (I unfortunately did not dream about anything but maybe that is for the best because I’m still recovering from this scene). The part where he asks for just the wrist. Reader struggling when they FEEL HIS TEETH GRAZE THE WRIST IM GONNA EXPLODE OMFG. The immediate pulling away because we don’t want to scare him please. + the scent gland scene at the end. HE DIDN’T FEEL LIKE HE HAD TO BE ON TOP. We could lay side by side ): I was so happy that he was okay with that omg. Literally all giddy like aaaaa!!!!!! IM NOT A THREAT!! Actually that’s a lie I wasn’t giddy. I was literally in tears jejdkckckckk Aventurine 😭😭 ughhhhhhh /pos

I won’t comment on the actual scene (I am commenting on it right now actually) because I was literally so sad and my heart hurt so badly for him. I wanted him to see himself from our POV for just one moment so he can understand that we genuinely love him and treasure him & want to keep him safe. ):

ABOUT YOUR WRITING ITSELF : insanity. I will just say insanity. How should I put it in words….. just thinking about this fic again is taking all the words out of my mouth shejdjfjj (I say this as I type a 27738 page essay about it). I love how you write. I really do. Your writing style is so beautiful. I haven’t read the other tags under your fic but I’m sure many others have said the same thing!!! They word it better than me I’m sure bsjsjsjsjsk

I just love everything about it. How you add in little details (oh! Speaking of details— Aventurine’s reaction to reader cozying up to her husband in the other fic) HEJDJJDJDJ omg. But in this fic, the little signs of him being scared. Scared 24/7 actually ): I love how you conveyed his fear so much. And the way he tries so hard to hide it. HIM CRUMBLING DOWN TO HIS RAW SELF WHEN HES IN HEAT. AND THE FEAR THERE TOO. INSANE.

^^ How you wrote him so adamant about not needing help at first …. To him asking for the scent gland ….. to him agreeing to use reader. It was all so real. He didn’t just change his mind like oh okay! It took him a while to be okay with it and I love how real it all felt. You write dialogue & little details so well— it actually drives me nuts (/compliment /pos)

Oh this just reminded me. Your description of how Aventurine smells killed me /pos. And how you describe his scent as sweet. I’m really not okay /pos. It fits him so well. And … for reader…. the scent after rain ? Oh my god ???? I love that smell so much. It’s so comforting…. OMG. COMFORTING????????? BECAUSE. Oh wow. I’m really not okay now. I JUST LOVE ALL THE DETAILS LIKE THAT )))): it’s so clear you put so much thought into all these things because your fic has so much depth. I lowkey yanked out Notibility for your other Aventurine fic to highlight the parts I wanted to comment on ehdjdkkck I was annotating it like a book (I’m so sorry if this is creepy I promise I don’t do this on a regular basis. I don’t annotate fics normally. Actually please disregard this because I’m a bit red admitting this) (I just have the memory of a goldfish and can only remember feelings and not actual content) (That’s a lie because here I am remembering a lot of this fic MOST LIKELY BECAUSE I READ IT WITH MY EYES AN INCH FROM THE SCREEN PROBABLY I WAS LIKE O_O) /pos

NIGHT FLOWER: part i

Your place in the world was one of a tool. This was true of every slave: you were all things to be used. Kakavasha understood this about you, and he understood this about himself. It was how he survived all those years ago, and it’s how he survives now. And so, when Aventurine goes into his first heat in years and decides to suffer it alone, you can only think of one way to get him to accept your help: You offer to let him use you.

written for @/lorelune's spring fever collab & @ficsforgaza

13.5k words of omegaverse, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst with an eventual happy ending. gn alpha reader + omega aventurine (they each have both amab and afab genitalia). explicit piv sex, reader bottoms, the sex is consensual but emotionally complicated and deeply sad. cw slavery, racism, gendered violence, including very brief and non-graphic (but direct) references to sexual abuse during slavery. the sa and slavery are not eroticized. dead dove do not eat, mdni.

thank you to @acerathia, @minnaci, @owlespresso for all your help with beta reading and to @kosmiccarma for brainstorming omega aventurine hcs!

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

Gaunt, pallid, weighed down by heavy chains. Irises that glowed like the auroras back in your world. Delicate features that made every passerby in the market stop to read the description on the placard. (Sigonian, it said, although you couldn’t read at the time. Avgin. Male. Omega. Sixteen years old. Sixty Tanba, no tax.) He had an all-consuming scent that was impossible to ignore—one that possessed you, made your heels dig into the dirt, every atom in your body resisting the impatient jerk of the chains at your wrist. Even through your muzzle, through the perpetual stench of carbon-steel and blood, you could smell it: honey and wildflowers. A fragrance that settled deep within you, flooded you with a warmth that felt like home.

Aventurine is not a spiritual person. He once told you this, his smile cold in the glow of an artificial moon. He'd been deeply religious as a child, but hasn’t since cared for fairy tales about fortune and fate, three-eyed goddesses or merciful rainfalls. Hasn't thought about anything like a destined love. He thinks the idea of a true mate is laughable, that no such bond could ever be forged between an omega and an alpha. That nothing so unconditional could ever exist.

You know differently, of course. You've known it from the moment you met him, from the second you laid eyes on him and thought, I need to help you, and I need to protect you, and I need you to be safe, and you’d never once heard the word ‘love’ in your life—slaves are never loved by their masters, after all, and you'd always been nothing but a slave—but every atom of your being knew that you loved him, that you'd always love him.

And when your master cradled your face that night and crooned that he owned you, that you'd always be his obedient, alpha pet—for the first time in your life, you knew that he was wrong.

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

These days, Aventurine does not smell like honey, and your jaw is not restrained.

Your muzzle was one of the first things that Aventurine threw away when he bought your freedom. According to the Amber Era system, it had been several months since the murder of your shared master. Ninety-five Star Calendar days after the Interastral Peace Corps had arrested Kakavasha. An entire rotation around the black hole at the centre of your wretched galaxy, all of which had been spent in the captivity of some new mistress. She picked you out because she liked your calming scent and the look of your face, but mostly she used you for the fighting pits just like your old master.

Aventurine had been sitting in the audience of your final match, then bought you out right after you won. “I’m in need of a fighter,” he’d said, smiling in his thick furs and jewels. He played the part of a slavemaster perfectly, his gloved hands wandering the span of your aching shoulders, touching the bloodied maw of your mask. “And I’d be willing to pay top credit for yours.”

She protested. You were her most prized possession, one of her greatest investments. Slaves from your planet were hard enough to come by—alphas capable of reproduction, nearly impossible. And you were so well-behaved, so poised, so endearing in a way that was rare for alphas. She was fond of you. Her omega slaves were fond of you too. They would be distraught if you left, and that would complicate her household affairs—and surely Aventurine, as a respectable owner of human capital like herself, could understand how inconvenient that would be?

Aventurine bared his teeth in a gracious smile. (You’d never seen Kakavasha make such an expression before—so disarming, so cunning, a crescent moon beneath snake eyes. He’d never smelt like this either, like an expensive cologne layered with bleach, and it left you feeling nauseous, wondering if he was ill.) He flirted his way into her good graces, made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, and then he brought you into the first-class ship on which he’d arrived. You were so stunned by its luxury—the handwoven carpets, the crushed velvet seats, the imported tea from several galaxies away and the custom-ordered outfit he had bought for you—that you nearly missed the tremble in his hands as he punched numbers into the remote control lock for your chains.

He had regained his composure by the time he pulled away your muzzle, though. He threw it carelessly to the ground—your titanium chains, too. Then kicked both away with his shined leather shoes.

“There,” Aventurine said, smiling cheerfully. “Much better, don’t you think?”

“Vasha—” you started, voice thick with wasted grief, and all you wanted to was reach for him, to double check that he was real, but he placed a finger to your lips and stopped you. You stiffened at the satin touch, but he seemed unbothered.

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

“‘Aventurine’. Like the gemstone. That’s my name now.”

“You—” Your voice caught in your throat. You realized that you’d been holding your breath. You always had the habit of holding your breath in the luxurious, private rooms of very rich men, because you never liked what happened in them. Forcing yourself to breathe, you asked, “You gave yourself a new name?”

“No. The IPC gave me a new name. They gave me a job, too.”

“A job?” you asked, voice faint. Now that you were breathing again, you were noticing once more just how bizarre he smelled. Sterile and expensive and completely foreign. “You’re free now?”

“Well, I’m a freedman, but I don’t know if I’d call myself free. I’m a bit… indebted to the IPC, let’s say. But that’s fine. I can’t complain. I mean—look around. This beats the fighting pits, doesn’t it?” He gestured lazily at your surroundings, and you nodded.

“It’s nice here,” you replied, feeling absurd but not knowing what else to say. Once Kakavasha got talking, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.

“You like it here? Good. This room’s yours. Mine is the next one over. You’ll live and work here, with me. I’ll make sure you’re paid well. Full benefits, vacation, salary, and overtime. The standard pay for your role is seventy-thousand credits per month, but I’ll see if I can get you more. HR is pretty strict about their hiring policies, but—”

“You’re hiring me?”

Aventurine went very still, his smile tightly controlled. His eyes remained fixed on you, but they seemed less snake-like, now. They looked more familiar. More afraid.

“I’m offering, yes,” he said neatly. “You’ll be part of my personal security detail. I don’t have the contract for you to review yet, unfortunately. I didn’t arrange one ahead of time because, well”—he laughed, as if this were polite conversation and he were making a joke about the weather—“I didn’t know if I’d find you alive. But things worked out in my favour. They always work out in my favour. I’ll make sure they’ll work out in your favour too, so long as you’re with me. So you’ll consider it, won’t you? Staying with—working for me, I mean.”

Your eyes went soft. Beneath the artificial fragrance, you finally caught a hint of his familiar scent—more wildflower than honey at that moment, the way it always is when he’s scared.

“Kakavasha—”

“Name your price,” he said loudly, “and I’ll match it.”

You sighed. “Vasha,” you said more gently, and his shoulders relaxed at the subvocal shift in your timbre, at the famed alpha Voice that necessitated your muzzle, “I don’t care about the money. Of course I’ll stay here. But—what happened? Why did you kill him yourself? Why didn't you let me do it? That was the plan. It was always supposed to be me.”

It was my job, you thought then, just as you had thought to yourself every night, curled up in your bed and trying to recall the scent of fresh honey, to keep you safe.

He shrugged and said, “It would have been too risky to involve you.”

“You were caught and sentenced to death. The risk was already too high.”

“But the stakes weren’t,” he replied simply, and before you could ask what he meant by that, he continued, “and it worked out, didn’t it? I work for the IPC. You work for me. We’re freedmen now. Whatever I've lost, it doesn't matter. Our gains far outweigh it.”

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

He smiled at you, charming and distracting. A crescent moon beneath snake eyes. “Nothing of value,” he reassured you, and even though you could feel the calm of an omega’s voice washing over you, even though it released all the tension in your body, all you could smell was cologne and wildflowers, and you knew that he was lying.

Vasha once told you, curled up and quiet on the basement floor, that he despised his eyes. They were supposed to be a sign of blessing from Gaiathra Triclops, but they'd never brought him anything but trouble. They were the first thing that the slavers always noticed about him, the feature that made him such an alluring commodity. Their aurora glow, their strange beauty, their promise of a rare opportunity: a chance at owning a specimen of an exotic, endangered species, possibly the last of its kind. These are all things that you've heard in the parlour of your master’s house as he entertained rich company, the crowd of them gawking at his human curios.

Avgin are said to make the most beautiful slaves, he'd often say. And Avgin omegas are said to be the most beautiful among them. What do you all think? They'd all hum, peering closely at Kakavasha’s features, and inevitably someone would joke, I think I'd like to borrow him sometime, and then they would all laugh while your pulse ticked up and you imagined tearing at their throats. Vasha would search for your gaze in these moments, giving you a long, pointed look: Don't do anything stupid.

He’d always been so blasé about it, the way people fixated on his Avgin blood. You'll never understand how. He didn't react to any of the comments, the groping, the innuendos. He was, however, distinctly unimpressed at the way that your master liked to play him up as a rare and expensive acquisition, as a sign of his own status. It's embarrassing to watch, Kakavasha had remarked. Everyone knows that Sigonian slaves are uncommon but cheap—people always think we’ll bring them more trouble than our worth. This was how Kakavasha had ended up in the market in the first place: because his last master had been robbed, and he'd been wrongly blamed for it.

The blame, to this day, has never stopped. People—powerful people, politicians, businessmen, socialites—look at Aventurine’s eyes and immediately reach for their pockets. You've seen it for yourself, these spineless despots and scammers feeling for their wallets. Sigonian, you know they're thinking. Liar, cheat, thief, whore, worthless, worthless, worthless. Your hands tighten around your blade each time, a loaded gun with a finger on the trigger.

Alphas are said to be violent by nature. Aventurine has often called you the one exception to this rule: the most docile, good-hearted alpha he's ever met. But this is a lie. You do have a predator instinct, and it comes out in full-force whenever you’re around these particular types of men. These types who notice Aventurine’s eyes and see a thief; these monsters who see his irises and imagine what it would be like to bed him. You’d kill them if you could. It would be so easy, especially now that you are an IPC dog. The Company is already such a violent force; what would be one more murder?

But Aventurine has never ordered you to punish anyone. (Don't do anything stupid, he always tells you with a glance, smiling through every humiliation.) Nor has he ever seemed bothered enough by these meetings to try concealing his heritage.

A fellow Asset Liquidation Specialist once asked why he didn't just hide his eye colour—it would likely be better for fostering relationships, negotiating deals—but Aventurine had shrugged it off. I'm a gambler working with the IPC, he'd said. Do you really think a pair of coloured contacts would make anyone trust me? He'd laughed, and his voice had carried a threatening edge, and his coworker had shifted visibly at it. Being an Avgin is the least threatening thing about me, wouldn't you say?

You think that Aventurine likes being seen as a threat. Sometimes you wonder if this is why he doesn't mind wearing his eyes so much, but abhors keeping his scent. He washes his clothes until they're free of his disarming sweetness and then masks himself with an unsettling blend of ambergris, jasmine, and wood. And he is on suppressants all the time—hasn’t had a single heat since the day he killed his master. Hasn't smelled like himself, either.

At the end of the day, it’s manageable being an Avgin in this business, he often comments, spraying half a bottle of masking cologne on himself, but you can't be an Avgin and an omega. Wouldn’t you agree?

You'd know better than me, you reply, noncommittally—and truthfully.

But you're an alpha, he observes. Don't you have an opinion?

You don't pay me to have opinions, you always remind him, stone-faced. You pay me to stand here and look scary. And Aventurine always laughs at this, and he always wires you money and calls it a bonus as he pesters you for an answer, and he always gets distracted and starts scrolling through all his shopping wishlists instead. I saw this thing the other day and thought of you. And this too. Would you like either of them? Would you like them both? I’m a very generous manager, you know. I'll buy you anything you like.

But even though he always gets distracted, Aventurine never forgets. Sooner or later, he inevitably circles back to these questions—these anxieties about his scent, about his eyes, about his blood. He never cares for anyone else’s opinions, but he's always been curious about yours. Even when he was Vasha, he wanted to know what you thought.

