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unriding · 5 months ago

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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

#彡 favorites.#cw slavery #cw racism #cw violence #cw sa mention #the first sentence with the block letters ): it says I’ve always love you ??? gonna go cry now (I already did last night)#‘your eyes went soft. beneath the artificial fragrance / you finally caught a hint of his family scent’ ‘the way it always is when he’s #scared.’ THIS LINE BROKE MY HEART. his facade is not facading . WE KNOW. WE WILL ALWAYS KNOW #‘nothing of value’ god dammit aventurine i want to shake his shoulders so bad. this is killing me #OMG THE COIN PURSE PART. THE READER IS SO SWEET )))))): OMG. I remember the face I made at that part /pos and I did tear up quite a bit #‘you never let me do my job’ YEAH. what’s up with that ????????? aventurine u turd. I WANT HIM TO LET US LOVE HIM SOOOO BAD HGGGRRRRRRRRRRR #‘no im actually a great liar. you’re just too good at reading me. it’s very inconvenient you know.’ okay i don’t know how to explain how i #feel. but can I say I heard this perfectly in his voice ? and it made me react some way. like jaw fell open kind of way. your characteriza #UGH I HATE THE TAG LIMIT characterization** IS SO GOOD I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING IN MY HEAD it’s like a movie is playing in my brain mhm mhm!!!#also the part where we keep repeating aventurine over and over and he keeps talking about what he could buy ): LISTEN TO MMMMMEMEEEEEEEHHRH #‘it went against every instinct not to touch him’ THIS IS WHAT I MEANT in my word dump )): trying so hard but so conflicted because #as an alpha you can make it better for him. but he doesn’t want that so u respect it. but he’s in so much pain ): UGHHHHHHHHHH #the sweater part . are you serious /pos. this is such a cute little detail ): I’m gonna start sobbing again can we give him the world #‘everything smells like you’ im sorry 😭 we don’t have much to work with mr aventurine BUT HE SAID ‘I don’t mind it’ SO🥺🥺🥺#‘copper’ ‘they want it for the copper’ the way I started laughing because r u serious . I’m actually a little . brow twitched. BROW TWITCHE #oh okay the copper! right. the copper. (the table flips over) be so fr rn /pos #the entire wrist scene I read with one hand over an eye and also hidden under my blankets because I was so tense HEJDKCKJCKD #‘aventurine would rather die than be owned again’ my heart shattered into pieces at this btw #him still remembering the pass to the muzzle ): and the ‘are you leaving’ im literally gonna cry all over again /pos #the neck scent gland fucked me up so bad. and the rain scent. and he likes it because it’s ours . x _ x / T_T #i have thoughts about your other fic but I will probably write them tomorrow because now I would like to re-re-re-read this one 😅#I’ve always loved * for the first tag dammit I can’t imagine how many typos are in this whole thing #TLDR : great work !!! loved this > < <33

738 notes · View notes

tonycries · 21 days ago

Text

Sweetheart Online - G.S.

Synopsis. Isekai-ed into another world, or isekai-ed into your pants?! Gojo Satoru is in danger - in danger of losing his prized, otaku vírginíty, that is.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, otaku! Gojo, isekai, vírgínity loss (Gojo), chokíng, use of “ma’am”, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, begging, nerdy babbling, Gojo wears glasses, cúmming dry, first times, oraI (f + m), face-sítting, cúmming early, spítting, creampíes, cúmplay, p talking, cúmming in his pants, he goes féral, otaku vocab, truck-kun, anime nosebIeeds, Gojo is a LOSER, and so down bad for you, pet names, swearíng.

Word count. 8.8k

A/N. IT’S HEREEEEE-

“Har har. hilarious, Suguru-”

“You know m’not joking, Satoru.” Geto’s taking an infuriatingly long slurp! of his ramen from the other end of the line, and Gojo’s known the man long enough to realize that he’s doing it solely to irritate him. That bastard. “You’re a loser.”

Ah, he’s never wanted to throttle him more.

Because- listen, Gojo Satoru might be many things.

He might be the proud president of the campus otaku club, rumored to have never even held hands with a woman his entire life. Complete defamation, of course, Gojo has held hands with his mother as a child. Though…she might be the only one.

He might be the most annoying tenant at his cramped Tokyo apartment, every inch of it covered with enough of your pretty figurines that he’s taken to sleeping on the couch recently. But you deserved only the best!

And he might currently be the sketchiest man trudging down the streets of Shibuya at 3AM; with a brand-spanking new, life-sized body pillow of you tucked safely underneath one arm.

But that didn’t mean Gojo was a loser. Probably.

So what if he got strange looks from every unfortunate normie soul he happened to pass? It was limited edition, and he waited eight hours in line for it!

After all, a man with such a prized possession could surely and undoubtedly never be a-

“-oi- oi!” Self-proclaimed best friend, and universally-proclaimed pain in Gojo’s ass grumbles into the phone.

Snapping out of his reverie, Gojo’s registering that he’s already at that familiar flickering stoplight. Fingers curling even tighter in their tender hold around your form, he saunters down the barren crossing.

He needed to get home - and he needed to get home fast! A man needs quality time with his wife, after all.

“Don’t tell me you fainted from her ah- what was it- ‘sheer beauty and unparalleled sex appeal’ again?”

“That was one time and you know it.” He’s hissing into the speaker- honestly, Geto’s probably just cranky that he didn’t get his grubby hands on one of these before he did - Gojo’s seen the other man’s plushie collection of you no matter how much he tries to hide it. “This time, I only got weak in the knees.”

There’s a snickering drawl, “Oh yeah? What wondrous self-control, o’ maestro of virgins.”

And the title is so utterly ridiculous that Gojo finds himself stuttering into a shocked stop right in the middle of the gloomy asphalt. A laugh bubbling up in his throat before he remembers that that particularly sweet nickname was directed at him.

“You’re a virgin too!”

Scoffing, “Yeah, but I don’t act like it. You, on the other hand, are famed for having your first kiss with the common room tv the moment you first saw that video game character. People were making bets on whether you were going to die a virgin, Satoru. Hell- I bet, too!”

Dammit, when you put it like that it makes Geto sound downright respectable.