He’d been sixteen years old and delirious with heat the first time he asked you, face wrinkling with pain as he spilled his thoughts. It was so incoherent, so sad, you thought it must have been about a fever dream. Mama Fenge, he kept saying. Mama Fenge blessed me, She blessed me, I'm blessed, it rained when I was born—did you know that? My luck, I was lucky. The Katicans, they never caught me. They got everyone else, but not me. I was blessed by Her. I'm going to save my people. I will. I'll save my sister. My eyes are proof. My mistress liked them. Said they're beautiful. Worth sixty whole coppers. A blessing. He pulled you close, pressed his scalding face to your scent gland, and his whole body shuddered with relief. This was the first and only time he'd allowed you to hold him, and it was only out of desperation, out of his mind. Do you like them, alpha? Do you like my eyes? Why? Is it because they're beautiful? Because they're from Gaiathra?

“I like them because they're yours,” you'd replied, and Kakavasha had laughed deliriously.

This is when he told you he hated them: I'd close them forever, if I could.

When you were younger—dumber—you had a habit of squirrelling away every spare coin you came across. You collected them in a little purse that one of the omega slaves had sewn for you—a thank-you for always keeping the other alphas away from her—and you hid it underneath a loose floorboard. By the time that Kakavasha was arrested, you'd saved up twenty-nine Tanba. You’d wanted enough to buy Kakavasha’s freedom and then to set him up for a comfortable life.

It had been a stupid plan. An embarrassing one. If you ever confessed it to Aventurine, he'd laugh at you. Slaves can't buy other slaves, he'd say. Leave the schemes to me next time. You’re too good-hearted for it.

You’d already known that, of course. You knew that you didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him, but you wanted to. God, did you want to—you spent every waking moment thinking about it, every sleeping moment dreaming of it. It wasn't even that you desired him, though he was beautiful and fragrant and more delicate than anything that had ever touched you in your life, which was only your master’s hands and your muzzle and your chains. Aventurine would feel so soft in comparison, you’d always figured. It made your heart ache, thinking about getting to hold something so lovely.

But really—that desire came second. What came first was how mated omegas feel safe around their alphas, and you so desperately wanted him to be safe. Kakavasha had looked so frail, so grim, as your master took his chains and led him home from the market, and you could smell the fear coming off him in waves. And you could do nothing to stop it. You had nothing you could use to stop it—nothing other than your hands that could kill for him and your pheromones that could soothe him and your useless heart that wanted to collect sixty Tanba for him. That was all you had.

So you failed in the end. Of course you did. You didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him. You couldn't even do for him the one thing you could have done—which was to kill. And Kakavasha suffered for your incompetence. He had to dirty his hands with blood and gamble his way into wealth and then suddenly he was freeing you, not the other way around.

And now you are comfortable. You'll lead an easy life from now, Aventurine reassured you when he brought you onto his ship all those years ago, and he's kept that promise. What about you? you'd asked him then. Will you lead an easy life with me, if you're working for the IPC? And he had smiled and lied to you: Yes.

It had been a painfully obvious lie. If you were a smarter person, you'd have never believed it in the first place. Aventurine has no interest in leading an easy life, because an easy life would be less profitable, and less profit would mean less safety. And he is always, always worried about being unsafe. It is indiscernible to everyone but you—an alpha (his alpha, always his, even if he doesn't want you) who has watched over him for so long that you can detect every shift in his scent. No matter how much cologne he drowns himself in and no matter how strong his suppressants are, you know when he is afraid.

And here is the bitter truth, the ultimate proof of your shortcomings:

Aventurine is always afraid.

It is a beautiful day on Agnisahr, and you can tell that Aventurine is about to throw up from worry.

You're sitting in the middle of stunning wealth—Aventurine in his feathers and jewellery, you in your tailored jacket—in a lobby made from marble and pale sandstone, with a view of palm trees and rolling, scarlet sand dunes beyond the window. The waitstaff addresses him as Honoured Guest and they keep his crystal chalice filled constantly with water—one of the most expensive commodities on the planet. Aventurine has been drinking from it religiously, which is strange as he typically has the habit of forgetting to hydrate. A faint wildflower scent is drifting from his slender form. These are the only giveaway to his mood: he's otherwise as pokerfaced as ever, smiling calmly as he discusses his plans to sabotage the local government and acquire the planet for the IPC.

“This is a very dangerous mission,” you state flatly.

“All my missions are dangerous.” He takes a sip, one pinky up. “The IPC pays me well for a reason. As they say—”

“‘High risk, high reward.’ I know.” You try not to sound bitter, though you allow yourself to sound tired. “I still do not think the risk is worth the reward in this case.”

“I think over 5.6 million in credits is a great reward, actually. We could do a lot with that kind of money.”

You raise a brow. “What could an extra 5.6 million get you that you can't already buy?” It is—as Topaz would say—‘chump change’ in comparison to his current wealth, which sums to a number so vast that you can't wrap your head around it.

Aventurine pretends to miss the point. “Tons! We could buy a new spacecraft. Get another mansion. Or—we could take a vacation to Penacony. I hear it's quite nice there.” A playful smile. “I could get us a penthouse unit. With a featherbed.”

You frown. Sometimes Aventurine likes to flirt when you're being stubborn—not out of interest, but as a ploy to distract you. He’d developed the habit after he joined the IPC. It used to fluster you, but now it only makes you cross your arms.

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

“No, I won't. You always find a way to get rid of me when things are most dangerous.” You give him an accusatory stare. “You never let me do my job.”

He's too shameless to deny it. “And it's worked out fine, hasn't it? I haven't died so far.”

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

“I beg to differ. My luck is quite reliable.” He sets down his glass. Glances back outside. A microexpression, brows knotting for the briefest second as he studies the sky. “I'm not worried.”

“You're a shit liar.”

That gets him to look at you, letting a small frown pass over his face. “No, I'm actually a great liar. You're just too good at reading me. It's very inconvenient, you know.”

“I can't help it.” You lean toward him, making a show of it as you sniff. An orchid-like scent—faint but unmistakable—has seeped into artificial ambergris and wood. “It's hard to ignore.”

He hums. He isn't frowning anymore—but doesn't look happy, either. “I should change suppressants.” He taps the side of his empty glass, fidgeting. Aventurine never fidgets: it's an amateur giveaway. “These ones clearly don't work well enough.”

“That won't help. I know you too well.” Your eyes soften. He's looking outside again, the blues of his irises distant. “You're worried, Aventurine. More than usual. Let’s back out of this—let Jade handle it.”

“The mission isn't what's bothering me,” he says patiently. “I just don't like this planet.”

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

“No. Well—it is, but nothing I can't handle.” He leans back. “I just dislike the weather here.”

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

“Yes,” he says neatly, “it's too dry here. I'll break out.”

You open your mouth. Close it. It is possibly the most absurd thing you've ever heard, and certainly the worst lie that's ever come from him. For as long as you've known him, Aventurine has had flawless skin, marble-smooth, and ever since being freed, he’s never really cared much for looking handsome so much as looking rich. But he maintains his serious expression: all-in on the farce. “Did you know that outside the capital, this planet hasn't had any natural rain in a quarter of an Amber Era? And the stellar winds are terrible. I don't know how people live on a planet like this.” His eyes narrow at the cloudless sky. “The IPC is going to need to do a lot of terraforming if they want to make this into a merchant hub.”

“Aventurine.”

“It'll be a pain crossing the desert—the elements will ruin my clothes, you know,” he continues. “It won't be so bad while we're on the ships, but we’ve got to go outside from time to time. Can't make any friends otherwise.”

“Aventurine.”

“And there's nothing to do for fun when we’re not working.” He sighs dramatically. “I can't wait to get our 5.6 billion and leave for someplace else. I'm being serious about Penacony, by the way—”

“Aventurine.”

“—though not about the featherbed. I'll get you your own room, obviously. And I'll buy whatever dream experience you’d like. What kind would you want?”

Finally allowed a chance to speak, you say, “One where you retire.”

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe you decide you've made enough money.”

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

That makes him smile. It feels mocking. “Me? Settling down? With who?”

“Who knows. Someone who will treat you better than the IPC, I hope.”

“Anyone that nice would run in the other direction. But never mind me. This would be your dream experience. What happens to you in it?”

“I stop chasing after you and get to live out the rest of my days in peace,” you say dryly, and Aventurine blinks. “Please stop deflecting. The IPC gave you a suicide mission. We will both die if we stay here.”

He looks serious now. “I wouldn't let you die.”

“You can't know that.”

“Well, I do. And I've got decent chances at surviving too—at least one in ten.”

You feel like sighing—a deep, aggravated noise is heavy in your throat—but Aventurine doesn't enjoy it when you show anger around him. It's the one omega instinct that he can't ignore, you suppose: unease around an aggressive alpha. Voice tightly controlled, you say, “You’re going to bet your life on one in ten?”

  “Sure. My chances were worse on the last planet, and things worked out great. It'll be the same on Agnisahr.” Aventurine raises a hand, calls for the bill. The conversation is over. You lean back in your seat, watching sourly as he pays tens of thousands of credits just for water.

“You know, they say the royal family is backed by an Aeon,” you can't help but point out, once the waiter is gone. A last-ditch effort. Aventurine smiles at it, amused. Like you're a child.

“So what?” He glances outside, at the desolate landscape beyond the oasis—nothing but red sand, a blue, rainless sky, and two radiant suns shining above it all. “The protection of a god is nothing compared to the schemes of human beings. And gods abandon their people all the time, anyway.”

During your tenth day on Agnisahr, you realise that something is deeply wrong.

It takes you some time to understand what’s happening. At first you think that whatever political danger you’ve intuited is much worse than you thought, and that’s why Aventurine has been so pale, so discomforted, so exhausted. Then his scent starts changing—he switches clothes two, three times a day (because of all this heat during Agnisahran days, he tells his new business associates) and spritzes his nape with his cologne almost religiously—and you wonder if he is sick with something. If the food in this planet has something that disagrees with his Sigonian biology, or if he has picked up one of the local filoviruses, or if someone’s poisoned one of his meals because they’ve correctly identified him as a threat. Aventurine dismisses every single one of these theories when you bring it up, and—as if in denial—only attributes it to the weather. (I’ve never done well in deserts, he tells you, his eyes on his phone screen. I'm not used to them. It is above 300 Kelvin, and you do not see a single bead of sweat on his neck, and his cheeks are not even a little flushed.)

You only figure it out when he is too ill to get out of bed one morning and forbids all the IPC staff from coming near his hotel room. It sets off alarms immediately—Aventurine, no matter how sick, will work and see through meetings as long as he is mentally capable of it—and so you naturally ignore his orders and check on him, using the spare key to his sleeping quarters that you're given as a policy. And as soon as the door cracks open—as soon as you step inside only to be hit with a violent, cloying sweetness—you realise what’s happening and slam the door shut behind you.

“You’re in heat,” you blurt out, and Aventurine—a shivering, panting mess on the bed—groans in response.

“Why are you here?” He turns toward you, still lucid enough to glare at you through the tangled mess of his hair. His voice is weak, but no less self-possessed: “I was very clear—no company today.”

“I am your personal bodyguard,” you remind him mildly. Your voice is calm—both non-threatening and non-condescending. “Those orders don’t apply to me. If things feel suspicious, I look into it. And they felt very suspicious.” Your brow knits as you study his clothes. Mulberry silk clings to his form, soaked through with sweat. Thin, eucalyptus sheets are tangled up around him. There are only two pillows. No water bottles. No knotting toys.

Nothing.

“You didn't know you'd be in heat,” you realise. “What happened to your suppressants?”

“I don't know.” There’s a quiet, frustrated edge to his voice. Vulnerable too. It makes you think of when you were both still slaves, and Aventurine was confined to the basement of the manor—the one that all omega slaves were made to ride out their heats in. Either they would do it alone or were ordered to spend it with some alpha, usually either a friend of the master or an alpha slave he wished to reward. That's when they're most pliable, he'd tell his guests, or sometimes even you. They get so desperate they'll present themselves to anyone. Then amused laughter from the other party—How obscene!—as you looked away, blood hammering in your ears.

You had been your master’s favourite. His most obedient, most profitable pet—striking enough for his guests to admire, deadly enough for his audiences to bet on, docile enough for him to enjoy. Good enough for him to reward, and he often rewarded you with his most beautiful slave: his Avgin omega. Just don't mark him, he’d said, fastening the muzzle around your mouth. It'll ruin his market value. Who knows if someday he'd sell Kakavasha off to some alpha master who wished to claim him, he said. Though I don't think there's anyone in this star system who'd want a Sigonian for a mate, let alone a Sigonian slave. Then he’d paused, eyes scanning over you. As if contemplating. But maybe they'd try to get Avgin whelps out of him, he added, and you felt like throwing up.

You'd never mate him in those moments, your muzzle always prevented you from saying. You didn't even want to think about touching him, and he didn't want to think about it either. Even in the cruel grip of his heats, with nothing but the thin mat beneath him and his slave’s rags around him, Kakavasha hadn't wanted any kind of contact from you, rejecting any chance of solace. Don't, don't—not again, not again, he'd begged. Then as the nights marched on and his mind grew hazier, he’d start whimpering too: It hurts, alpha. It hurts. Help me. It hurts. Don't touch me. Not again. It hurts. It hurts. Stop it, please stop it.

It gutted you.

It went against every instinct, not to touch him. To let him lie there, in scorching, lonely pain, when all you wanted to do was to dispel it. It would be so easy to press yourself against him and let his skin cool against yours, do the one thing that your body was good at other than killing. But not again, not again, I can't anymore, I don't want it, I never wanted it, and all you could do was sit there, unmoving. Watch as the most delicate, precious thing you had in your life shatter.

And standing here now, watching Aventurine shatter before you once more—it is unbearable. He needs a nest, you keep thinking. He needs a nest and some water and some kind of touch, some kind of relief, but not again, not again, and you’re still a slave, still a worthless and stupid slave, and Kakavasha is still crying on a basement floor and you can't do anything for him.

“You need help, Aventurine,” you say, voice soft, and his whole body tenses. His scent dips, and the scent of florals overwhelms you.

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

“You do. You're sick.” You bite your lip. Your heart splits as you suggest it, but you say, “I can call a professional.”

“No,” he spits. The facade is gone. The poker face has cracked. The anger and the pain and the fear are all on full display, and his voice sharpens: “No strangers.”

No foreign scents, you realise he's demanding. A new scent would probably make him feel unsafe.

Then let me help you, you think of pleading, but not again, not again, and you're filled with so much shame at the thought that all you can do is look away.

“Then—can I do anything?” He goes still. “Not—not that, but something to make you more comfortable. I can build you a nest, at least—”

“No.” He takes a deep, shaking breath. “No nests. I don't need one—”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't,” he says. His voice is wavering now, on the verge of crumbling with fever and pain. “I've never—I’ve never needed a nest, I don't—I don't want to—” He presses his face into his pillow. “I need—I need to be alone, fuck—”

He doesn't mean to whine. The cry for distress is instinct, something that all omegas are programmed to do in heat. You’ve heard that they’ve evolved to make this noise as a way of appealing to nearby alphas for help, but you think this must be a lie as you never once saw your alpha master giving mercy to any of his omega slaves. Still, whether it is your biology or not—the noise that Aventurine makes has your heart aching so much you can't help but step forward. But he shakes his head and inches away, shuddering violently, and then his voice echoes again in that cold basement—not again, not again, and don't touch it anymore, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore, not again, and it's all you can do to back away until your spine is pressed against the door.

“I'm sorry, Vasha,” you say, strained. “I’m sorry. I'll leave you now.”

As the door shuts behind you, you catch a final glimpse him—face pressed into the pillows, shivering.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was crying.

When you were both slaves, Aventurine hated seeing you during his heats.

Kakavasha was normally calm around you. Most of the time, he was even friendly (he was friendly to everyone whom he thought could be useful), but he was different during his heats. Sometimes he was vicious; mostly he was withdrawn. Nearly always, he wanted to be left alone. In those moments, all he could register was your alpha scent and his memories of what other people had done to him during his heats. And while you'd have hated to leave him, despised the idea of him being offered to another alpha—even more than that, you hated violating this boundary of his. Hated that you were allowed to do whatever you wanted to him. Hated being the reason he felt so unsafe.

Hated being an alpha.

Now that you no longer have the orders of your slavemaster hanging over you, it is the least you can do to respect Aventurine’s wish of being left alone. He has every right to privacy, and you have every obligation to give it to him. But instead you have been standing here, outside his door, for a full system-hour.

Every time you try to leave, your body is wracked with anxiety. The thought of other people—other alphas—coming near him in this state makes you seethe, your hands flexing at your side. The predator instinct comes out, and the people around you notice it. Every person unlucky enough to walk down this hall scurries away under your glare, even the other IPC staff wandering about to look for Aventurine: Must be their mate on the other side, they remark to one another, and then they're gone.

It is a hard thing to hear. You are not his mate. You are not even a heat partner. If you were, then he wouldn't be in so much pain. Not now, and not back then.

Aventurine has never had easy heats. You keep replaying your memories of all his past ones, each one a wound in your heart: the aching sweetness of nectar and honey; his withering body as he clutched his abdomen and curled up; the tears and sweat staining the mat beneath him. And above all: the fear. The scent of it, the sight of it, the sound of it in his voice. Stronger today than any other day.

By instinct, you know that he cannot persist like this. That this time is somehow worse than all those other times, and that he will become seriously ill if left alone.

After nearly an hour and a half, you finally open the door, fearing the worst.

“Aventurine?” you say quietly, but there's no response, and your stomach drops as you see him.

His body is pale, listless. If it weren't for the fragrance washing over you or the sweat on his temple, you'd worry that he was dead.

Tentatively, you reach out. Rest a hand on his forehead, and it scorches you. He stirs at the touch, doesn't open his eyes—but the quiet sigh of relief is unmistakable. His fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach for you.

“Aventurine,” you say gently. “Aventurine, I'm going to take care of you. Is that alright?”

He doesn't respond. You grimace, pulling away to fetch things for him: several spare pillows from the closet, an extra blanket too. From his suitcase, you grab a few of his sweaters, all thick cotton and fleece. He’d had a sense that Agnisahr would be cold at night. Deserts always get cold after sundown, since sand doesn’t retain heat, he'd told you while he was packing. Or I think so, anyway. Don't know why. Must have read it somewhere. Then he’d given you a long, unreadable look before saying, Make sure to bring a jacket. The warmest one you have. The elements on a planet like Agnisahr can kill a person—even a person like you.

I’m sure I’ll be fine, you’d dismissed him. I can survive anything. Any kind of weather, any kind of illness, any kind of pain: these are all things your species is known for being able to endure, the trait that made you such a prized slave in your master’s eyes, such a useful agent at the IPC. You hadn’t given Aventurine’s warning any thought and hardly paid attention to what you’d thrown into your own suitcase.

It surprises you, then, that you find one of your sweaters in his luggage. Made from Sedanian cashmere and heat tech designed by the Intelligentsia Guild. Cloud-soft and warm to the touch. Aventurine had bought it for you before you were deployed to Jarilo-IV to collect intelligence for Topaz. Warmest thing in the known universe, he’d commented. One of a kind, too. Remember to wear it, alright? Don't let my money go to waste, now.

You stare at it, kneading the fleece between your fingers. You hadn’t mentioned wanting to bring this sweater. You’d lost it in your closet some months ago and forgot about it. Aventurine must have remembered and gone looking for it, because—why? You aren't sure. Probably because it’s warmer and softer than anything he owns, you guess. Of course he’d want to wear it.

You throw it into the pile of things you’ve collected for him.

You take it all to his bed, the mattress dipping as you sit next to Aventurine. One by one, you scent each item with your wrist, watching him carefully the whole time. You’re quiet as you lay them out around him, leaving him undisturbed as you build a nest. You order water and electrolyte drinks too, and you’re quick about going to the door when you hear room service knocking—with how feverish he is, he probably badly needs it.

Aventurine is awake when you come back. His breathing is still laboured, pained—but calm.

“I said I didn’t need a nest,” Aventurine says, though he doesn’t sound angry. You wonder if he’s too weak to be. His voice is faint, and his eyes are barely open—focused on the pile of blankets and clothing around him.

“You’re welcome.” You open a bottle of water, hold it out to him. “Drink.”

Aventurine pauses, stares at the offering like it's some kind of foreign object. But he accepts it eventually, sitting up and taking it from you. He winces with the movement, which he tries to hide. He ignores your frown as he drinks, and he doesn't stop until the bottle is empty.

“There are more,” you say, pointing at the several additional bottles on the nightstand. “And some food and some painkillers. I don't know how well they’ll work. This isn't a normal heat. If you're alright with it, I'll call a doctor and—”

“Everything smells like you,” he says quietly, and you stop.

“...yes. Unless they’re mated, nests usually feel most comforting to an omega when they smell like an alpha.” You swallow, looking away. “...you don't have a mate, and you didn't want a professional, so this was the only option I could think of. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says. He picks out one of the sweaters that have made its way into the nest, the Sedanian one. “I don't mind it.”

“Oh.” You let out a breath. “Then—can I call a doctor?”

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

“I’ve never needed a doctor before,” he says. He sounds unbothered, but he's fidgeting with the sweater now. “I don't need one now.”

A lie. He almost certainly needed a doctor in some of his prior heats, but you don't push the matter. “Maybe you don't need one,” you say instead, “but it would help.”

“I don't need help,” he says, and you look at him in disbelief. He catches your expression, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Not more than you've already done, I mean.”

“I’ve barely—”

“Contact Topaz. Tell her I'm incapacitated. Tell her…” He hums. “Tell her I have food poisoning. The personnel too. It's not time-sensitive, our business on Agnisahr, so it shouldn't matter if I need a few days off.”

“You really need—”

“Give my regrets to our Agnisahran friends. Deliver it in person. They see you as my right hand, so they’ll most appreciate it coming from you. Topaz can help you with the verbiage. And—try to socialise with them a little, won't you? I think that little omega princess of theirs likes you. Some of the courtesans too, and they have surprising influence.”

“I do not want to be around any omega other than you right now,” you say before you can stop yourself, and Aventurine stops, blinking. His expression is blank, if perhaps a little curious—but his scent shifts. You can't identify how. You add quickly, “I’m not leaving you alone when you’re this sick.”

“Ah. Right.” Aventurine looks away. His voice sounds strange, and his heat must be getting to him again, because it carries a hint of pain. “But you have to. The IPC’s goals take priority.”

You frown. “Your life is more important than the IPC,” you say, and he laughs. Loudly.

“What? This is just a heat. I’m not going to die.”

“You don’t know that without seeing a doctor.”

“I do. I’m willing to bet money that I won’t die.” He cuts you off before you can reply: yes, you're always willing to bet on your life. “And even if I do, that would still be less important than Agnisahr. Do you know how many resources are on this lifeless rock?” His mouth slants. “If we mess up here, I’m dead anyway.”

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

“Yes, you would—because they would kill you too.” Aventurine sighs. His eyes close, and his brow creases—a sign that whatever reprieve he was lucky enough to get is about to end. “Go do what I asked. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll… see a doctor if you do.”

You stand immediately. “Alright. I’ll be back to check on you.”

“I know.”

You stop at the door, giving him a long look. Seeing him like this—lying on a proper bed, cradled in a warm nest, with water and food and medicine nearby—you feel a little better. This is leagues beyond what he’d been afforded in his days as a slave, at the very least. Even if he isn’t free, at least he isn’t trapped.

But it still doesn’t feel good, having to step away. The last thing you want to do is talk to other people, pretend to have interest in other omegas. There are an astonishing number of them who are interested in you on this planet—that princess, and some baron’s son, and one of the prince’s favourite paramours—but you can’t bring yourself to care even for business purposes when Aventurine is like this. You can't act as if you are enjoying yourself when you know he is in pain.

You wonder about telling Topaz the truth. You wonder if she’d be worried enough about Aventurine to let you neglect this mission and cover for you instead, without letting Jade or Diamond or anyone else dangerous know. Not that you think that anyone at the Company particularly cares about Kakavasha—it’s only that he’s valuable. Aventurine of Stratagems is valuable. How many worlds have fallen because of him?

But he seemed unwilling to bet on his worth to them. Which is startling, given how often he's bet on it in the past.

“What’s so important about this planet,” you can’t help but ask, “that the IPC would rather you die than lose it?”

He’s silent for a long moment. His eyes are closed—hidden—but you can see his knuckles whiten as he clutches the Sedanian sweater.

“Copper,” he says. “They want it for the copper.”

When Kakavasha first suggested a friendship to you, it had felt like something in between a proposition and a threat:

Go ahead, he'd said. Use me as you wish. You can even stab me in the back if you want. Just be mindful of this: I don't make deals that don't pay off.

It might have been a strange way of making friends in any other circumstance, but in a house of slaves, it was a natural one. You had not been a clever person—still aren't—but you understood that your place in the world was one of a tool. This was the place of all slaves: you were all things to be used. Your body was a thing to be used. It was valuable for its strength, for its hardiness, for its threat in the arena and for its convenience in your master’s bed (or in a dark basement, or within a heat house, or inside whichever omega your mistress ordered you to calm down). It did not surprise you that Kakavasha wanted to use it as well. It did not surprise you that Kakavasha expected you to use him in return.

You never would have, of course. Kakavasha was not a thing to be used—he had always been a mate. Though you were happy to let him use you, because all you were was a tool anyway, so it was really all you could offer him: to be used.

None of this has changed for you. You don't think any of this has changed for Aventurine, either. With each new friendship he makes, he repeats those familiar words: Use me as you wish. And with each person who accepts, this is exactly what they do: they use him, and they use him, and they use him until suddenly they notice he's tricked them and they've got the losing hand.

You damned gambler, they always spit. You Sigonian wretch. All you know is how to manipulate people. Thief, liar, cheat, whore. Despite all these insults, Aventurine always smiles at them. Cry as they might, he’s won his bet and has their world in his palms.

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. This is all Aventurine knows; these are his great guiding principles in life. (He's told you this point blank, stacking up chips in his favourite gambling dens with a self-satisfied grin.) You often find yourself coming back to these conversations, particularly when you need to convince him of something.

And right now, you very badly need to convince him of something.

Aventurine is ignoring his doctor’s advice. His suppressants are unstable in extreme temperatures, he's been told. During travel on Agnisahr, they'd degraded, and now he’s experiencing his first heat in several years. Of course it's going to be painful, his doctor had said. I can prescribe you some medication to ease the symptoms, but really—nothing will work better than a heat partner. It doesn't need to be a mate. Any alpha will do.

The doctor had been an alpha. You had asked for a beta or omega, but alphas tend to dominate in Interastral Medical Schools, so they're in short supply. Aventurine had been still the whole time, face unreadable, but you could tell he wanted to throw up at the stench of an unfamiliar alpha. You had stepped between the two of them, not bothering to hide the animosity in your voice. We’ll take the medication, you had said, and the doctor had sniffed the air and nodded at you in approval.

Probably won't need it. An alpha like you could sort him out with just a few rounds, he told you, and both of you stayed quiet as he left.

You still aren't talking, or even looking at each other. Aventurine has lay down in his nest again, closing his eyes, while you stand as far away as physically possible—at the door where you'd just shown the doctor out. With the room shut off again, windows closed and door locked, Aventurine’s scent is starting to flood your senses once more. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him shivering.

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He swallows. “I'll be fine.”

He's afraid. You can tell he's afraid. And you can tell he’ll be more afraid if you take even a single step closer to him, so you nod and say, “I'll go pick up your medication, then,” and Aventurine doesn't stop you. You can see him curling up in his nest, face pressed into the cashmere sweater.

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

There is a rare sag to his shoulders when he calls you to the room, along with a taste of dread in the air. You haven't seen him so vulnerable in years. Aventurine is not an open person, so cunning and self-possessed in his wealth—but Kakavasha was more brittle, more powerless, flayed raw and open even though he didn't often get the whip. (It would ruin his value if he ever scarred—his looks were his greatest selling point, your master said.) He was especially defeated when forced to spend his heats with an alpha he didn't want. You wonder, a vice grip of pain around your heart, whether this entire situation is simply an extension of that. Whether he is calling you here against his will, this time compelled by his pain, rather than his master. Whether this luxury suite feels like that wretched basement to him.

He doesn't look at you when he talks, nor does he sit up. He remains curled in his nest, nearly clinging onto the blankets and clothes.

“That stupid medication,” he pants out, sharp even in his heat, “isn't working.”

“I can tell.” Your brow knots. He’s in so much pain, it is palpable. “I”—you hesitate, voice dropping. “Can I help you?”

He goes quiet. As both Aventurine and Kakavasha, he has always been disinclined to accept help from other people. There is no such thing as unconditional help in his mind—only leverage and weakness. He hates it when people have leverage over him, and he hates being weak. Both are things that can be exploited, and Aventurine always needs to be the one doing the exploiting. He always needs to be in control.

Even like this, the last threads of his sanity about to snap, with every circuit of his omega biology trying to drag him into insensible lust, he fights viciously to be in control.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. Control and being controlled. This is how he's always lived. This is how he's always survived.

This is the only way to let him maintain control when he is most afraid of losing it.

“I don't mind,” you say quietly, “if you use me.”

Even through the haze of heat, Aventurine’s eyes sharpen. “What?”

“I don't mind if you use me,” you repeat, voice neutral. Unfeeling. The proposal might sound cruel to someone else, but not you. After all—your place in the world is one of a tool, and this is what you've always done as an alpha and a slave: sleeping with people to take care of their needs, or sometimes just their desires. It did always make you feel strangely hollow, but you think it will feel just fine with Aventurine. All you've ever wanted to do is keep him safe, and surely, this will do that, but—

“I'll only help if you want. I don't want to force it.” You lower your eyes. “But if you do want it, I'll be careful with you. You can lead. I promise.”

“...I know.” Aventurine’s voice is weak, cracks with pain, but you can tell he's speaking with clarity. “I know you will be.”

You look up. “Then you'll let me help?”

Aventurine looks away—a sign that he cannot adopt his usual smile. He’s clutching that sweater again, pressed close to his chest.

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

“I just—I just want your wrist.” He looks away. “Your—your scent gland. Only that.”

“Okay.”

You get up, then falter. When it was your job to comfort your mistress’ omega slaves, you were told to enter their nests—no permission needed from them, no permission needed from you, because only her permission ever mattered for anything. The omegas were usually too delirious to care, often had even begged for it with the state of mind that they were in. But Aventurine is different. He's not like you, and he's not like them. He's never bent to any of his masters’ wills. And even if he did, you wouldn't want to have him bend to yours.