“Actually, she’s more than a video game character, Sugu—” Times like this, he’s letting his words simper out into a whine. Full and well knowing how much it’ll grate against Geto’s eardrums - hah, take that ramen ASMR! Smugly, Gojo pushes up his thickly-rimmed glasses, “She’s the revered princess of a distant land, first in line to rule over the throne with a gentle yet firm hand. Scouring the seas for the perfect consort that will-”

“Are you quoting her Wikipedia-”

“I wrote her Wikipedia.” Gojo huffs indignantly, as if anyone could ever assume anything less. “Because to me, she’s- she’s…”

And, truly, nothing he recited with MLA citations could ever describe you.

Because if there’s one thing that Geto was right about, it’s the fact that Gojo’s been completely and utterly head-over-heels for you ever since he first glimpsed an ad for Sweetheart Online - the hottest, filthiest romance game to hit the industry in the last few years. Maybe ever.

With one love interest - as if he needed any other - you, and your hand in marriage that Gojo had fought rival after unworthy rival to win 143 times already.

He finds himself wracking his brain for any word in the existing lexicon to describe the perfection that is you. Though, it seems that he doesn’t have to think too hard at all.

Because before he can even imagine letting the first few syllables formulate on his tongue, there’s a deafening-

HONK!

Gojo turns, only to see the glaringly white headlights of a truck hurtling towards him at full-speed.

And the first thing he thinks is oh, it kind of looks like the spotlight that dazzles on you 1 minute and 24 seconds into the game’s Coronation Event. The second thing he thinks is…fuck.

“-highness—looks rabid!”

“—that’s rude, but…”

“-oh dear, put your sword down, Itadori.”

Gojo takes a few bleary seconds to pat himself mentally on the back for deducing that he’s died and made his way to heaven. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what Yaga says - he really is a genius sometimes.

What else could the delicate paintings of cupids and clouds on the staggeringly tall ceiling abovehead mean? He didn’t think that the heavens above had a fancy for Baroque - but who was he to judge?

Certainly not when it seemed like he was sprawled out on a painfully decadent bed. Sifting among layers and layers of delicate silk that almost swallowed him whole - oh, it was fit enough for his figurine collection of you.

A sharp crick shoots along Gojo’s neck when he turns his eyes towards what seemed like a towering window, wincing at the large glowing ball of light washing warmly over him. If he squinted his eyes it almost looked like…the sun?

Surely, he wasn’t a ghost then.

It hadn’t even been daybreak once that semi-truck had run him over, and even if he was to haunt anyone then it would be to bug Geto into plastering his collection of your posters all over his gravestone.

And the final piece of celestial evidence being a soft, soothing tone ringing in his ears and already becoming his favorite new song. Coming from the mouth of an angel peering down at him who looked - lo and behold - like your very spitting image.

“Oh…” It comes out in a hoarse, scratchy gasp. All the air knocking out of his poor lungs once you inch in mere centimeters closer to his glassy view. He can’t help but reach up a trembly hand, “You’re even more beautiful in 3D.”

SMACK!

Gojo flinches when his hand gets knocked away unceremoniously by someone else’s- there were other people here? “You dare attempt to touch the princess? After revealing yourself in her chambers? I should call the guards right now-”

Now, he didn’t know much about the afterlife, but he was sure that demons weren’t allowed in heaven.

“It’s quite alright, Nobara.” The angel speaks up, and oh, it’s not even his name being said but Gojo already feels his heart leap a little and suddenly wishes it was. “Judging by the state of his clothes it seems he’s not from these parts. Maybe he’s lost?”

Gentle hands are suddenly bestowed upon his to softly pull him up, and before he can open his mouth to undoubtedly blurt out something stupid, there’s a ringing PING!

Jumping just about a foot off the bed, he’s scrambling to stand as a strangely robotic voice speaks from somewhere overhead, “Milestone: Touch a Girl reached. System activation successful! Congratulations, user [Satorulovesprincess]. Welcome to Sweetheart Online.”

If the group in front of him heard anything, then they didn’t show a sign.

Very much the opposite of a thoroughly panicked Gojo, flailing his head towards the source of the noise until his eyes meet a holographic screen hovering just a few inches over his head.

As if something pulled right out of one of Geto’s favorite trashy sci-fi films - fuck being in heaven, he was probably still on those Shibuya streets hallucinating and causing an incident..

Gojo treks down a hand to pinch his forearm, just a little harder than necessary when the voice booms once more-

“Quite ingenious, user [Satorulovesprincess]. However, we assure you that what you are seeing is real.” The screen displays those exact words in time. “You have initiated the execution of the system, and are now bound to Sweetheart Online.”

“System- Sweetheart Online-” Great, he’s going mad. Running his hands through tousled locks of cloudy white, “Don’t tell me…don’t tell me this is like one of those shitty isekai anime.”

Oh god it all made sense - the truck, the system, the truck. And Gojo’s watched much more than enough cliché isekai anime with the otaku club to realize.

But…a truck? Seriously? That’s embarrassingly overused.

It’s like a pit of ice forms at the bottom of his stomach. He bet that no one but him could see the glaring screen right now. A fact he was especially glad for once the following words roll out-

“Following your sudden and extremely inexperienced death, Mission: No-Longer-Virgin has already started.”

Whispering to himself, “So this is where virgins go after death. Some sort of purgatory perhaps in which the last wishes of the virgin are materialized- although that doesn’t explain the presence of- wait-”

“Good luck, user: [Satorulovesprincess]. May your virginity collapse, and your sex life prosper!”

If Gojo didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn that the disjointed voice sounded amused.

But wait- no, it wanted Gojo to lose his virginity? His long-held, precious, maiden virginity? After twenty-something years, how crude that this ah- mission marrs his delicate body. Did the system think that he was some sort of harlot to-

“Are…are you okay, strange sir?”

Okay, maybe losing his virginity wasn’t all that bad.

Turning back around slowly, “I uh…”

And this wasn’t quite how Gojo imagined meeting you - glasses askew, hair rumpled, in the very same ratty hoodie and sweatpants he’d camped outside the anime store in - hell, he never thought he’d meet you in general.

But then you smile, and Gojo falls onto his knees. Right then and there on the polished floor.