Instead of climbing into his nest, you ask, “Can I sit on the bed?” He doesn't answer. “Just the edge of it,” you add, and you hear him exhale.

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

“Thank you,” you say, and he gives you a confused look. But then you're reaching out with a hand, offering it, and he is quickly distracted.

Aventurine drops the sweater, grabs your hand almost immediately. He turns over your palms, fingers tracing your heartlines—as if testing you, as if mapping out territory. He runs his thumbs along the veins of your wrists, too, right over your scent gland, and you have to force yourself not to shudder at the feeling. You only stay still, letting him explore the contours of your hands, letting him acclimate to the feeling of your skin. He laces his fingers with your own, a latticework trap, and he finally drags his wrist along yours.

Both of you inhale sharply.

You can't react. You know it'll scare him if you do, but it's hard to keep still. The way his scent blossoms, the way it mingles with yours, the way it all washes over you—what you're doing can hardly be called touching, but you feel like you're going mad. Especially when he flushes like that, his vibrant eyes fluttering shut. Especially when the sweetness of honey overtakes your senses. Especially when you can smell the way his body is reacting, all that wetness and heat and slick dripping between his legs. You don't miss the way his thighs rub together, nor the hard outline of his cock straining against his pants.

Aventurine shudders. He brings your hand up to his face, rests his cheek in your palm. His skin is flushed and burning with fever, and it's no wonder that he's sighing with relief at your touch. You try not to stare at the way his mouth falls open. He looks at you for a moment, his gaze a hazy violet and blue—before he closes his eyes again and presses his lips into your wrist.

Fuck.

“Aventurine—” You have to stop, voice strangled, when you feel the full softness of his lips working against your skin. He’s panting now, laboured breaths sweeping over your veins. Then you feel his teeth catch, a gentle nip on your flesh, and when he groans into your racing pulse—deep, relieved, desperate, a noise that makes your gut flare with heat—you realise you can't do this.

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

“Aventurine,” you say, voice strained. Maybe we should stop, you want to say, but he cuts you off.

“I need”—a shaky breath—“I need more.”

You watch Aventurine carefully. His pupils are dilated, blue irises nearly eclipsed. His cheeks are rosy, and he can't stop panting. You can fully smell his arousal now, even through his silk clothes. He's desperate, needing to be filled.

But he also looks torn. His brows are knotted, and you can taste a faint hint of fear in the air now. His knuckles clutch at the sheets, almost white, and he stares at them. He can't look up. He can't look at you. His whole body is tense, like he wants to bolt—and if he weren't so weak, you think he might actually.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

He doesn't nod. He also doesn't shake his head. His arms clutch at his midsection as he winces. He doesn't look like Aventurine. He looks like Kakavasha. It makes your heart ache as you watch him give into his body’s demands, wearing the same expression he did on the day your master bought him.

“...don't use your Voice on me,” Aventurine—Kakavasha—says quietly.

It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking. “I won't.”

“And”—his eyes somehow grow even more evasive, hidden by his long lashes— “don’t touch my commodity code.”

His commodity code. His commodity code that is seared into his scent gland. His code that, if you kiss, will ease his agony instantly. His code that, if you bite—will chain him to you irreversibly.

“Of course I won't,” you say instantly.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

“And—” Aventurine looks away, jaw tight. His voice is quiet but wrought with tension: “—I don't like when people put things inside me.”

Something claws the walls of your heart.

“That's fine too,” you reply. “I don't mind doing it the other way.”

Aventurine’s sigh is nearly inaudible, but unmistakable. His scent shifts a little bit, the wildflower fragrance fading ever so slightly. But he doesn't come to you. He merely sits there—waiting. Expecting. Maybe dreading. Even in the senseless daze of heat, he’s too anxious to move.

You approach slowly. Though you're overwhelmed by the bouquet of his scent, though you feel a curl of heat in your belly in response to it—you are slow. Alphas are supposedly victims of insatiable lust whenever around an omega in heat, absolved of every action they take, but you are convinced this is a lie. You have never once wanted to handle Aventurine with such cruelty. You think that inflicting violence on him, more than anything else, would go against your biology. Every molecule in your body would reject putting him in such pain or inciting such fear. So you are careful when you approach him, slow as you inch up to him—but you do not think it helps.

Aventurine lies down, his face turned away from yours. His eyes squeeze shut, like he's expecting this to hurt. Uncertainty gnaws at your gut as you lean over him, draping your body over his—the only position you've ever taken an omega in, other than mounting them from behind.

(You do not want to mount Aventurine. You never have. It is an impersonal position, a position that omega biology supposedly would force him to enjoy, a position that alphas have likely dictated him to enjoy. You think there is nothing you would hate more. In your weakest, most selfish moments, in your worst ruts, when you’ve allowed yourself to fantasise about mating Kakavasha—you are always facing each other, and he is always looking at you with his eyes you've always loved, and it always feels intimate. Never impersonal. Never dictated. Never forced.)

Aventurine is so honeysweet beneath you. More fragrant than any omega you’ve ever been with. You glance at his commodity code, trying to ignore the scent of his branded skin, then lean down to press your face against the other side of his neck, where a faint scar mars the otherwise flawless slope of his nape. Like every other omega slave you've ever slept with, the scent gland there has been excised: a precautionary measure to reduce the risk of an unwanted mating bite.

(Not unwanted by them—the wants of a slave never matter—but unwanted by their owners. A mating bite would ruin the code seared into their neck, claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. It would hurt their resale value. Only owners are allowed to claim slaves in such a permanent way—and the wants of a slave have no relevance there, either.)

It's a funny thing, this surgical scar. Even with their gland missing, you've noticed that most omegas like having their neck scented by you anyway, probably from some vestigial instinct. You guess that Aventurine won't be any different, that maybe it will comfort him. But when your lips skim the scar left on him by his owner, his entire body stiffens beneath you. His fragrance cuts into your lungs, sharp.

You recoil, as if burned by the touch of him.

“Sorry,” Aventurine is quick to say. He tries to glance at you, but his diamond pupils quickly avoid you again. “Don’t worry about me. Just do whatever you need to do.”

“But you're scared,” you point out, and you see his brow twitch. “You’re scared when I touch you.”

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

When his eyes finally look at you—land on your lips—you understand.

A bite would claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. If you lost your mind—give into the insatiable lust of an alpha whenever around an omega in heat—you might bite him, and then you would own Aventurine.

And Aventurine would rather die than be owned by anyone again.

He doesn't need to finish his sentence. You already know what you need to do.

“It's okay,” you say gently, and his brow knots. “I have an idea.”

Aventurine is always afraid.

This is a fact that has haunted you since the day you met him. You've wondered about how to fix it—the bare minimum as his mate (always his, even if he doesn't want you)—and you’ve never quite pinned down how. Because when someone has spent their life in perpetual fear, how do you make them feel safe? When their life is constantly at risk, how do you ever make them feel calm?

You still aren't sure of the answer. But after seeing Kakavasha become Aventurine, you now have a good guess.

It is clear from his scent that Aventurine does not feel remotely safe right now. Not when you leave to fetch something from your own room, and not when you return. The anxiety thickens when he sees, in your hands, a very familiar muzzle.

Aventurine stares. He is not smiling, but he also does not reveal his discomfort on his face, even as beads of sweat line his temple. But his voice is too controlled, too calm, when he asks, “You kept the mask.”

You nod.

“I told you to throw it out,” he points out, “when I freed you.”

“I know. Sorry. I don't know why I kept it.” You remember how tightly you clutched it before the incinerator, thinking about how strange it would feel, discarding something that you'd worn everyday since you presented—but you don't tell him this. Instead, you say, “But it’s convenient.”

Before Aventurine can say anything, you toss him the remote.

“You’re afraid of my bite and my Voice, but you don't have to be with this,” you explain. Your tone is gentle, soothing. Probably disarming coming from an alpha, with how he is in heat. Perhaps that's why he’s studying the remote rather than chucking it away. “You'll be in full control if I wear this.”

Control. Mere seconds after you say it, you can smell his fragrance change again, mellowing. It's only a brief moment of calm that fades when you latch the mask onto your face, but he doesn't smell as nearly as stressed before.

Aventurine watches you carefully as the carbon steel swallows your maw, its old and familiar edges biting into you. For the first time in years, you cannot tell what he is thinking—truly poker-faced even to you.

“You aren't bothered by wearing that thing while we do this,” he says—asks?—and you shake your head. The muzzle was part of you for years. You were wearing it when you killed someone for the first time. You were wearing it when you went into rut for the first time. You were wearing it when your master had sex with you for the first time. It doesn't bother you that you’ll wear it when you have sex with Aventurine.

If you could speak, you would ask him, Why do you think it would bother me? But all you do is gesture for him to sit up. To switch places with you. You lie down—something you've never done with an omega—and wait for him to get on top.

Aventurine stares at you for a long, quiet moment. It's followed by a sigh of relief. Disarmed, he—for the first time in any heat you've witnessed—finally relaxes. His scent wafts over you as he climbs between your legs, and you can feel the heat radiating from his hands as he parts your thighs, almost scalding.

He doesn't bother getting you ready, too needy to think rationally, but he doesn't have to anyway. You've been wet ever since you felt his mouth touch your wrist, hard ever since you heard him groan into it. You're equally desperate to get some relief as you feel his cockhead sliding against your opening, leaking all over your entrance as his slick drips onto your thighs. His breath shakes as he enters you, and he can't hear it with how you're muzzled—but you groan just as deeply as him at the tight stretch.

You hear him swear when you clench around him, watch him lean over you. His arms shake as he supports himself, refusing to succumb to his heat even as he chases his relief. You seek out his gaze (just as in your dreams, facing each other, intimate), and his neon eyes catch on your eyes for a brief, breathtaking second—

—before he looks away.

There's a flash of—you don't know what, maybe pain? Or fear?—in his irises as he does. A twitch of the brow, a tell he'd normally rather die than let slip. You have the realisation, as Aventurine moves inside you, that even while you're muzzled, even while he has complete control over you—he still can't stand having sex with you. Probably because he can't stand being in heat in general, you tell yourself. Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore. He'd have this reaction to anyone.

Still—you didn't expect him to have this reaction to you.

Your hands twitch, possessed by an old instinct to cover your eyes. But you'd probably scare Aventurine if you moved your arms, so all you do is dig your fingers into the sheets and squeeze them shut. You tell yourself again and again that he'd hate having sex with anyone in these circumstances—not just you. And then you tell yourself, as a desperate, broken moan leaves his branded throat, that he would also come inside anyone in these circumstances, caught within the cruel grip of his heat.

Aventurine stills inside you as he finishes. He pants, sweat dripping down his temple as he shudders in his ecstasy, his spend hot and thick inside you. You can feel his fever break as he comes down from his high, the heat coming off his body easing into a manageable warmth.

Do you feel better, you try to say, but you can't move your mouth while your mask is on. So you wait patiently for Aventurine to come back to himself, watching him carefully as he pulls out and rolls onto the mattress beside you. He finally glances at you then. His eyes narrow once they land on you, confusion flicking through them. Then displeasure. He reaches for the remote.

To your surprise, he immediately punches in the code to unlock your muzzle. Aventurine has apparently remembered the numbers after all these years, as if the moment he freed you has been since seared into his memory.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing you say, and Aventurine gives you a confused look. He’s still panting, dazed, so you ask, “Can I check your temperature?” And when he nods, you confirm your suspicion: he's still much too warm.

There is an ache between your legs and a strange hollow in your gut (because you aren't very experienced with receiving, you think—your body likely just isn't used to the feeling of it), but you quickly forget them. All you can think of is Aventurine, and how he’s still unwell, and how you need to comfort him. The instinct is so strong that you don't even say anything as you get up, straightening out your clothes.

“Are you leaving?” Aventurine asks. His voice is neutral, completely unbothered, but the thought is so horrific to you that you turn back to him with wide eyes.

“Of course not. I'm going to get you water and medicine.” A beat. You stare at Aventurine’s eyes, then think about how he hid them from you during sex. The hollow feeling comes back, but it's mostly eclipsed by your anxiety at the next thought: “...do you want me to leave?”

“Do you want to?”

“I—” I'd rather die, you think. Being forced to leave him right now would feel like tearing out a piece of yourself. You don't know if there's an alpha in this world who could leave their mate in the middle of a heat. And even if he is unmarked, unattached to you—you still think of yourself as his mate. (His, always his, even if he doesn't want you.) “I would prefer not to. I am your heat partner. I'm supposed to take care of you.”

You hear a quiet breath. “Right. Of course. You're always so conscientious.” Aventurine nods, as if convincing himself of something. “Try not to take too long.”

“I’ll come back soon,” you promise, and the air sweetens. Encouraged, you add, voice gentle: “I’ll bring that medication, and then we can have sex as many times as you need after I come back. I'll make sure you're not in any pain anymore.” You pause, studying him. “Is there anything else you need to feel better?”

His fragrance changes once more, this time in a way you don't totally recognize. “No.” His voice sounds strange. His scent is still foreign, fluctuating, possibly hinting at some kind of pain. The heat must be getting to him again—and of course it wasn't enough, what you just did, what you can provide. He likely needs to be filled to get any kind of lasting relief, but you left him empty. “No, that's all I want.”

You nod, forcing yourself to look calm. Ignoring the emptiness in your gut. It didn't feel bad, but you hope it'll feel better next time you have sex. You think it will. Alphas are supposed to be filled with an insatiable lust near omegas in heat, after all. And even though you’ve never felt that before—never felt anything sleeping with all those omegas in your mistress’ house—you are sure you'll eventually feel it around Aventurine.

But the feeling never comes. Even though you can tell that his heat has returned by the time you're back—sweat beading his temples, laboured breaths at his lips, his bottoms now discarded, with full evidence of arousal between his legs—you don't feel much of anything as you reach for your mask again.

“Don't,” Aventurine says, before it can clasp around your face. You give him a curious look. He explains, “Don't. I don't want to have sex again. Not yet.”

You stare at him, shifting. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. Not knowing how he wants to use you. “What can I do?”

He gives you a long look. “Come here. I… I want your scent gland.”

It's a sensible request. If there's a way to seek relief without fucking someone—without fucking you, which he clearly hated doing—you're sure Aventurine would prefer it. So you climb into his nest, holding your wrist out for him, and—

“No.” His voice is quiet. “I want the one on your neck.”

“...oh.”

You stand there, not sure where to move. If he wants you in his nest again, or if he’d rather do this standing. You’re relieved when he demands, “Lie down.”

You expect him to get on top of you when you do. Assume that he wants complete control—but he instead lies down beside you. Presses his body into yours, and then his face into your neck. His nose and lips brush against your scent gland, a full-body shudder running through him, and—

—and now you know for a fact that it is a lie that alphas want nothing other than to fuck an omega when they're in heat. Because even like this, with his lips sweet on your neck, with the sheets soaked with his slick, with his spend leaking out of you—you do not want to have sex with Aventurine. You only want to hold him. You only want him to keep scenting you. You only want to scent him back.

You only want him to feel safe.

You breathe in deeply, lungs flooded by honey. You think of what it felt like to hold him in that cold basement, when he was delirious with fever and pain, and you think about how different his scent is now. How much sweeter it is. How much calmer he feels.

“Do you feel better?” you ask, and he doesn't respond, but you know the answer. His hands come up to dig into your shirt, and he presses into you like you're a sweater in his nest. Silence blankets over you both, calm and warm. His laboured breath starts to improve.

He does eventually speak.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he says, “what you smell like?”

You stare at him. Your master used to say that you smelled good, but he'd never elaborated, and you hadn't wanted him to. “No.”

Aventurine breathes in.

“You smell like—” A little sigh, shaking and feverish, leaves him. “You smell like rain.”

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

“Yes. Or not just rain, but”—he pauses, next words quiet—“more Iike after it rains. You smell like the desert after a rainfall.”

“Oh.” You don't know what to say to that. Feeling distinctly like it's a silly question, you ask, “Is that a good scent?”

“Some would think so. Especially to people from the desert. You probably smell like a blessing to them. Although…”

Aventurine goes quiet again. You stare at the chandelier above you, all crystal and white gold, and wait.

“Although?” you prompt.

“...although I wouldn't really know,” he says. “It’s just a hunch. I bet it's why so many omegas on this planet like you.”

You couldn't care less about those other omegas. All you care about is Aventurine. “And?” you say. “Do you like my scent?”

His reply never comes. He just breathes deeply again, seeking relief from your neck—not intimacy. Any alpha’s scent would work; that doctor told you so. Any alpha’s touch would work, too. There are no special feelings involved here. Your place in the world is one of a tool, and tools are never especially liked nor disliked. Their value exists only in how they can be used.

You don't know why you even bothered to ask the question.

But then something strange happens: Aventurine curls against you, pressing even further into you. His lashes flutter against your pulse again; it ticks up in response, beating fast against his lips.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I do like it.”

You swallow. “But I guess that's because you're in heat. Any alpha would smell good to you, wouldn’t they?”

“No.” His fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt. “No, I like it because it's yours.”

You know better than to read too much into his response. Aventurine had already said it earlier: No foreign scents. He's only tolerating this whole arrangement because you don't smell unfamiliar to him. Only able to use you because you are the least threatening option.

But the words break something in you—break the thing that made you unable to throw out that little pouch of copper coins that you were saving up for Kakavasha’s freedom, the part of you that made you wear that carbon-steel mask for him. It is this part of you that has your eyes squeezing shut and your arms wrapping around him. You know he’ll recoil, reject you, but just this once—you need to try.

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

He melts into you instead, inhaling deeply. Your scent gland tingles with the warmth of his breath, the feeling of his lips. He seems—comfortable.

You can't fathom why he’s staying in your arms. Perhaps he's simply desperate for some kind of relief from his heat, just like when you held him in the basement while he was delirious from pain. But Aventurine had spoken to you with clarity just now, and his skin doesn't feel scalding so much as warm, and his scent is so different than from that moment. So sweet and so gentle, without a trace of fear. It makes your heart squeeze. As much as you've always wanted Aventurine to feel safe, you'd never imagined that his scent would be so beautiful when he is.

It makes your heart ache. You've never held anything so lovely before, and you’ve never felt so warm before, and it all makes up for how badly it hurt to let Aventurine inside you. How hollow it made you feel to let him use you. How none of that matters as long as you can keep him safe like this, because you belong to Kakavasha. You'll always belong to Kakavasha, in a fate that was chosen for you on the day you met him.

You're his, always his—even if he’ll never want you.

end part i

thank you so much to lore for hosting a fantastic collab and to my sponsors who funded this fic and got it over the finish line! please go check out @ficsforgaza to find other amazing hsr writers you can sponsor in order to help fundraise! here is my own wip list, if you are interested in seeing more from me!

and thank you most of all to YOU! I appreciate you so much for reading this chapter. thank you so much for sticking it through.

additional end notes

[angeart]

just wanted u to know i was so excited abt the next chapter that i spent almost 5 hours rereading the whole fic so I could get the best experience out of it. Your storytelling is unparalleled and this fic rotates in my brain non-stop ❤️

WAHH <333 i'm so so happy you enjoy the fic so much!!

thankyouuu for your kind words i'll be sobbing over here in the corner now mkay /pos

[sa2-astral]

your tags on the sow video is honestly so real. i love theory crafting and i honestly should post more of my shadows over welde theories on tumblr i mostly just forget to LMAO. The fic author canonizing your stuff is so cool tho I just have Hayden (Argentum's player) reading my fics and making references to it ingame and im shaking them. I've been doing a lot of theory crafting on Zephrael and Argentum specifically recently cause they're just the characters I have the most info for (also Rae is my favourite) and its so fun graaah. What the video didn't show was that Hayden replied to the original tweet about Zephrael's tattoos being abyssal and Grizzly replied to them with "look away"

orghrghrhg yeahhh :DDD

the theory crafting i think went better because its a small community with the author pretty interactive too which seems to be a similar case with this . seeing that has been so cool. and making references in the show???? i would die /pos .

yessss ive been thinking SO many theory thoughts . mainly about zephrael because my brain has no idea where to go with anyone else yet (and the brainrot has majorly hyperfixated on zeph so yeah) i dont think im cooking yet though cause im pretty sure its full on delusional making shit up because i like angst SJDSKDKS :sob: ive just been ranting in my friends dms a tiny bit hehehe. rarely ramble on tumblr mostly on discord so yeah heheh . i just dont have a set location on discord to ramble yet ive had to keep it contained and vaguely worded in my friends dms because i dont wanna spoil anything SJDJSDKS

also the whole abyssal tattoo is SO fucking cool . ive seen the spread sheets for stats too thats so awesome . the tattoos are so one of those things i bet i'd try to decode i just go crazy lol

superr cool im currently watching the most recent ep and scrolling the shadows over welde tags on twitter because . the brainrot. is crazy enough to get me on twitter for once in ages LMAO . having a great time >:)) very excited to get more into the fandom its been too long since i theory crafted ehhehehee

[isjasz]

WHAJSJSJUKWJWORHEOWIWPWWKIELEKWLWMALWKQPOQWLE

[Day 50]

What wish would u make?

fine heres my fluff debt <3

[maddiefriendlovesbilly]

Okay actually, I’m gonna be the change I want to see in the world— I Know I’m the only person pushing for this, but can you do a ship review on. Light Zeron and Officer Maloney— if you don’t know enough about either character for that,,,, I dunno— Poppy Soup and Sally Acachalla? - overthinkingtaleblr

you CANNOT do this to me I'm INSANE about both of these concepts and I'm gonna do both you fiend! I'm starting with zeron/maloney because I think the idea of that is just below spooker/maxwell for me on deranged (/pos) ships.

Light Zeron/Officer Maloney

so to start us off let's go over the AMAZING dynamic of "world's most pathetic officer of the law" and "vampire security guard on the run"

we know that maloney is. ahem. SHIT at catching criminals, which makes this whole thing work long enough that they Could form a love/hate relationship

god I want a 5k fanfic on this unironically but I would have to write it!!!!

is this post- or pre-vampire? I'm thinking pre BECAUSE imagine!!! imagine the angst

zeron is acting strangely, super out of character. the only person who knows him well enough to figure it out is the man trying to catch him :sobbing:

(also on an unrelated note, they're both aliens which I think is really cute)

look just like. god I'm just shaking my fists irl because I'm so incoherent about this

theyre like. weirdly similar tbh. something about their egos i feel like would both clash heavily and potentially work really well together

IT'S THE PERFECT ENEMIES TO LOVERS SICK FIC GODDAMN

zeron hasn't drunk any blood in ages, (something-something moral quandary something-something starving) and now he's basically passing out from malnutrition, so of course that's the moment maloney spots him in the alley he's squatting in.

and maybe if it were a stranger he would corner them and feed, (its so much easier to drink someone's blood when you can convince yourself that they aren't actually a person, in a weird, convoluted way) but this is someone he knows, maybe even respects. even if they are enemies.

so he doesn't want to drink maloney's blood, and that leaves him with only one other choice - he runs.

he pushes past him and ducks into the nearest abandoned building, hoping to lose maloney in there, but maloney's right behind him.

and meanwhile maloney, so used to their usual back-and-forth banter during fights, is highly confused (maybe a little upset - and fairly worried - if he's being honest) by this behavior.

zeron keeps running but it's clear he won't get much further unless he drinks someone's blood, and now there's literally only one person around - the guy he cares for too much (even if he won't admit it to himself).

be caught or surrender, that's his choice.

it's made for him when maloney catches his wrist - but instead of cuffing him, he spins zeron around, cornering him.

(at this point zeron is wondering if he's about to die a very painful death, but all he can do is stare at maloney's neck.)

maloney oblivious to his surroundings as always, is currently checking zeron over for injuries, and mentally slapping himself because he caught the criminal, why isn't he cuffing him?

this is around the time zeron's resolve breaks - close proximity to a very appetizing meal while starving makes it a bit difficult NOT to partake.

he goes for the neck - literally - and begins drinking like the world is ending. make this part as gay as your little heart desires.

being stabbed in the neck hurts, even more so when they are draining your blood, so maloney quickly pushes zeron off.

but a meal's a meal, and zeron is gone before maloney can even get a word in.

that's all ive got on that for right now haha, so let's hop over to pros and cons!

pros: very fun dynamic, their shared weirdness and the fact that they're both aliens (of different species) could be a bonding point, and they are both like. so so sopping wet and pathetic, they also have similar personalities in a strange way. great potential for hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers and hurt/no comfort fics.

cons: uhhhh. okay so theyre on opposite sides technically, which means any happy ending is gonna have a lot of rough spots, and there's like SO much distrust between them (and light zeron already has issues trusting others)

Conclusion: I'm like SOO biased here so give me a sec to find my center and use logic. Do I think they would work short-term? I feel like they would somehow manage it? like despite everything they'd somehow manage to stay in a not-so-secret kind-of-relationship for at least a year (meanwhile all the news stations are reporting about the two gay people fighting in the street again), and then they'd actually start going on the cheesiest dates ever (and causing pure chaos wherever they went), like coffee dates and amusement park dates and all that shit. everyone would just accept that they're dating and that maloney will probably never catch him but it's Buttsville, NC so what are you gonna do?

at the same time though, I'm sitting here like, what's the long-term gonna look like? does maloney become a criminal? do they get married and settle down? both are hilarious yet tragic because undoubtedly maloney would be a better criminal than police officer but it goes against his perception of himself, and neither is exactly built for domesticity. still, I think they'd manage. somehow it feels like they're too much of a force of nature to let something like that stop them, y'know?

[gatzbright]

3 4 & 11 🫶🫶

BELLA hi !! :D ♥️🫂

3. Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

oooo ok okay. for fics usually like half the time it honestly starts with a title, because recently that will come from a song that has inspired the vibe or story i wanna write. i love pretty lyrics and they just jump out at me straight away and i'm like THAT NEEDS TO BE A FIC TITLE. then i start writing but a lot of the time i write random scenes that come way later bc i am impatient in my writing, but also entirely all over the place, and i just have scenes come to me in full force and i have to get them down. this is also not helpful when i have a 5k doc and only like 1k of actual coherent and Chronological fic. but yeah it gets written in the end after much chaos (hopefully. i mourn my fic graveyard on the daily ... shout out to australia fic. goodbye goodbye goodbye u were bigger than the whole sky and u will be missed). my attention span is also nonexistent on a bad day (adhd is so fun) and i will repeatedly find myself zoned out and staring at a wall. but then there's good days and i DO write :D i very much have to be in the mood to write too, and i am also a slow writer, but each to their own ya know! we are all writers n people and we are all different, and that's what makes life so fun. don't be hard on yourself guys bc u have ur own way of doing things and u ROCK (trying to convince myself that slow writing is fine. we will get there. whew). then comes posting time and i both love and loathe doing tags lmao. i love writing the free random tags but then remembering what people may Actually search to come across my fic is hard and annoying pft and i usually just get my previous fics up and look at their tags or the ones for other fics i know are similar. summaries and formatting and links also suck so bad. my god. i usually copy paste all of it over from my previous fic again and change where necessary. but yeah that is it and then i hopefully have a coherent and fun fic to post :D

4. Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

i answered this one in the post before this so if anyone wants to read it is there :)

5. Link your three favorite fics right now

OOOOOO MY GOSH. YES. love this lets go (heads to my email to zero in on the fics i Know made me sob endlessly). house of gold (rated m) by tippysleeps is one of the most beautiful and heart wrenching fics i have read lately, if ever, and i sobbed at the end very hard into my pillow and made it extremely damp. this is so pos please read it i am yelling. it's like george moves to florida n then lots of domestic slice of life moments almost vignette style but still so in depth, and it reached into my chest and squeezed my heart n slotted right in next to it and there it shall stay. tippysleeps is a genius everyone needs to read his fics go go go. asystole (rated e; no minors) by womanhunt is incredible and i also cried while reading this fic (shoutout to bella !!!). dream and george go to london and george is experiencing being back there for the first time since his move, all alongside seeing dream in the city he grew up in. it's fluffy established relationship, while also making ur heart ache, alongside some flashbacks that i adored, and entirely full of love—it is love and dnf captured in a few thousand words. instigate the paradigm by nervouswaltz (also rated e; minors don't interact) i loved this fic so much it tore me to pieces when i read it. bird is such an incredible writer (ily birdy) who's words are always so visceral and he ties love and life and the experience of being human all together into every fic he writes. this one is a bodyswap fic and i think it's a very important read to make u think n see yourself from another persons eyes, and is all about learning to love yourself. it's so beautiful guys :( buh. please check out birds fics !!!

[thera-daydreams]

INDAY

± A Trese Fic ±

[Crispin/Basilio/Maliksi/Dominic x Skymaiden!Reader]

01: Noon at Ngayon (✓)

02: Ang Kambal na Anak ni Datu Talagbusao, Diyos ng Digmaan (Link)

03: Ang Prinsipe ng Mga Tikbalang (Link)

04: Ang Pinuno ng Mga Aswang (Link)

05: (Link) 06: (Link) 07: (Link)

01: Noon at Ngayon

Back then, long before you were born, your mother used to work as a katulong of the Trese Family and was very close to its matriarch, Miranda Trese. Coming from the province, she was no stranger to superstitions—even more so after knowing the work of Miranda's husband Anton Trese, who was actually the Babaylan-Mandirigma of Manila.

Years later, after giving birth to you around the same time Miranda gave birth to her twins (one a stillborn, unfortunately), it was you and Alexandra who became best buddies instead, as different your personalities were. You two had practically grown up together and you yourself heard countless stories of the supernatural from your Tito Anton. It wasn't that hard to believe when he and his sigbin companions would sometimes come home tracking blood prints on the floors (which you'd helped your mother clean up). Heck, you'd even met Señor Armanaz, the Great Stallion himself and the ruling tikbalang of the Armanaz herd. That pretty, white-haired diwata seemed extremely fond of you, too, which was evident when you'd sneak in with Alexandra to Tito Anton's meetings and she would smile (even wave) at you happily.

You had absolutely no idea why the fae-like lady was so nice to you, but you weren't complaining at all!

However, in spite of your experiences with the supernatural, you and your mother always believed that you were normal humans. In actuality, that was who you were for the majority of your childhood. It was only until Miranda herself saw a vision of you—a much older you—fighting the monsters of the Underworld alongside her own daughter. During dinnertime, Miranda told your mother that she saw you blessed by the heavens with powers that would aid in the battle against evil.

It sounded absolutely ridiculous, right? Yeah, your mom thought so, too.

Your mother only laughed it off as she placed a steaming bowl of tinola in front of Alexandra's brothers, who instantly dug in like they haven't been fed in years.