You were exactly as he’d seen on-screen. Brows quirking upwards just a slight cheeky degree the same way it did whenever his in-game avatar said something particularly smooth. Gorgeous. The silken skirts of your ball gown looking oh-so-soft to the touch but not as soft as you-

“Your highness, on top of being a madman, he drools at the sight of you!” A younger girl shrieks - Nobara Kugisaki, your trusty attendant, he remembers. Hastily wiping his lips, “Kindly consider having his skull impaled.”

There was nothing kindly about having his skull impaled, and Gojo’s already clutching his head when you chuckle. “Your name?”

Ah, he’s forgotten how to speak. Forgotten how to breathe. “G-Gojo Satoru- my princess- your highness.”

“Apologies, I’m not sure what foreign ambassador you are, but I do welcome you kindly to our kingdom.” You’re letting your eyes roam all over his still-kneeled body, and in them glittered something…dark.

Sliding over your hand and oh! Gojo remembers this.

He’s drinking in that delicate floral scent of yours, dragging his plump mouth to meet the back of your hand in a lingering kiss. The very moment his lips touch you, Gojo feels lightheaded.

And only after pulling away does he realize exactly why-

“Ah! He’s bleeding!” The young man - your loyal knight, Itadori - yelps, and Gojo’s clapping over the warm wetness smearing over his lower face. A nosebleed? Really? Just from kissing your hand? God, Geto was right - he really is a loser. “Should I call the healers, your highness?”

“No we have him drawn and quartered for such an unseemly display-”

“Nobara, that’s quite alright.” You’re waving off, smooth marble floors resonating out sharp clacks! when you walk even closer. Close. Too close. Until you’re seated on the edge of the bed, “After all, it is my consort choosing ceremony. Isn’t that what you’re here for, Satoru?”

Gojo thinks he could faint at the way you say his name - and he almost does.

Scrambling towards you, he’s fully kneeling at your feet now. You’re so beautiful - so real - that pearly beads of tears dot his fluttering lashes. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

He swears he hears you mumble cute under your breath. Now he could really faint–

“Oh? And I intend on fulfilling the wishes of my guest.” Speaking somewhere over his shoulder, “You two are dismissed. Lock the doors.”

Kugisaki is, unsurprisingly, the one to protest. “But- but, your highness he’s-” And, honestly, Gojo can recognize the raw expression of what the fuck in her voice. He doesn’t blame her one bit. Not when you tip his head up further to face yours and his nose twitches like he’s about to start nosebleeding all over again. “...pathetic.”

Ouch. Gojo was on the verge of spoiling the ending to her character’s backstory when you’re humming. “I like them pathetic, Nobara.”

Did he mention you were an angel?

“So…” You’re luring him in, and just that heady lilt of your voice already makes his cottony grey sweatpants tight. Shit- wasn’t this the type of situation that he wrote secret fanfics about?

Barely hearing the creaky SLAM! of the double doors to your royal chamber. Clouded pants waft over your satisfied features, he’s peeking up at you over his large spectacles. Lolling closer and closer-

Mumbling, “Yes, my prin- oh!”

Gojo’s pouted strawberry-pink lips wobble cutely when the golden points of your heel dig into the fleshy mound of his thigh. Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, “Y-your highness?”

“What’s this about a-” Watery eyes widening wordlessly when you’re sliding it all the way up, up, up along the shockingly curvaceous muscles to press right down on the straining inches of his fattened cock. Needy. Bulging. “-virginity loss mission-” Hard. “-Satoru?”

And Gojo doesn’t know what comes first - that sharp inhale at the realization, or him.

Fist flying up for him to sink his pretty pearly whites into when he’s biting back a whimper and cumming.

You could feel the way that Gojo’s sloppy mushroom tip was just bawling with every lazy grind up and down his sappy slit.

Milking out the thick, goopy ribbons being sprinkled from his rounded mushroom tip. Volumes upon volumes. So much of it. That warm texture clinging against the flats of your shoe and puddling out mushy dark splotches into his sweatpants.

Shit. Shit shit shit - cumming just from that. All in front of the woman of his dreams. Part of him almost wants to apologize.

But the way your mouth curls into a sleazy grin makes Gojo’s heart race, every minute action only keeping his achy length even harder.

He so can’t help himself from grabbing your calves to halt with a few twitchy fingers - only to be going against his own yearnings. Hips humping yours once like a fucking dog as his breath hitches, “You- you know?”

“Awww, of course I know, Toru. I can see the screen.” Fuck- he hopes you can’t feel the wet splat! of another buttery wad of cum being dolloped out generously from his depraved divot. Leaning in, “S’this the first time anyone else has ever made you cum?”

He knew you were teasing - he knew it. But that doesn’t stop Gojo from panting out a strained, “Yes.”

“Hmmm, well-” You’re tapping your chin in thought, despite already having made your decision. But it was just so fun to see this beautiful man shivering and pleading on his knees. “I don’t know where you transmigrated from but…I still am a benevolent ruler, after all.”

He gulps. Cupping one flushed side of his face, Gojo’s practically a steaming hot mess of putty in your hands. “And I can take care of that little virginity business for you.”

Croaking out, “P-please.”

“Hmmm, not good ‘nough.” You’re rovering down even further to press a slight smooch of pressure against his fatly filled-up balls. Thighs squeezing at just how big they were - breeder balls. “Is that how you speak to your princess?”

“No- no no no-” Gojo’s shaking his head so hard that it makes him a little dizzy, or maybe that was the way that you were fisting your determined digits into his faded hoodie. “Please…ma’am.”

“Much better.”

Before he can even blink, he’s being dragged upwards according to your every want and whim. Thrown onto the bouncy king-sized mattress with such strength- of course, he shouldn’t even be surprised. You are the future queen for a reason, after all.

In fact, he’s never skipped a single cut scene that showed you training your battle skills-

“Now now, don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?” Your voice drifts its way into his melty mind, words so sugary sweet that he could almost taste them. “At least gimme a lil’ kiss now-”

And it’s more than anything he could’ve ever dreamed of.

Muffling back a muted yes, Gojo’s surging upwards to clash his lips into yours. And oh shit, just-now realizing that he’s lost his first ever kiss.

Then his second. His third. His fourth.

It’s messy. It’s hot.

Tugging you even closer with a forearm around your waist. Gojo’s sloppy tongue is licking its way past your ravenous entrance, fucked-out bubbles of spittle pop up at the edges of his pursed lips when you’re breaking away-

“N-nooo-” He’s letting off a shuddering whine, chasing after you with a sluttily half-parted maw. “Gimme- wanna ‘nother kiss, princess.”