"Boys! Dahan-dahan lang," Anton reprimanded his sons. "Or else you'll choke and the soup will come out of your noses!"

"Okay, Papa."

"Grabe ka naman, Miranda. I doubt that anything like that's going to happen to my daughter," your mom chuckled, watching your little hands try to feed Alexandra with a piece of chicken. "Unlike you guys, our lineage isn't anything special. Ordinaryo lang ang lahi namin."

Miranda sighed, looking at you and her only living daughter enjoying your time being kids, "I guess you're right. Baka panaginip lang talaga 'yun."

Anton glanced at her knowingly. Although he was aware that you and your mom didn't dabble in magic or anything like they did, he knew that whenever Miranda—one of the Seven Seers—had such vivid dreams, it was something of great importance. But he decided to say nothing, understanding how much your mother wanted to let you live as normal of a life possible in this household.

That was when you were seven years old. One year later, Miranda died fighting against a group of aswang who decided to betray Anton. Said man found the eight-year-old Alexandra hiding in a corner behind the waterfalls, scared and holding Sinag close to her heaving chest as she tried to hold her tearful sobs in.

Of course, a few days later, you and your mother attended the funeral with the mourning Trese family. All the brothers had done their best to stay strong, especially for their little sister who didn't fully understand yet what just happened. Little you ran towards Alexandra, holding her hand tightly as her mother's casket was lowered. Around you were various comrades, both human and non-human, paying their respects to their bereaved allies.

That day, as you turned your back to return to your mother's arms, you knew you would never forget the feeling of numerous unearthly eyes following your every movement.

Even they could sense that there was something about you, a so-called regular human child. You smelled human and had the aura of one, but there was something they couldn't place. It was like a tiny rock getting into your shoe, not coming out at all.

Much changed after that, but you and Alexandra remained close together. To your dismay, just after you graduated elementary, you and your mother had to move back to the province to stay with your sick grandparents. The last thing you could remember was kneeling in the back of the car, looking sadly through the rear windscreen as Alexandra and her brothers waved goodbye to you.

More than a decade had passed since then. You used to write letters to Alexandra, but after Hank told you she had to undergo the trials of the Puno ng Balete, you haven't heard from her (although Hank did disclose that she'd managed to come home safely, which was a great relief to you). You didn't blame her; you knew Tito Anton had passed away in the five years she was gone and that she had to take over the title of Lakan, as well as the Babaylan-Mandirigma of Manila. It was a demanding job! You remembered Tito Anton sometimes staying up all night—breakfast would be served and he would still be in his study, going over paperwork. On other days, he would be gone for consecutive nights handling cases all around Manila. You could only pray Alexandra was fine.

Your life had continued on, as well—you took care of your ill grandparents until they died, helped your mother in the province, went to a good highschool, then earned your degree in another prominent city that wasn't Manila.

Your mom actually recommended that you go to school somewhere else, given the constantly rising number of attacks in the capital of the country. And so you did. Life was hard, but normal until then.

The funny thing was that, when you reached the age of twenty-one, you finally understood why those supernatural creatures kept looking at you weirdly as a kid (and why Lady Diwata liked you so much).

What was even funnier was that the dramatic revelation came to you when you weren't in the Philippines. It was after you freshly graduated college, when you were traveling all over Asia to volunteer in charity projects. It was always your dream to one day expand your horizons not only beyond your province, but the Philippines itself, while also doing good in the world.

And here you were, walking that path you dreamt of.

The organization you luckily managed to become a member of provided everything you needed, and every few months, you would move from country to country. Because of that, you'd already been able to travel to so many places. First it was Thailand, then Indonesia, China, South Korea, India, Japan, Sri Lanka, Singapore, Malaysia, and currently, you were in Vietnam. Visiting those places was fun and gave you a whole new perspective of the world you lived in; it was a... learning experience, too.

Still, that incident happened when you were in Thailand, when you were the last one in the rented apartment balcony taping up the boxes for the donation drive tomorrow. Yawning, you cut more duct tape and stuck them to the open boxes tightly.

"Inday," someone said from behind you. You didn't bother turning around, thinking it was one of your fellow volunteers looking for you this late at night. Probably your roommate. She was the only one who usually called you by your nickname instead of your real name.

"Hmm?" you hummed, taping up more boxes. "Papasok na ako sa kwarto, Lyn. I just have a few more boxes to close. Alam mong mapapagalitan ako kung may hindi madidistribute bukas."

"Hindi ako si Lyn."

You paused, then slowly turned around, flinching at the sudden bright light that shone right against your eyes. For a moment, akala mo namatay ka na at hinaharap mo si San Pedro.

It was a glowing figure in white whose face you couldn't clearly see, which frightened you even more.

"Ay, mama!" you exclaimed, shielding your eyes and falling to your knees. Then, you gasped loudly, patting your body and panicking with closed lids. "Oh my God, am I dead? Nasa heaven na po ba ako?" Your lips wobbled. "Ngayon pa nga lang ako nakaalis ng Pilipinas... I haven't even done all the things I've wanted to do! Hindi pa ako nakapagpaalam sa nanay ko—aray!"

You'd felt something hit the back of your head. Hard. It was the glowing figure in white, but now you could see their unimpressed face scowling at you.

"Kalma lang, Inday. Hindi ka pa patay, pero makinig ka nang mabuti," they shushed you urgently (you weren't sure if they were male or female). "Do not be afraid. I am a messenger from the heavens, and I bear great news!"

"Great news...?" you trailed off, then your eyes widened excitedly. "Like, nanalo ba ako ng lotto? Isang milyon? Bilyon? Hala! Wait, is this a Mama Mary moment? I'm not ready to be the next immaculate conception!"

They glared at you, making you shut up instantly. "Sorry, I'll shut up now," you apologized with a mumble. This person (thing?) was kind of... strict. Whatever did you do wrong? You were just sleep-deprived and running on energy drinks (as well as kape).

"I have come to tell you that you are the vessel of the last skymaiden," they revealed, arms wide open. The light around them seemed to grow even brighter, making you squint. You felt like you were about the go blind! "Ikaw ang huling biraddali, Y/N L/N."

At ayun, zero brain cells remaining. Tunay na nagloading screen ang brain mo. Nag-error at nagcrash pa nga siguro, eh.

"... Ha? Ano?"

You blinked, completely speechless—as seen by how wide your jaw had dropped open. It wasn't that you were unfamiliar with the biraddali, it was just that you'd only heard of them once when you were just a young child. Your Tita Miranda had mentioned they were long gone from the world of the supernatural.

"Oh no, me? A biraddali? You're joking," you stuttered out, pointing at yourself. "Aren't they extinct or something? And, uh... not human?"

They nodded, "Yes. It is correct that everyone in the mystical world thought that the biraddali were long gone, even before the colonizers came to conquer the native lands. However, before the skymaidens all disappeared, the youngest and most powerful one among the seven sisters sealed her soul away to the rivers of time until the strength of a heavenly being was needed to help purify the evils of the world." The figure floated closer to you. "That last biraddali's soul, along with its corresponding power, traits, and knowledge, had chosen to reside deep within you the moment you were conceived."

Honestly, how were you even supposed to react? Your life was nowhere near ready for something like this. Was this a prank by your friends? Your colleagues? The light around this person seemed too authentic to be fake, though.

You stayed in shock for an entire minute, silent. The being in front of you only waited for a response.

"Ano 'to, Sailor Moon? Winx Club?" you whispered to yourself, before slapping your own cheek and scolding yourself. A stinging red mark was left on your face. "Inday, kakamanhwa mo 'yan! Nasosobraan ka na ata, matulog ka na!"

Sighing heavily, you rubbed your face tiredly, still in disbelief that you—according to this stranger—were apparently some old soul from a species of ethereal beings that were long gone. It sounded like something out of those reincarnation webnovels you got addicted to. What now, you were the MC? Wattpad ka, girl?

"Look, this is a mistake. I still have to wake up early tomorrow to give out the donations," you spoke to the glowing being (or whatever it was), laughing nervously. "I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong person. Either that or I must be hallucinating from sleep deprivation, because I'm definitely not a divine creature. You're probably just a product of my imagination. Sorry, I'm going to bed."

Bang!

At that moment, the power in the building went out. The only thing you could see was the thing who assumed you were a biraddali (they were so bright they were like a flashlight in the dark for you).

"Brownout?" you blinked. It felt wrong, though. It was eerily silent. "Did a fuse blow up?"

"Nagsimula na ang iyong unang pagsubok, Y/N," they announced seriously. "Creatures of the dark have already begun to take over this building. You may not have noticed, but all throughout your life, you have always been helping and giving. It is your nature as a being descended from the heavens themselves, and now, it is time for you to accept your destiny."

"Hoy, sandali lang! Sandali, sandali!" You were absolutely wide awake now as you heard the sounds of strange whispers around you. It was terrifyingly creepy, much creepier than whatever you'd seen back in the Trese Residence (and you'd seen a lot in that house). You did not want to be a part of a horror movie-like lifestyle. "Don't I have a choice in this?! I—I don't have any training or fighting skills! Hindi ako Alexandra Trese o Babaylan-Mandirigma! I'm not ready for this, holy sh—"

The candescent creature raised a brow at you, "Inday, I just told you that you have the power of a lost mystical being. And tell me, if you had the power to save your companions in this building from the forces of evil, would you save them?"

You were silent, knowing the answer.

"Well?" they prodded.

You bit your lip, "Oo naman. I'm not heartless!" But you were a little impulsive. And apparently, insane.

"That's what I thought. I just need you to believe in yourself," the being encouraged, gentler this time. It transformed into something smaller and rounder—like a ball of light. "Ikaw ang huling biraddali, Y/N, at marami kang kapangyarihan. Isa dito ay ang pagtulong sa mga nangangailangan, lalo na laban sa masasamang nilalang."

Bestie, what had you just gotten into?

You swallowed apprehensively, then nodded in determination, "Sige. So, how do I save the people in the building? Biraddali were said to be able to shapeshift, right? If I remember the tale correctly. Oh my God, I can't believe this is happening to me right now."

"That's just one of your abilities, but I'll teach you. I'm actually your guide," they replied confidently. "With me, you'll be able to master your powers and exceed your capabilities in no time!"

"Wait! Anong pangalan mo?" you asked breathlessly, following them as they speedily flew out of the room. "Grabe, slow down! I'm not athletic! I haven't even exercised this week, goodness."

"... Gabay. Ako si Gabay."

Despite the adrenaline and fear running in your veins, you still grinned up at the ball of light, "Okay. Nice to meet you, Gabay."

This was just the beginning of your supernatural combat training abroad. When you returned to the Philippines three years later, you were stronger, faster, and more powerful than you'd ever felt before. It was crazy.

Oh, that guy who tried to rob you when you came back to Manila was crazy, too. The two identical-looking men in dark suits and white ties—you wondered how they were surviving the heat in that attire—could only watch in awe as you chased down that man who stole your bag while doing acrobatics and parkour.

"Uy, Kuya Crispin, sino kaya 'yun?"

"Ewan ko, Basilio."

"... She's kind of pretty. Type ko. Type mo rin ata."

"The more important question is, paano niya na nahuli ang magnanakaw?"

"Oo nga, no? One in a million chance 'yan dito sa Maynila, haha! Ang astig ni ate!"

(Next Chapter.)

± Author's Notes ±

Ayieee, type daw tayo ng kambal! 😌

How the hell did I write this entirely random thing in one day? 2k+ words? Ano daw? 😃⁉️

You know, this was supposed to just be a Trese one-shot or a bunch of drabbles for the characters I'm currently simping for... but it turned into a full-blown, shameless self-insert slash crackfic. Kakacellphone ko 'yan. 🤦‍♀️

Nagresearch pa ako ng articles about Filipino skymaidens because I wanted something similiar to the Japanese celestial maidens (tennyo). Very random idea but why not? Gusto ko ng badass Y/N na hindi takot lumaban sa mga mumu! 👻

Also, pagbigyan niyo nalang ang matandang 'to kasi ilang taon na akong hindi nagpopost ng mga writings ko. May track record pa naman ako bilang author na hindi nagtatapos ng mga fanfic, hehe. I also haven't read the comics so please forgive me for any inaccuracies and of course, misspellings/errors. Gusto ko lang matapos 'to para makakabalik na ako sa Jujutsu Kaisen. 🥲😗

Anyways, comments and constructive criticism are welcome! Hit those heart, reblog, and follow buttons for updates! Just comment if you want to be tagged in the next chapters. ❤

[tired-lamb]

DAWW Mater WOULD do something like that :(( /pos. I can just imagine McQueen being an absolute sobbing mess and Mater just comforting him and being there for him cause thats his basically-husband-now dammit!!!

Also, I read a fic once of a ship I like in another fandom where the couple was getting married but one of them was under a lot of stress and kinda had a breakdown before the whole vows part of the wedding, and their partner came over to comfort them and stuff. I can see that happening with McMater tho idk who would be who ffhdkdh, honestly can see the both of them in both positions but thats just my two cents

okay I know you hc (? if I’m not wrong) that McQueen would wear a red suit in his and Mater’s wedding and I like that a lot but hear me out,, what if he wore a dress? :3

HHHHH

Oh man, don’t indulge my need for men to be in dresses ABSAHHHA—

But yes, I do HC that Lightning wears a red suit at his own wedding. Though, I definitely could see him wearing a dress too. It all depends, really.

Though, me and my friend Kei were talking about how Mater would definitely wear a veil as some kind of joke. Mainly as a joke, but also to help with Lightning’s nerves. Because come on, he would be a total wreck before the wedding.

[writinginthesecrettrees]

On Camera

 a fic for @writethelifeyouwant about Sam. On camera.

I think it ended up a bit over 500 words. Sorry not sorry.

-

Sam looks around nervously, a final check that everything’s in place. Bed made, door locked, roommate out for the next few hours, lights adjusted the way the studio told him to. Lube and a “realistic” dildo in easy reach, and he’s wearing loose gray sweatpants and a Stanford-red hoodie.

Tripod with camera aimed at the pool of light on the bed, and he wishes he could keep his face out but the studio pays more if they can see his face, his reactions, and he’s more than a little desperate since discovering that his scholarship doesn’t cover books or meal plan and he needs cash fast. Luckily there’s a market for pretty boys in financial need, he doesn’t even need to let someone else touch him and the studio loved his jack-off video. 

This’ll pay more.

Deep breath. He hits “record” and moves around to sit on the bed.

“Hey, so uh… I’m Sam, and you all liked my first vid so much, I’m making another. And it’d really help me out if you could leave a comment about what else you’d like to see from me.” He scrubs his hands on his sweatpants, laughs a little. “I’m still a bit nervous, so any encouragement you all could give would be… yeah.”

The studio told him not to worry about music or anything, they’d add some when they edited the video he’s sending them, but he can’t help wishing he could have something playing. Anything to get his mind off the camera in front of him and the blinking red light. He knows his cheeks are flushed red from embarrassment, but the studio loved that. “Ya look all innocent and shy... that gets lots of subscribers. Keep it up!”

He rubs the back of his neck, glances up at the camera, and feels himself blush harder. The problem is he’s just not in the mood, but if he doesn’t drop this tape in the mail today, he’s gonna start really falling behind on his classes. And maybe he shouldn’t, because that’s what got him into this new line of work in the first place, but he can’t break a habit of a lifetime, so he closes his eyes and thinks what would dean do.