So greedy. The fat curve of your thumb positions itself on Gojo’s prettily dimpled chin, prying open his dewy lips even further. “Open that mouth f’me, Toru?”

He’s doing exactly what you’re saying before he even realizes it. The glistening muscle of his tongue splayed-out perfectly on display for you - for you to spit out a heavy mass of saliva right onto his pinkish tastebuds.

Gojo moans at the contact - and you can feel it before he does. The subtle jolt of his weepy cockhead, before your languidly gyrating kneecap is dampened with another wiry slather of cum. Warm and wet.

“Cumming again?” You coo, eyes darting between the ever-growing pool of a frosted mess between his long legs, and his face. Gojo looked so pretty like this - glasses sliding down his button nose, eyes shuttering with each heaving pant - gasp. Face flushed and slicked with a slight shimmer of sweat, stray locks of white curtain and stick to his reddened forehead. He looked so pretty. “Just from that?”

He’s squirming his depraved hips to smudge a faint glaze of seed down your mounds of flesh, one palm dancing upwards to stop himself from having a nosebleed all over again. “C-can’t help it…The average time of ejaculation for a man is five to seven minutes based on psychological factors and age. And as a healthy young man just because I-”

You’re shutting him up with a kiss, and Gojo almost wonders why more people don’t do this time - that is, until he remembers they’re not you.

“Sounds pretty serious.” You’re nodding, a mask of teasing graveness taking over your face. Swiftly shuffling down the seemingly endless expanse of the bed. Doughy fingerpads delicately hooking onto the hem of his drenched pants, “Better get a taste before you run out, then.”

Gojo lets out such a breathy pant at the implication, “N-no it won’t, considering the volume of the seminal vesicle and- ah!”

Whatever drunken rambling of his is cut very, very short as soon as you tug down those useless sweatpants and let Gojo’s red, painfully angry cock smack! against his abdomen with a wet smear.

He was so…big.

Such girthy, solid inches upon inches that twitched needily right before your very eyes. A rummaging, left-leaning curve being nestled above two pretty pink balls.

Your mouth waters once you’re curling your fingers dexterously around his plump circumference, making his cerise cockhead waterfall out in another lazy sheen of pre. It’s honestly a bit of a strain to even get your fingertips meeting each other properly with his incredible size, and that just makes you want him more.

Gojo’s knitting his ivory brows nervously, “S-s’it okay?”

It’s more than okay.

And you’re about to show him that.

Cerulean irises crossing together until they were all heart-eyed when a saturated coating of your saliva tops his bloated tip like a layer of icing. Before he feels himself fall in fucking love just at the gummy peck of your mouth onto the rotund ends of his length.

“W-woahhh—” He’s breathing out, eyes locked lecherously right with yours when the steaming hot cavern of your mouth sinks in more and more and more- “This- what- fuuuck-”

And then you’re huffing out a slight chuckle through your nose, hitting his drenched base and making him keen. Slender hips of his lurch the perfect angle off the luxurious bed to bump his mountainous head against the very back of your throat.

Gasping - begging.

“You’re seriously gonna…take me?” Prattling through clenched teeth as you grace him with a few more flooding masses of spit. It makes him feel so used. Feel so good. “Like you- you’re gonna put me in your mouth?”

“No.” You’re snickering at the utterly crestfallen look on his face, full mouth downturned, puffed-up tip tinting an even more blasphemous red as if to tempt you. Your fingers tangle with his to claw at the crown of your head, “You’re gonna put yourself in my mouth.”

Oh.

“Shit-” Gojo whispers - more to himself than anything. “You can do this- can- can do this- just suck on m’cock-” Rubbing out a translucent lipstain all over your ajar maw before plugging his proud girth inside. “Please- wanna know what it feels…”

Gojo can’t remember what he was saying. What he was thinking.

Because just a few vulgar sucks of your tenderized mouth around his inflated cock and he’s drunk. Fuck dying by a truck, he was about to die just by this.

Head lolling all the way back against the poofy pillows, white-hot bliss flashing behind his eyes and- when had he even closed them?

“Wh-why does it feel so–” he’s clenching his jaw, dredging out every single ounce of will in his being to peer at the heavenly - hah- sight below. “-so- good- c-can it feel so good- hngh- please-”

Gojo’s drawing up the hem of his hoodie to cover that brightly blossoming blush. So adorable. He even tasted sweet, like the best of salted caramel that made you infinitely want more.

Your salacious tongue is repeatedly wetting down his lightning bolted veins. Up and down up and down up and down to draw little hearts on those bumpy lines.

His sobbing cockhead mushing back into the velveteen walls of your mouth, and Gojo could cum just from the voluptuous curve being outlined into your cheek. He’s finding it almost fucking impossible to grunt out over the raw squelches! emanating from where you were making out with his throbbing cock, “Must be illegal- that’s it! It f-feels so good this must be- ngh- outlawed.”

You’ve rendered him stupid. And he’s so hot and heavy in your mouth, it makes your core stir up to think that you’re the first.

Every choked-up plea only resonates off of the numerous corners of your bedroom even louder once your fingers latch onto the gluttonous curve of his fattened balls. Squeezing-

“S-so dirty- so dirty, princess…” And part of Gojo doesn’t know why he’s letting his traitorous hands wander onto the back of your scalp. Doesn’t know why he’s plunging just a few more inches past your prettily-pouted lips - you were his princess and he was…not treating you like royalty.

The Gojo in this game had always been so smooth. So suave. Taking his sweet, sweet time to hold your hand and talk to you about the politics of your kingdom.

Right now he was curving his thick thighs to flex around your shoulder and feeding you every saccharine inch you could possibly swallow up. “Can you- can you take more? Take this biiiig fuckin’ cock?”

You’re being choked in a locked hold by his powerful legs, and you’ve never been wetter. Practically puddling out a syrupy pond on the sheets underneath you.

Tugging out the thick nub of his thumb to smear those honeyed splatters of his precum at the corners of your mouth, you can only grin as you let your sentence translate into thrumming vibrations. “Mhmm— Settling into it s-so well, aren’t ya, Tooooru?”

“F-fuck!” Gojo’s blushing tip glides shyly down the tight back of your throat, rovering all along each n’ every millimeter of space inside you. It only made your head bob faster to imagine how he would feel down there- “Don’t talk- don’t talk. Please don’t talk s’gonna make me…”

But you.

Oh, Gojo Satoru has read your character profile over 2489 times by now.

He’s memorized every factoid and morsel of knowledge there is to know about you - so of course, he should’ve known. Should’ve realized that babbling away those words would only make your sultry motions increase.

“Cum f’me like a good boy.”

And he does.

You can only watch in awe when a pearlescent globule of cum gumdrops from his weepy orifice, one. Two. Three. Until Gojo was just drenching the entirety of your mouth with thickly viscous coatings of seed, until you were just drooling with a wadded mess of spittle and seed.

Salty flavor dripping down your tongue and flooding out. So much of it. Too much, Gojo was spurting out the thickest ribbons of creamy white as if he’d never cum before - and doesn’t plan to stop any time soon.

More, more, more like it was the sound of your voice making him shiver. Making him whine like a zillion volts of electricity was running down his greedy spine.

The moment you pull away, hefty oodles of cum hit Gojo’s toned abs with a wet splat! And your dear subject is wrangling out his hands towards you like he never wanted to let go.

“No- no! Please- please come back-” Crinkling tears trek their way down his dewy face, sensory pads of his fingers reaching out for you desperately, only for you to part away. “N-need your pretty mouth on me.”

You’re raising a brow, thumbing over his still-crying divot, “But don’tcha want something…else, Satoru?”

“Something- else?” He’s rasping out haltingly, head thoroughly swimming with nothing but you. Your heart glows with pride at the way he can barely form coherent sentences, “What…oh.”

But Gojo gets the idea soon enough when you’re hastily shedding away your outer robes. He fumblingly tries to help, of course, but the simple idea of helping a woman undress is too much for him - and he’s banished to simply watching you, one hand held underneath his nose in case of another…incident.

Gown and undergarments hitting the floor, your gorgeous legs come to hike up, up, up- driveling mouth falling slack the moment they’re ending up rested on either side of his intoxicated head.

“Oh.” He wheezes intelligently up at your glistening cunt.

“Nothing else ta say?” Your heady purrs only make him blush, nuzzling his feverishly burning cheek against the spattered sheen of slick at your inner thigh. He’s making such a mess on purpose. Making himself a mess.

“Well-” Gojo bats his long lashes up at you dangerously, clear planes of his glasses digging into the handsome apples of his cheeks. But he didn’t mind. Couldn’t even feel anything but the sweltering heat of your arousal. “-jus’ that- I want you to spit in my mouth, princess.”

And the very moment that sugar-coated sap, Gojo moans.

Eyes flickering shut at the taste of himself - the taste of you. A candied little tinge that he oh-so-badly needs more of - and without even a second of hesitation, he’s stuffing himself right there between your pretty legs.

It doesn’t matter the rhythm. It doesn’t matter the rhyme.

And Gojo doesn’t even know any - the very moment your puffy lips are meeting his kiss-bitten ones in a French kiss, he already knows that your cute cunt has taken him hostage.

Jaw clenching as he tries to memorize all those fanfics he guiltily read night after night, Gojo’s bumping up his cloudily condensed glasses further up his nose when he leaves one kiss. Two. “Ohhhh, your pussy tastes s-sooo good.”

And they each get messier and messier after the other.

Letting the heaping dollops of your juices flood onto his roughened tastebuds, he’s letting his long tongue peek apart your gluey pussylips. Sliding the very tip up and down and round n’ round your slicked entrance.

“The- the oh!” Gojo flinches just as your body arches even deeper once he pokes his fat muscle past your tight ring. Leaving such a slew of wet slurps with every drag, he was dirty. “-according to what I’ve read, th-the clitoris is found at the top of the vulva. It should be located where the hah- labia-”

His words cut off with what you swear sounds like a strangled whimper when you harshly fist your digits into his silken-soft strands and push.

And you don’t notice it at the time, hell, even Gojo doesn’t notice with just how ruined he was right about now.

But the sole moment you’re manhandling him to your will makes his flushed crownhead geyser out a torrential of cum.

Fountaining out waves and waves of seed that paint his hefty base with a frosted ring. Such thickened volumes for the nth time tonight. Just from the roughened way that you were pushing him to make out with your pretty pussy.

He wanted to be used.

“Used, huh?” You’re letting out a murky pant of laughter- fuck, did he say that out loud? “Wanna be u-used, Satoru- wanna keep that big mouth of yours hngh- full?”

He’s nodding. Nodding and nodding and nodding with every sloppy gyration that you bestow all down his features. Huffing and puffing through every gasping breath he manages to shudder in, he’s shooting out a good mass of saliva. “Yes- ride me. Ride me. Fucking ride my face. A-always wanted you to ride me- hngh- please.”

And how could you deny him when he’s all begging like that?

Gluey ropes of spit and slick lacquer Gojo’s chin like a smooth polish, and he’s sticking against you like he was just as clingy. Jaw grinding against your kinetically moving pussy, the pointed edge of his nose weaves from between your leaky slit and ends up pressing right onto your clit-

“O-oh!” Your head tumbles backwards with an ever-tightening grip onto his sweat-dampened locks. “Yeah- right there–”

“Here? Here?” He sounds like he couldn’t quite believe it. The ravenous edge of his thumb curling right up your soppy slit and pinning down your hooded clit. Hard. “The glans clitoris r-right here. And I found it- I found it.” Breathing out a long whistle that makes your heated skin bristle with goosebumps, “I always wondered what would h-happen if I…”

You barely even have the time to react before you’re staring at the glisten of Gojo’s sharp canines sneaking up to your sensitive nub and biting.

And he didn’t expect this.

He didn’t expect it to be better than the fanfiction-

Because your generous cunt just cascades in another jet of sappy juices, glazing Gojo’s features sexily all the way from his dimpled grin up to his glasses.

They’re dripping wet, waterlogged with treacly film of slick that forces him to gawk up at you from below with such a loving gaze. Just the way he’s peering up at you is enough to make your breaths hitch.