Tries not to feel shame as he pictures Dean in his position and his dick starts to take interest immediately. He strokes it lightly, teasing through soft cotton, enough so it plumps up to tent the fabric before sliding his hands up his chest, rubbing at his nipples until they stiffen.

what would dean do

Sam opens his eyes, grins at the camera. “Think I should take it off?” He pulls the zipper of his hoodie down a couple inches, bites his lip, drags it further until the N and F are separated. That’s enough to trail his hand up between his pecs, up his throat, pushing his head back as he draws his fingers up over his chin to tease at his lips. Pretends it’s someone else’s hand (pretends it’s dean’s) as he sucks the tip of his index finger in and moans softly. He brings his free hand up to squeeze his pec, and blushes again. It’s not a tit, but he’s been touching himself the way Dean touches girls for so long he’s not sure he can get off without it.

Slowly, he pulls his finger out of his mouth, makes it pop loudly before tugging the zipper down completely and shrugging out of the sleeves. “You’ve got a great bod, kid, let us get a good look,” the studio said, so he pauses there, flexing his muscles, running his hands over his abs and gasping as he tickles his own sides. Goes back to his chest to squeeze and tweak his nipple, pinches one hard and gives it a little twist that makes him gasp. His eyelids are heavy as he looks into the camera again.

“I like when it hurts, just a little.” He barely recognizes the husky voice as he confides in the camera. In the thousands, maybe millions of faceless men who are going to watch this. Sam lets his eyes fall shut and pictures Dean standing there. “Wish you could touch me.”

what would dean do

Sam lets his hands fall, caresses his dick through his sweatpants with a groan. “Ready for more?” He falls back onto the bed, lifts his hips to slide his sweatpants off his hips, scoots back as his cock springs free of the waistband to thump against his belly. It’s hard and heavy, aching for attention but he avoids touching it. Frames it in his hands as he kicks his sweatpants off to the floor, pressing on the base with his thumbs to make it stand straight in the air. “Big, huh?” is not false bragging. He knows what average is, in real life and in porn, knows that he’s larger than most. Knows that he looks even bigger shaved bare, like the studio instructed. “Too bad it’s wasted on me.”

He pulls a leg up, raising his ass a bit higher, feels the tension in his abs as he reaches around his thigh to grab a cheek. Spreads himself wide, shows his hole to the camera. “What I really like… I like playing with this.” He braces himself on one elbow, reaches further, and rubs just the tips of two fingers over his hole, dry. His dick twitches, precum beading at the tip and smearing on his skin. Sam presses lightly, then harder, gets a finger in halfway to the first joint. A quick glance over his shoulder and he’s able to stretch his arm back to the bottle of lube on his nightstand. He flicks the lid open with his thumb and drizzles slick over his fingers and hole, hissing slightly at the chill.

The lube makes everything slippery, lets his first finger sink in completely and he’s got a second shoved in with a happy sigh before he remembers what the studio said. “Go slow, make ‘em wait for it.” He pulls his fingers halfway out, shoves them back in, starts slowly fucking himself and crooks his fingers up to hit his prostate. His dick leaks out more precum, a steady drip like a string of drool from where the head bobs in the air to his belly. His hips jerk, fucking back at his fingers and he bites his lip. 

“Could come like this, but you’re here for something else, right?” Sam pants, pulling his eyes back to the camera. He doesn’t stop fingerfucking his ass, feeling the soft heat clenching around his knuckles, just adds another finger and moans at the stretch. “Betcha wanna see me take… something… a bit bigger.”

He presses his fingers tight into his hole, rubs against his prostate and moans as he reaches his other hand out, grabs the dildo standing on the stand. It’s as long as he is, thick as his wrist, and he doesn’t think about how he’d picked it for its resemblance to Dean as he brings it to his lips. The position isn’t the most comfortable, but his tests showed him that it gets his face in frame without losing his ass, lets the audience see him wrap his lips around the thick mushroom head of his dildo while his fingers continue to thrust and stretch in his hole. The chemical taste of the fake dick is familiar, hours of practice for his own sake and he’d never planned to show off on camera but it is what it is. Slowly, carefully, he pushes the dildo into his mouth, opening his throat for it, doesn’t stop until the balls are pressed against his chin and he’s gagging on the length down his throat.

When he pulls it out, it’s glistening with spit. He’s gasping for air and his eyes won’t focus. His lips feel swollen when he licks them, tries to speak and has to cough to clear his throat. “Need it now,” Sam manages to say, and he pulls his fingers out of his hole, teases around the rim with the cock. “Need you so much…”

Sam struggles to relax as he pushes the head against his hole, pushes out against it, gasps and pants and whines until it finally pops through the ring of muscle, then lays there, clenching around the shaft until the burn of toothicktoomuch subsides. He fumbles for the lube, finds the bottle in the rumpled blankets where he dropped it, drips more slick onto the dildo and pushes it in farther. His back arches as he gets the toy deeper, each fraction of an inch a struggle. It’s his first time fucking himself with anything other than fingers and he’s almost sobbing with the pleasurepain of it, tears streaming down his cheeks. “De…” 

did i say that out loud?

It doesn’t matter. He’s got the whole of it inside him, filling him more than he’s ever been, and he wants more. Wants to feel weight on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, wants someone else pulling the thick shaft out and thrusting it back in, wants to feel hips pressing into his, swiveling the way he used to see Dean swivel in girls. All he’s got is his hand and a heavy chunk of silicone, so he gets a good grasp on the balls and starts thrusting and grinding the dick into him.

what would dean do

He wraps his other hand around his own cock, squeezing tight at the base, stroking himself roughly in time to the thrusts. His hips jerk back onto the dildo and forward into his fist and he throws his head back, bites back a howl and turns it into a long, low moan. It’s hard to keep a rhythm and he gives up on that, focuses on the feel of being stretched wide and stuffed, grinds back to try and get it just a little deeper, and his vision goes white as he comes harder than he ever has, spattering up his chest and he feels a few drops land on his chin before he collapses, boneless, on the bed.

Sam takes several tries to roll over, pushing himself up on his elbows and knees, but he finally gets in the studio-requested position and lets the dildo slide slowly out of his slicked-up ass, lets the camera linger on his gaping, puffy hole for a long minute before standing up with a groan, walking on shaky legs to turn off the camera. He pulls out the tape before he can chicken out, shoves it in the pre-addressed envelope and wipes himself off before getting dressed and heading out to drop the envelope in the mail, and he resolutely doesn’t think about it as he heads back to the showers to scrub himself clean.

-

Dean pulls the package out of the PO box and tries to pretend he’s doing this for noble reasons as he shoves $5k of pool hustling and poker cash in an envelope to mail to Stanford. Tries to pretend he’s gonna destroy the tape without watching it, tries to ignore the fact that the last tape was worn out from watching it before he finally broke it in pieces and burned it by the side of the road.

But if Sammy’s desperate enough for money that he’s willing to do this, Dean’s gonna make damn sure no one sees what’s supposed to be his. And if he does watch the videos Sam sends “the studio” a few times (a few hundred times) before getting rid of them, well… Dean figures he’s paid good money for these, and it’d be a shame to waste it.

[doyouremem8erme]

Well of course I’m going to ask you 002 for Marcy :)

How I feel about this character:

INCOMPREHENSIBLE SCREAMING AND SOBBING /POS

i love her. so much. i am prone to sob over the inherent tragedy of her arc i can't even. i will proceed to rant about her for the rest of this post.

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

every variation of sashannarcy slaps. sasharcy has those epic hurt/comfort vibes and theres just something abt them. omg. and MARCANNE. sdfhgjksfdhgsjd fckin. i cannot. i love them i will cry over the pining and trauma and everything. but. then. SASHANNARCY DFHJKGHDFJK. its them its always them. theyre bound by prophecy but also by their own choices to eternally dance around each other until theyre finally all safe and trusting and happy again sdfgjhsjdfhgsj

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

we need more maddie and marcy friendship fr!! frickin so wholesome. let her have fun and be goofy and nerdy and creepy and weird with her froggy friend!! i need to write about them sometime. without having marcy in a coma. bc thats always the context. i always bring in maddie for that!! and then they never have friendship time! so yeah. weird nerds.

My unpopular opinion about this character:

uhhh everything i want to say abt her would be like "SHE DIDNT DESERVE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER" or "DFJFDHGJKFDHGJK" which are both common sentiments regarding her.

so instead i'll be like. why do you fear season 3b. are you afraid of the suffering??? hahahahaha i will watch the angst unfold with rapt attention!! yes i will sob but. let me have this. i want to see her pushed over the edge i want to see her sob into sasha and anne's arms when shes finally rescued.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon:

ive had like 5 separate vivid dreams abt her waking up after being saved and it paralleling the scene when she wakes up from the tank but. like. its real its raw its emotional. i really hope they handle her rescue and the weight of her trauma as well as ive dreamed. shes been through so much shes been stabbed and tortured and possessed i want to see her cry and also NEWT MOMS. give her lesbian newt found family i am begging on the ground.

my OTP:

SASHANNARCY SASHANNARCY SASHANNARCY–

(no longer can choose between sasharcy or marcanne. whenever i write one of those. imagine that it takes place before they realize they can All Date. and so they are gay pining the whole time.)

my cross over ship:

a Certain Fic has gotten me hooked on luzcy so. yeah luz noceda owl house x marcy wu. traumatized nerds am i right. (but man fr. marcy in that fic... ow)

a headcanon fact:

frick i wanted to put some gender here but all i have is angst! uh she. is aware of what is happening some of the time while possessed and she feels her body moving against her command and everything :) oh also. those weird plug things that connected to her in olivia and yunan? those attach to implanted technology under her skin :) yeah. shes not having a good time.

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Fated (Prologue)

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Hades!Bucky x Persephone!Reader

Summary: Humanity has broken the world. How they did it doesn’t matter. What does is that in doing so they quickened the old gods once more. A century later things are settling into a new order but all is not as it seems. As Fate draws two gods together the cracks begin to show in this new age. Will their bond tip the delicate balance or restore order to a broken world?

Warnings: Blood, death (background character)

A/N: I started thinking about a Hades!Bucky character after I saw that @invisibleanonymousmonsters wanted to see a fic centered around a Hades!Bucky and Persephone!Reader relationship. I’ve never done anything like this but I have been dabbling in a Greek pantheon novel for literal years. So I’m sort of using this as an exercise to break out of the rut with that work and to see if I can work with building a “new” character out of the bones of Bucky. It’s an interesting challenge and idk how I feel about it yet but here’s kind of a prologue thing. 

Feedback would be AMAZING because I feel very out of my depth with this. 

Tags are open!

@mywinterwolf  @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade  @wonderlandmind4 @piensa-bonito @handplucked @katecolleen

He runs his fingers through his long dark hair. Maybe he should cut it. That seemed to be the style men preferred these days. Short on the sides, almost to the scalp, length on top. No, he liked it long. The preferences of men never did interest him as it did his brothers.

Looking down at the dark navy and gold workings of his metal left hand he’s once again impressed by his nephew’s skill. Not a single hair snagged in the delicate joints. It brings a smile to his face knowing the care that was put into it. More care than Heph’s parent’s ever showed the boy. Well… he wasn’t a boy anymore, was he? Hadn’t been for millennia.

He sighs and looks in the mirror. Striking blue eyes flash under strong dark brows, a hard mouth, dark thick stubble not quite enough to be called a beard covering a sharp jaw. It had been almost a century since the gods awoke, the cold Ichor being brought back to blazing light by the hubris of men. Yet even after all these years, he was still settling into the feelings of once again being flesh. Still trying to see himself in the glass.

“James,” he intones. Would it ever feel quite right on his tongue? It was as good a name as any and certainly was more palatable to modern tongues than other names he had worn throughout his long existence like Aidoneus, Pluton (which had always been his least favorite), and of course Hades. James, was unremarkable, just like he liked it.

Heavily he sighs running the fingers of his right hand over the scars that connected metal and flesh. Like the name, it was a good body. Though battle-scarred and broken even in such a short amount of time. There were always battles to be fought. They would always call on him to fight them. After all… shouldn’t a god of Death herself be thrilled to be in the midst of a battlefield…

He sneers at his own reflection. No. He never wanted to be Death’s agent among the celestial beings of the earth. He took the title because his brothers would have rent the heaven’s and made the cosmos bleed in order to avoid the yoke of responsibility being Death’s consort gave one.

What did it matter? Choice, was never a boon he was granted.  

Sensing their master’s distress Cerberus paws at the door. The low whine from each dog perfectly in tune making it sound like one. He can’t help the smile that rises to his face. If nothing else at least fate had seen fit to give him his companion.

He opens the door and kneels down to the three massive black hounds, “I’m ok, boy.” Happily, they lap at his face. Though by all appearances they were three separate beings it was nothing but a clever glamour. Humans had adapted faster than expected to gods among them but a three-headed hell hound was rightfully unnerving to most.

With his signature perfect timing his brother’s obnoxious voice chimes in from the ether. “How’s my perpetually gloomy older brother today?” A wavering image hovers over the obsidian scrying disk revealing that fucking smug smile.

“Not in the mood for whatever bullshit you have in mind Zeu-“

“Anthony, remember. We are doing the whole use modern names thing aren’t we? I get yours right every time Jimmy. It hurts that yo-”

James’ skin crawls. “It’s James.”

“Ever the ray of sunshine.”

“Hey, Brother!” Pos- er Steven’s golden head pops up from behind Anthony. He always had a soft spot for this one. Even if he was inarguably the moodier of the three no matter what Anthony said about James.

“If the two of you are calling it can’t be good,” he groans and falls onto the bed, the image of his brothers switching to the ceiling to stay in his line of sight.

“Just thought we’d check in on you bruv!” Anthony had a thing for human slang. It was obnoxious.

“Yeah. Sure you are.”

“Just tell him,” Steven hisses at Anthony.

“Well… there is something. A bit of a skirmish is kicking up in the midwest, some factions and a demi-god, not one of mine,” his brother was known for his messy children so the distinction was warranted.

“And you want good ol’ Hades to put the fear of Death in them?” They both smile like idiots. He groans again, louder. All he wanted was to be left alone. Was it too much to ask?

“If you could,” Steven pipes up. “If you’re not too busy. I’ve got a lot on my plate and Anthony-“

“I’ve been whipping together some new toys. Speaking of how’s the new arm?”

“Your kid did a great job, almost as good of a job as you did blowing it off.” James wanted to be sure his brother never forgot.

“It was almost a century ago. Let it go.” Anthony’s voice is wheedling. It’s all the more annoying because his brother was notoriously terrible at letting anything go… ever.

“I’ll take care of it,” not like he had a choice.

“Thanks,” they call out, almost as in tune as Cerberus.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t let them say anything else, swiping his hand in the air to break the connection.

Sighing he sits up and flexes his arm, looking at how the light reflects on the surface. The humans used to depict death with a scythe. How long would it take for them to change the image to a dark man with a deadly arm instead? Not long he figured. Fear was a powerful thing.

And everyone feared Death.

You stare at your hands, bloody and shaking. The child shrieks behind you as Mother and Calli tend to its tiny form. It would live. Another orphan among thousands… millions on this broken world but the mother… Desperately her right-hand reaches weaker my the second still longing to feel her child in her arms.

“Kore,” your mother hisses. “Come away. She’s lost.”

But you can’t. Wiping your hands on your clothes you kneel beside the woman and take her reaching hand in your own. Her mouth hangs open as if her words have been stolen from her.

“She is Death’s now,” Calli says softly from the baby’s side. “Leave her be. There is no room for the dead here, child.” You glare at the two women.

They won’t even deign to look behind them at you and the woman. A soft sob comes from her, so faint you almost wonder if you imagined it and your attention returns to her.

“Shh,” you whisper in her ear. “You did your best. Your son will live.” Reaching into your pocket you pull out one of the old smooth coins you always keep. “Here,” you slip it into her hand, “for the ferryman.” Her eyes look like that of a frightened rabbit and your heart hurts. “I’m sorry.”

“That is enough, Kore!” Mother bellows with the force only a goddess can muster. It makes your hair stand on end. She still won’t spare you or the woman a glance. Quickly you kiss the woman’s forehead and rise. “Come tend this new life and stop wasting your time on one that is over.”

“She can hear you still, Mother,” the woman’s small heartbeat still tings in your ears.

“What does it matter?” She’s slipping tiny socks onto the baby boy’s feet. “Humans die every second. We are shepherdesses of life daughter. We don’t sully our hands with death.”

Calli nods in agreement and offers you a warm smile. You don’t return it. Instead, you focus on the child, now quieted by being given a bit of milk with the smallest drop of Ichor to fortify the small thing. Life pulses around him, hot white strands of light, so bright it almost hurts your eyes.

They always thought about life, her mother and Calli. Preserve life. Nurture life. Make things grow, make them thrive, heal this broken earth. They never wanted to talk about from where life came. Never wanted to acknowledge that even a plant must destroy its seed in order to grow. As far as you could tell all life sprung from the death of something else. Even this life you were all living, similar as it was to a distant past, was built on the ashes of humanities fall.

The old unsettling thought rises to your mind. The other gods spoke of ages past but you remembered nothing of those times. Mother said it was simply your youth- the woman makes a small sound, throwing off your train of thought and you know she’s gone.

Suddenly, the room feels too tight. You bolt, ignoring Mother’s call. Your feet echo in the hall as you run, desperate to be outside, to feel the earth beneath your still bloody hands, to breathe air that didn’t smell of birth and death.

Bursting from the doors you stumble into the courtyard, surging with plant life. It’s here too though, you can smell it. The decay from which the life springs. It overwhelms you. Every rose suddenly seems sinister in its beauty, every apple inherently vile.

Something that has been brewing inside you is reaching its peak. This was the fifth maternal death in the last week. And you’d lost count how many you had seen die in such a way over the decades you worked by Calli and your Mother’s side here at Eleusis House. Too many. Some girls you had brought into the world only to see them die years later in the same place they took their first breath.

You stare up at the steeple of the building, once a holy place for some now silent god. Something like a memory tickles at the edges of your mind, songs, a dry cracker being placed on your tongue. Shaking your head you look away. These echoes always came when you were upset. Mother said you were just being dramatic as young goddesses are wont to be from time to time. She’d then tumble into some tale about Hera you didn’t care about hearing.

“Kore?” Abigail stands at the door of the main hall staring at you, concern on her face. It takes a moment to understand why. You’re covered in the gore of a messy birth still and… when you look at your hands you notice the sheen of magic surrounds you. “Are you ok?”

Abigail was a kind person, one of the women who pledged to serve Eleusis House. She and her sisters helped find women who were with child and without resources. They would be safe and cared for here, better than anywhere else. Mother had made this place a haven, clearing a whole block of the city surrounding the compound that was already there to make a small piece of paradise.

The humans thought it was a kindness. Overwhelmed how these new gods cared for their fragile lives so much. You know that without the humans the balance of the world would tip and everyone would die. It wasn’t kindness to protect the humans. It was survival. Still, she liked helping them, and Abigail was something like a friend.

“Yeah. I just… needed some air.”

Abigail looks at your bloody clothing, “Danielle didn’t make it… did she?” Danielle. You hadn’t even known the woman’s name. You just shake your head. Abigail stares into the distance, her gauzy head covering marking her a servant of Demeter blowing in the breeze.

“Her son lives though,” you hope it’s a comfort.

“Small victories are still victories,” she sighs out. Thought creases her brow, “Who will he go to?”

It was March 21st. “He’ll be sent to a house of Ares.” The system had been worked out almost a century before. A crude but effective way to ensure the orphans had a place to belong by sorting them based on birthdate.

Abigail snorts, “And to Hades before 30.” She likely wasn’t wrong. Children of Ares died young, fighting some battle or other. It was the way of things. “I… I’ll tell the others and send someone for the body.”

“Thank you,” Abigail just nods and heads silently back to the main hall.

Your eyes wander to the rise of the skyline peeking over the barrier wall, covered in lush night-blooming vines. To your memory, you had never left this enclave nestled in the city once known as New York. Existence began and ended here for you, though you knew that couldn’t be right. Like all the gods you had lived before only to sleep away centuries… You shudder.

Regardless, it wasn’t a bad life. There was so much work to do. Plants to help heal the scorched earth as well as medicinal herbs for the blights threatening humanity needed to be cultivated and sent out. The women who came here needed shelter, healing, and someone to watch them tear themselves open… For decades you took comfort in this. Now… it wasn’t enough.

This growing awareness of death was bringing everything Mother told you was worth paying attention to in this world into question. Causing a restlessness within you nothing could quell. You begin to pace this section of garden, stopping before a small apple tree.

The golden ones were just about ready to pick and you run your fingers over the thin skin of the fruit. You can feel the glowing tendrils of light within it, connecting it to the tree, to the roots, to the earth herself. Life bright and beautiful pulsing there.

Your mind goes foggy for a moment. It’s as though something else takes hold of you then and you begin to pluck at those strands of light with an invisible hand. One by one they snap. Little rivulets of light like blood drip from the withering fruit down your palm.

When you fully realize what you’ve done you gasp and pull away. The apple hangs there swaying a bit, shriveled though not necessarily rotten before it falls, devoid of the light it held a moment before, to splatter on the ground below. An instant later, it’s dust. 

What had you done…?

[septic-heart-and-mind]

“Changed” - “Who Is He” (Antisepticeye Fic) Pt. 4

Literally can’t stop writing, it seems - inspiration is flowing for once and part four is already here!! Hope you like it! :D 

@watermelonsinmyattic @steffid101 @geekygirl0816 @emeralddoesthings tagging you as you guys seem to be following this ^-^

Signe’s POV

I waited and I waited. Hours went by. I couldn’t take my eyes away from Seán until I saw him open his. I barely even blinked in case I missed it, and I refused to leave the room or sleep. I couldn’t think about anything else until I knew he was awake.

“Come on, darling,” I wept softly with trembling lips, stroking his head, “Please wake up now… Please…” Still nothing, not so much as a twitch. “Please, sweetheart, wake up… I miss you…” I began caressing his face delicately. “I miss you so much… So, so much…” His eyes appeared to move under his eyelids. I gasped. “Seán?” Gradually, slowly, his eyes began to open. He looked weary, but he was finally awake. “Hello, you,” I said fondly, smiling through tears at him. He tried to respond, but his body didn’t seem to have the energy to allow him to speak and no sound ever left his mouth. “Shhh, don’t speak,” I told him gently, still gently running my fingers across his cheek. He wasn’t awake for long, before he ended up succumbing to sleep again; he was utterly exhausted. Now that I’d seen him wake up, I knew I needed to try and get some sleep somehow. If I wanted to be there for him properly, I needed to rest at least a little bit. I took myself home, but I couldn’t sleep when I got to bed. All I could think about was Seán. I did eventually fall asleep out of exhaustion, but my sleep was fragmented as I woke up from nightmares. I was so terrified of what was happening, and if it would ever end. It’s hard to get rid of a problem when you don’t know its cause, and we still hadn’t worked out what the cause of all this was. Eventually, I just had to go back to him because I couldn’t sleep or even relax away from him. I got back to the hospital as quickly as I could, and I literally ran back to where Seán was. Except he wasn’t. The bed was empty. I immediately began to freak out. “Seán? Seán?!” I called out frantically as I rushed around the hospital to try and find him. I soon came across one of the nurses that I recognised. “Seán’s gone!” I cried in a panic. “I don’t know where he is!”

“It’s alright,” she replied calmly, “We’ll look for him.” I continued to dash around the building as we searched for him, but I just couldn’t see him anywhere. I was extremely worried because I wasn’t even aware that he was strong enough to get up; I feared that he would be found collapsed somewhere. Those fears faded when I finally found him, in a dark operating theatre that wasn’t currently in use.

“Seán! Oh, there you are!” I said with relief. But I was soon afraid again when he turned around and I saw what was in his hand. A sharp blade. He looked away from it and up at me, and I realised that I couldn’t see his ocean-coloured eyes; they blended in with the darkness. “Seán, what are you doing?” I stammered.

“Just admiring this,” he replied deviously. “So sharp, isn’t it?”

“What - what are you gonna do with that?” I quivered.

“I’ve got ideas,” he teased darkly.

“You should put that down,” I said as I cautiously stepped towards him.

“You should stop telling me what to do,” he answered threateningly.

“This isn’t like you,” I choked, trying not to cry. “Please, just - just put it down…”

“Oh, I will,” he grinned, “Eventually.” I edged a little closer. I slowly reached out my hand and tried to retrieve the blade. He grabbed my wrist and pushed me against the wall, hard. “You stupid, stupid bitch,” he snapped furiously. “You just made a big mistake.” I was petrified of what he was about to inflict on me, and something told me that I had to make an escape somehow. His grip was tight, though, and it felt too strong to fight. Despite how nasty he was suddenly being, I didn’t want to hurt him. I still loved him. But as each fraction of a second passed, I realised that it was my only hope. I bit his hand to loosen his gripped and I kicked him. I broke free and thought I had got myself plenty of time to get away. But before I could even get out of the room, he pounced on me and pinned me to the floor. “You just made things worse,” he threatened me chillingly as he grabbed me by my hair and glared in my eyes.

“Don’t do this…” I pleaded desperately in a quiet, frightened voice.

“Don’t worry,” he smirked, “You’ll never have to see me again.” I felt the blade pierce and tear through my skin. I weakened. Life went black.

Jack’s POV

As I looked at Signe’s limp body, blood streaming from her neck, I suddenly realised what I had just done. The blade fell from my hand and onto the floor.

“No…” I stammered, “No, no, no, no, no…” I checked to see if her heart was still beating. It was - barely. I didn’t see her chest rising or falling. Her life was draining away because of me. “I’m gonna help you, alright?” I cried. I jumped up and ran until I found a doctor. “You’ve got to help her, please!!” I sobbed. “She’s dying!!” The doctor got another’s attention and the two of them hurried with me back to Signe. I knelt down at her side again, gently caressing her pale face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I wept hurriedly as the doctors attended to her, my whole body shaking violently. Eventually they had to take her away to be treated. I sat in the waiting room, rocking and shaking constantly. I gasped for air and I couldn’t stop crying. I wept and wept and wept. My eyes became sore and tired but I still just couldn’t stop. I was so worried and guilty that I had to run to the bathroom to be sick several times. I didn’t even believe in God but I began to beg, just in case. I was willing to do anything if it gave her a chance to survive.

“Jack?” I heard a familiar voice say. I looked up. Mark. I stood up, sobbing. “Oh, Jack, come here.” He hugged me and I held on tightly as I cried my eyes out. “It’s alright, Jack, it’s alright,” he comforted me. “I’m here now.”

“She’s dying, Mark… She’s dying…” I choked.

“Signe?” he checked, his worried eyes looking at me. I nodded tearfully. “I came here because she told me that you were sick. I had no idea about this…”

“It’s all my fault, Mark…” I sobbed.

“No, of course it’s not,” he replied kindly. “How could it be?”

“It’s all my fault!” I repeated tearfully.

“Shhh,” Mark soothed me, “I don’t believe that for one second.”

“I hurt her, Mark… I can’t believe I actually hurt her…” I gasped.

“It must have been an accident,” Mark stated, “You’d never hurt her, you love her so much.” I sobbed harder as I thought about how deeply I loved her and I feared for her life.

“He made me do it…” I wept.

“Who did?” he asked concernedly. “You mean… the voice?”

“I didn’t love her… He changes me, Mark… He made me want to kill her…” I spluttered hurriedly. “I love her so much, Mark, I love her so much…”

“I know you do,” he replied sympathetically. “I know you wouldn’t even harm one hair on her head. Let alone… this.”

“If she dies I’ll never forgive myself… Never…” I wept. I looked at my hands and saw that I had her blood on them. I rushed to the bathroom to throw up again, and then I immediately washed my hands over and over. Even when they were clean, I scrubbed them until they were red raw and stung horribly. I returned back to the waiting room.

“Are you alright?” Mark asked caringly.

“Not until she is,” I replied shakily. I didn’t even sit down this time; I just paced around nervously and continued crying with guilt and stress.

“You’ll tire yourself out doing that,” Mark said, “Maybe sit down.”

“I don’t want to,” I cried. “I don’t deserve to…” I looked at my hands again, the ones I had potentially killed the love of my life with. “I’m an idiot…” I wept. “I’m a stupid, stupid idiot!” I repeated as I punched the nearby wall over and over again. It pained my hands, but I really didn’t care in the slightest. I wanted it to hurt me. I wanted to break my hands after what I’d done. Mark gently pulled me away from the wall to stop me hitting it and doing any more damage to myself. I wept, and he hugged me again. I decided to do what he said, so we both sat down. Exhausted, I rested my head on Mark’s shoulder. I fought it and fought it, but my eyes just grew heavier by the second. I did everything I could to keep them open, but eventually I just had to cave in.

I jolted awake with a gasp, as I had just relived my attack on Signe while I was asleep. I saw the blade in my hands slash her throat. I saw the blood. I saw the life and colour draining from her beautiful face. I couldn’t even reassure myself with ‘it was just a dream’ - because Signe’s life really was hanging in the balance because of what I’d done to her.

“Signe…” I cried. “I want Signe…”

“I know, I know,” Mark replied empathetically, rubbing my shoulder. Hours and hours of tears later, a doctor finally approached us with news on Signe. I immediately jumped up from my seat.

“How is she? Is she okay? Can I see her?” I spoke hurriedly.

“She’s alive,” he replied, and I let out a huge, relieved sigh.”She’s still very ill but she’s alive. She’s strong, considering.”

“Can I see her?” I repeated tearfully.

“Yes, you can,” he answered, “I’ll take you to her.” The three of us made our way to the intensive care unit. I saw that she had lots of monitors and things attached to her, which all looked very frightening and it made what I did to her even more real. Too real. I covered my mouth and sobbed again. I went over to her and sat beside her, tears pouring.

“Oh, Signe… Look at you…” I wept, caressing her face carefully and lovingly. “I’m so, so sorry, skat… Please forgive me…” I placed a kiss upon her forehead. “I love you,” I told her not much louder than a whisper. “I love you so, so much.” Now that I’d been sat there a few moments, Mark joined me and sat at her other side.

“I’m here too, Signe,” he told her, fighting not to cry. “We’re both here.”

“My poor Wiish…” I sobbed, running my finger gently across her head. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” I couldn’t stop apologising, caressing her and giving her kisses. I couldn’t stop telling her I loved her. I couldn’t take my eyes away from her until I saw her open hers.