“Gonna- gonna write about this, y’know? H-hope you know that this changed my hah- fuckin’ life, my princess…my girl.” Gojo drawls out lazily, movements as slow as if he was slipping through molasses when he sinks the rounded tips of his cushy fingers into your slick-flooded entrance. “Gonna h-have you for breakfast- for ah- lunch…aaaand for dinner.”

With a pitchy whine, you’re tightening your hold onto his thick locks and mushing his face so close. Close enough that you could already feel the mushy pout of his lips and that lazy chuckle.

Only then do you realize that he’s doing this on purpose. Mouthing off until you’re making both his chilling frames and his regal nose clash at the target of your clit with every repeated swivel, each glissading snog of his tongue making you throb.

Everywhere. Anywhere. Everywhere and anywhere that he could reach.

“Such a dirty boy, huh?” You muse, swearing that that only makes him even sloppier. “S’that what you are? Ngh- bet you’ve never tasted a p-pussy before, huh?”

“N-nooo- haven’t. But are they all so…fucking delicious?” And he’s lapping up every sensual ounce, not letting even a tiny speckle go to waste. Because Gojo Satoru was kissing your pretty pussy like he could only dream of those long, lonely nights.

You were a fucking dream - his dream.

The full force of his desperation hitting you when Gojo’s letting his drunken head loll ever-so-slightly backwards to take a good, long admiring look at your cunt. And you wonder if he could even see with his glasses all sodden and filthy like that.

You wonder if he even realized when he’s leaving a lingering swat! of his plush fingertips right onto the bullseye of your pulsing button, and then another few at your fleshy channel.

And it was so unfair how he was pummeling your poor gummy walls with swipe after swipe of his eager fingerpads working your glutinous walls open. Probing his neatly manicured fingers perfectly into your most tender spots. “Like that?”

“Sh-shiiit–” You’re mewling at the tautly coiling build-up at your cunt. Further and further. You felt like you were about to snap. “-is- is this my first time or yours, Toru–”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” And Gojo’s palming his engulfing hands over the jiggling mounds of your ass to drag you like some ragdoll even deeper onto his sloppy maw. You’re forced to slap your hand onto the royal headboard to get at least some semblance of balance. “Jus’ want you- need you.”

Gawping up at you - he looks just as fucked-out as you feel. Blushing oh-so-innocently with his lecherous mouth slithering to steal a loud mwah! planted onto your salivating pussy. And then a final, weighty wad of spit. “Need me to be yours.”

With a final, trembling shove of Gojo’s pretty face pliantly against your hot core, you’re cumming. Riding out your peak with stuttering rotations all over his lolled-out, bumpy tastebuds.

“Fuh-fuck!” You didn’t even care if you were getting his glasses messy at this point - he’d already made enough of a mess out of you. Embarrassingly so. “S’s-so good. Hah- gotta put your mouth to work more o-often, Satoru.”

And you can’t stop the way that your jaw parts into a soft oh! every time he pinches your bulbous clit at the very tip of every single one of your peaks. Right on time. More on sheer animal instinct than anything because Gojo’s still reeling from the fact that he made you cum.

He made you cum.

Babbling away just as stupidly as he had mere moments before, your orgasm is…magical. None of these haughty princes or dukes could ever compare to this. “S-such a good ngh- boy f’me.”

That is, until you feel Gojo tenderly curl his fingers around one of your stray ones to form a fist. Nudging it against one of yours in a…fistbump?

“You have…no…fucking idea.” He’s letting out a drenching ptwah! of spittle, all the masses and rivulets of your sickeningly sweet juices sliding all the way down his tongue and pooling at the back of his throat. Like he always wanted your taste there.

And you’re still feeling the twinging tremors down your spine, flurries of stars bursting behind your hooded lids when he lets his sinfully long tongue slather your fluttering cunt with another hot kiss.

Nose crinkling at how you’re stagnating your vigorous cadence, he bats his lashes up at your shocked stare - and you already know what his sapphire gaze is begging for before he even asks.

“Toru-”

“More.” Gojo interrupts you - and he knows he’ll beat himself up for it later. Maybe he’ll even…make it up to you. But for now, the only thing replaying on his cottony mind was just how perfect you looked cumming all over his mouth - even the specially-paid NSFW scenes didn’t go into this much detail.

He was in heaven.

You feel the humid brush of his tongue between your saturated pussylips, pleading. Begging. “Wan’ more- wanna taste you more, princess- please-”

And Gojo looks so fucking heartbroken the very moment those lips part with such a wet slurp! A low whine curdling at the back of his throat, his glossy lips curve downwards into a jutted-out pout.

He’s chasing after your pussy with absolutely no shame, greedy fingertips digging into the curve of your ass while he nudges you closer and closer. Stealing tiny kittenish licks, stealing longing whiffs just to smell the scent of your pussy.

“No- no- want- please-” He’s rambling away, half-lidded eyes widening with alarm. Like you were taking away his favorite dessert right from under his nose, and Gojo was not having it.

But you knew a thing or two about ruling.

And it’s with such smug satisfaction that you get to push down a wolfish Gojo so hard he collides back onto the mattress and bounces.

Giggling - giggling, “S’this mean I get to…fuck you now?”

Oh, it’s spoken like a mantra. A true confession that he never even imagined would come out from those lips of his.

You’re nodding, “Mhm— m’thinking that good boys get to hah- fuck me.”

He’s ogling you right now when you meander between his milky legs just as you did before. Except, this time, you’re stopping right at the defined v-line of his sculptured hips. Darting thumb rubbing back and forth over the pooling streaks of cum from just before.

“Did you cum without me ngh- again, Toru?” You’re teasing, and he almost feels so pathetic the way his mouth latches onto the curve of your sheened digits and sucks. “That’s not what a good-”

“I am I am-” Gojo insists, brows furrowing. He’s so unsure what to do, so unsure what to even think other than looping his arms around your waist to tug, tug, tug you ever-closer. It’ll never be enough. “Promise I’ll be a- ngh-”

Shit.

Your fingers shackle a tight grip around his pale, prespired neck. He looks so gorgeous squirming underneath you like this - squirming for more, that is.

“Then you better promise to fuck me really good, Satoru.” Your whispers come out in a honeyed tone that wafts against his reddening ears. Maybe because of that, maybe because of the way your nails claw marks, you feel his plumpened head twitch. “Really good.”

His head lolls all the way into your grasp, he was done. Murmuring, “I’ll be a really, really good boy- ma’am.”

That did it.

And before Gojo knows it, you’re letting his syrupy mushroom tip slip in a few thick inches with ease. Geysers of his pre trickling out from between the tight stretch of your gluey hole, sinking in more and more.

Gojo’s mouth opens with a slow leak of drool with just how warm you were hugging him from the inside. Your candied walls so fucking clingy that he finds himself choking out a huff, planting two steadying hands on either side of your waist and pushing-

“Oh fuck- oh fuck.” His eyes grow adorable wide, stare perched right down where he was disappearing in and out of you in mindless, rapid ruts just to bully himself inside. “Th-this feels nothing like my P-Pocketpussy3000-”

“Toru…” Your words come out in a growl, crescent nail leaving neat indentations on his column of skin.

“J-just feels so much better, my girl.” Gojo insists, something swirling deeply in his eyes that makes your heartbeat irregular. “You’re so…so warm and- and wet. That stupid rubber could never compare to the adventitia and musclaris and- and I’m really fucking you.”

He is.

He was, at least until only a few vulgarly deep strokes probing in about halfway down his swollen shaft makes Gojo bump his ridged slit against one of those spots. The globe of Gojo’s proud cockhead leaves a hefted thud! that thunders pure bliss into your fuzzy head and makes you clench.

And it makes him cum. Again.

Wet spurts of warm seed splashing into each n’ every inch inside of you and filling you all the way up to the brim. There’s so many of his copious ribbons sloshing around inside of you, and it doesn’t even make Gojo’s tempo slow down.

It doesn’t even make him falter.

“Sh-shiiiit-” He’s hissing, lower lip worried and fussed between his teeth until you were sure he’d be drawing blood. “Cumming—!”

Dipping down a few fingers to part your soppy lips, Gojo’s thrusts get more relentless when he catches his eyes on the steady waterfall of cum and slick seeping into his hoodie. Fucking the webbed mess deeper - but it only wrings out more pearly wads streaming down.

Gojo’s voice wrenches out from the very back of his throat in a stubborn mewl, just about five octaves higher than you’re used to. “I came…inside.”

The one n’ only warning you get before he hooks an arm around the small of your back and flips the two of you over. Easily.

Back sinking into the velvety bed-covering, your spine arches in a geometrical semicircle off the mattress as Gojo takes the blasphemous opportunity to bottom out. His meaty tip finally meets the target of your spongy cervix, breeder balls clashing stickily into the split end of your folds with a hulking thwack!

And you’re almost wondering at just how it was possible that Gojo - nervous, bumbling Gojo Satoru who’d never even held hands with a woman before - had the willpower and strength to overpower a seasoned fighter like you.

But that’s when he tugs his utterly sullied hoodie off and you’re rendered thoughtless. Mouth watering at the toned ridges and curves that bulged all over his Herculean body.

Gojo wasn’t just toned - he was fucking jacked.

And all yours for the taking.

Just your greedy stare is enough to wash his cheekbones with a scorching blush, as if he wasn’t near-nine inches deep inside you already. You gasp when his tongue pokes out to catch a few dripping splat! splat! splats! of your slick still dripping from his glasses. “I-I read in a director’s cut that you like men with abs so I…”

And before you can even respond, his hips do all the talking for you. Striking your own with a deafening pap! of skin-on-skin, broad pecs heaving with a sharp inhale as if he didn’t even realize what he was doing. Wasn’t in control.

Two of his doughy palms veer underneath your now-jittery thighs and hoist them up effortlessly to dangle over his shoulders.

Gojo’s letting off a low grunt when his curvaceous knees slide wider across the pricey bedsheets. All the while mumbling, “N’ just because m’a hah- virgin doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two. Like- I saw this thing ngh- o-online called a…” Bending you like a pliant lawnchair down, down, down- “-a mating press.”

Online? Mating press? You didn’t know what he was rambling on nonsensically about now, but maybe you could excuse that with the fact that he was stretching you out stupid.

“What a pretty boy.” You’re managing out, fingers unsticking a few strands of pearly white plastering onto his forehead. “Now s-stop teasing and hngh- fuck me.”

Your words are jolting such a dark, primal part of his brain. Eyes hooded, teeth pulling back with a low whimper of ah! The bed sings out a protesting creak when Gojo’s hand comes slamming! down onto the poor frame. Spitting out, “I-I can’t stop…fuck- I can’t stop. Won’t-”

He’s pushing and pushing his ravenous hips in animalistic little humps, the cylindrical shape of his cock swabbing in sultry circles around your gooey insides. Already splitting you apart snugly to the brim, but still he’s drilling in for more.

“You hafta move, Satoru-” Even your most gentle tone is enough to make his strawberry divot sugarcoat you in a thickly viscous few spatters of pre.

And when he talks he sounds wild, “Do I- haaaah- do I really hafta move? Jus’ wanna lose my virginity like this. Wanna stay inside you forever and ever and ever.”

He was already pussydrunk.

And it’s so cute it makes your heart clench. All over six feet of him melting into you by now; head heatedly shoved against the crook of your neck, motions glissading a slip n’ slide of his sexily defined abs pinned to your front. Powerless.

Gojo blinks up at you through thoroughly hazy eyes when you tilt his face back up to face yours, and the deep eye-contact makes him blush.

“But I really, really wan’ you to hah- fuck me.” You pout, and you already know by the stutter in his labored breathing that you have him wrapped around your cute lil’ finger. Jostling your hips in a slight buck, “Look-she’s begging for ya already.”

Oh.

“Is- is she really?” Gojo sighing out in surprise, eyes pondering down to where he was making your puffed-up pussy folds bulge. Slipping out a gasp before he’s clutching onto his nose to stop any more bleeding.

Your slobbering lips coated with a glimmer of his spit and cum, so very his that Gojo finds himself subconsciously nodding along to the sappy squelches bubbling from below.

“Yes- yes you’re right–” Propelling a slow drag of his hips to sweep every hidden orifice of yours inside, “Oh! Ya got l-louder- so you agree-”

He’s hiking up your legs even further up his shoulders, interlocking them with one massively flexing bicep held behind his head. Eyes still locked below - only then do you realize that he’s not talking to you.

And then again. And again. And again and again until Gojo was striking your poor cervix with repeated battering rams of his plump cock. Dense balls stinging against your ass with ringing thwacks. Spherical bruises of his circumference being indented over n’ over it’s like he doesn’t even realize.

Didn’t even know he was doing anything other than wrenching out the most sinful noises from your goopy pussy.

“Mhm- such a pretty ngh- pussy.” Spitting out the very word like it was embarrassing, two sizeable fingers latch around the plump peak of your clit. Transfixed. You wondered whether he even remembered his own name. “Such a pretty clit.”

“Fuck!” You’re halfway through sobbing when he sends shockwaves of pleasure all across your body. And even more so when one tilted drive of all his inches leaves a skidding skim down the area of your g-spot. “There- right there, Satoru-”

He’s gaping up at you as if suddenly snapped out of a hypnotic trance, only to fall into an all-new one. Disbelieving mouth parted slightly, he breathes, “I’m…fucking you. I’m actually- ohhh fuck m’fucking you- like really, truly. This isn’t a dream.” Like he just realized - and he just did. “M’giving you my cock- making you t-take alllll of it-”

Never in his life did he think anything could ever feel this good. He was never going back. He would never be the same.

Your drooling pussy was molding around him so nicely, taking onto the very shape of his long shaft. Massaging every inflamed vein poking against your splashed walls, so warm with the leftover puddles of his own sticky cum.

He’s worshipping you, tilting his head to place a heady trailway of wet kisses down each of your ankles. “M’yours so m’-” Then your calves, your tits, your collarbones, everywhere and anywhere-

“-m’gonna make feel h-hah good.” His nose scrunches with focus, a few fat ends of Gojo’s fingers come down from pinning your ankles to splay out on your tummy. All bloated with his thick outline that even through his fogged-up glasses, he swears he could see a bulge. “Need to find it- need to.”

Pound after pound being placed desperately onto everywhere he could reach inside of you. You can feel the baking hot swash of his sap coating you in a second skin. Each dab of his ballooned crownhead leaves behind a marking bead of buttery pre.

And maybe it was the way you’re feeling the slow trickle of all his sappy torrentials inside you, but you’re gurgling out a little, “What- what are you-”

“The g-spot.” Gojo answers your messy blithers of syllables with a tender rub onto your clit. Though, he wasn’t too far behind himself, if the way his digits trembled told you anything. “It’s s-supposed to be somewhere in the hah- anterior vaginal wall, between your pretty hole and the urethra. Often said to be stimulated about a few inches ngh- up-”

But this time, you’re the one cutting him off. With a rapid, deprived rut that bustles his left-leaning curve to head in a jackhammer precisely towards your bulging g-spot.

And then you see white.

Perhaps from the sheer shock of him leaving a good French kiss that tenderizes your sweetest hidden coves, perhaps from the way that the both of you are cumming.

“Shit- shiiiit-” You’re perking your ass to smack against his in lewd little paps, half-formulated moans flooding your mouth with each delicious thrust being planted right onto that spot. Gojo’s fucking you through each of your edges, over and over until you feel yourself crashing back-to-back into not one, not two, but three orgasms. “Really did fuck me- hngh- ah-”

Before you even realize, you’re throwing your arms around Gojo’s rippling shoulder muscles to claw a few artistic lines of red. And he loves it- fuck, it makes him cum even harder.

“S-spit in my mouth, ma’am.”

And when you do, he latches onto yours with a messy, messy open-mouthed makeout. Groaning around his second-favorite activity of sucking your cute tongue - his most favorite activity being fucking this depraved cunt of yours.

Cumming and cumming until he physically can’t. Steady rivers of seed logging up whatever remnant space inside your snug cunt before he sputters out sheer nothingness.

A shiver wracks through Gojo’s body with the way he was cumming dry. And once he spies down a few whipped globs of it spilling out to form a velvety ring around his base, he’s plugging your leaky entrance with a few free fingers.

Lapping up that trickling excess with a slow suck peering right into your eyes before he seals you with his jostling digits back up again.

“Love it- love it love it love it-” He’s letting loose with each spasm of parching cum overspilling your flooded insides, those ribbony meshes swirl all around his pumping cock and trickle down in a creamy stream. Coating his twitchy balls no matter how much he tries to make you milk up every ounce, so much of it. Hot. “Love it- love being your good boy- I love you.”

Gojo’s heart races when you only plant a cute peck onto his sheened glasses, and then another onto his mouth. Resting your sweaty head against his very own, “How would ya like to be my own royal consort, Toru?”

Ah, it was virtually a proposal. To stay by your side forever and ever and ever - the only thing he’s ever wanted, really.

And Gojo’s about to kiss your awaiting lips senseless as an answer- that is, he was about to before both your ears chime with an undeniable PING!

Before an agitating, gratingly familiar voice rings across your heady atmosphere, “Congratulations user: [Satorulovesprincess] on completing Mission: No-Longer-Virgin!” You’re wincing at the sterile glow of that screen once more. “Please await the new updates to the program Sweetheart Online.”

And you both barely even have time to register those words before there’s a thunderous creak! from the empty space of your royal bed.

Except…the bed wasn’t so empty anymore.

Right with your heated proximity was a man - a beautiful man. All long legs, and inky hair that ran down to his slender waist, twinkling amethyst eyes rounded in the exact same shock that shone in Gojo’s right about now.

“Suguru?”

“Satoru!” Before he’s tilting his head towards you, and perhaps most glaringly, the way that Gojo was still scouring deeply inside you. A delicate blush tints his - Suguru’s - high cheekbones, voice cracking embarrassingly at the end. “P-princess.”

And something about his tone made your cunt quiver - just in time for Geto to shuffle the tightening crotch of his pants. Something that Gojo noticed, if the way he was crushing you to his body even tighter said anything.

“Let me guess-” Gojo tilts his head, a sleazily drunken smirk curving the edges of his ruddied lips. “-the truck got you haaaah- don’ squeeze me like that, my girl– too?”

“It- it was ramen poisoning actually…” Geto’s deep baritone trails off, struggling to rip his eyes away from you as the screen flickers once more.

“Sweetheart Online updates completed! Commencing Love Rival (Three’s Company) arc. User: [Sugulovesprincess] joined.”

A/N. MAN I love loserboy Gojo hehehe- hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

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