#i keep remembering tags i wanted to use sorry
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pix-writes · 2 days ago
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for requests. . . how about an x reader where reader pegs Ford 👀? Is he open to the idea?
Oh I think we can arrange such a thing! >:) Hope you enjoy!
Ford x F!Reader | In Theory and in Practice
Notes/tags: Ford and reader have some limited past experiences, but tried to keep it a little vague. That said though, I do allude to them to be both bi/had experiences with someone of the same sex as them. Anal smut, some Dom/sub dynamics and switching.
NSFW 18+ below cut, so MDNI!
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The subject comes up from you, the conversations you get into around pleasure with Ford often end up in the logical sphere, starting lightly before anything more heated can arise. It was something to enjoy about your partnership, comforting in the pragmatic and somewhat direct, open way in which Ford spoke about such things. It reduced both of your anxieties and any reservations that you had about bringing up anything that you wanted.
Your partner still got flustered, however, and you were a little tentative in how you brought up this next subject.
"I never got to try it in any of my other relationships with men, some seem to think it's not important to involve the prostate in sex."
"The prostate when stimulated gives men pleasure, so I see no reason why it should not be, um, paid attention to. I certainly haven't had any reservations when I have been on my own, in the past."
"And with others?"
Ford did blush a little at this. "In relationships with other men, yes. And with you."
"Yes, but technically it was you who was doing it, Ford." You paused to take a breath before asking your next question. "What if I did?"
Your partner looked stunned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I'd never thought about it before?"
You ask him if he ever heard of pegging, he hadn't and you did your best to lay out what it meant, slowly, despite your eagerness at Ford's receptiveness, so far.
"But how would you...?" Was one of his questions and you couldn't help but giggle. You knew he didn't like to be on the backfoot or feel that you were laughing at his expense, but how could you not help but be amused by his perplexed expression, his innocence when it came to the gaps in his knowledge?
"Oh Ford, have I not told you yet about the wonders of silicone?!"
Ford didn't take long to mull over the decision on whether he would like to explore it, in fact, you knew him to be as eager as you were, despite never knowing about pegging before bringing it up, though none of this should have surprised you, you thought, looking back on it. Ford wasn't a stereotypical man and did not have many qualms when it came to experiencing new things. All the more reason you were excited! Though you knew that he was going to take his time with researching it, but you could wait.
As the days passed he added his small questions about what you had planned, one here, one there. He would hum and nod and maybe ask for more clarification or an adjustment. In fact, he inisted that you practice putting the strap on you ordered, once it came.
"Can I see it?"
"I think the straps are too tight, how do I-?" You were glancing around for the instructions, to see Ford already had them to hand.
"Here, like this." He gently tugs on the threads and it loosens, relieving the indents that were already appearing over your skin.
Self consciousness ate at you, unable to hide that you felt so clueless you let out a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry! This is... it just feels silly!"
"It is a little bizarre!" Ford joins in with your laughter. "But preparation makes all the difference, my dear."
Once it came to the moment, however, Ford had forgotten what a disparity there was between theory and practice! It had been so long since he had ever been in this position (metaphorically, rather than physically in the same position... but, you get the idea!) and he was starting to remember how vulnerable it can feel...
You've been working him open steadily, using plenty of lube that you kept beside you, Ford encouraging you and helping direct your movements to what he found most pleasurable, voice strained already.
He could feel that pressure and heat from how you slide in, one of your hands coming to soothingly rub at his back, reminding him to relax into it, to adjust. When he gives you encouragement to move, he can feel your form pressing into his. Your hold on him was so gentle, the tenderness made him feel like he was adrift.
He cried out as you set a firmer pace and you stilled for a moment.
"Ford?"
He groaned. "Keep... keep going, baby."
Ford reaches round to find your hand and you let him intertwine your fingers together, placing your hand further forward so the hold would be comfortable.
"You're doing so well. You know that?" You placed kisses over his shoulder before resuming your steady pace. " So good for me, Ford."
The toy that you had gotten was one that had an end that sat just inside your entrance, the pressure of it working you up. Arousal pooling in your belly as you thrust your hips into him.
He looked so beautiful underneath you, his back arched. God, he was a sight to behold. And so you told him, words spoken as you caught your breath. Knowing the words were affecting him from experience if not from the way his breathing changed, those little noises he made that you so desperately wanted to hear, the ones that went straight to your core.
You were taking your time though and Ford began to rock back into your touch, impatient.
Ford whined your name, turning his head, pupils blown wide. "Don't hold back."
It was somewhat rare that he ever got into an impatient mood, the man was unflappable most of the time. A wicked smile started to spread across your face as you tapped at his side, getting to move upwards, into more of a sitting position before grabbing a fistful of his hair, pulling him back into your chest, an arm coming to rest across his broad chest as he squirmed.
"What was that, hm?"
"Ah, please! Please, I want you to touch me, please."
"So polite." You said teasingly.
Adjusting your grip on his hair your pace became firmer, hand roaming down his chest to touch his achingly hard cock.
"That's it." Ford's moans were rising into a delicious background orchestra and you prided yourself on the knowledge that you had worked him up so much.
"W-wait! I want to see you when I- want to touch you, please?" His voice wavered, unsure of his own wants when he was so close to the edge.
"This is about you, Ford." You considered for a moment. "But you can turn around, if you wish."
It was a more awkward shuffle compared to the last, but the break in the tension didn't last long; the heat rising to your face as you saw how wrecked Ford looked, hair stuck up at different angles. Legs rising to wrap around you, the muscles there flexing against your hips. You wondered what you must've looked like to him in such a position, when the roles were reversed. Was this why he liked it?
Ford was practically melting into the mattress by the time your hands were on him again. That first rate brain of his switching off thoughts and transferring to focus on pleasure. He pulled you in so that he could kiss you, in between your praises and moans.
"So good for me, darling."
"Such a good boy."
"Fuck, cum for me!"
Eyes focused on your angelic face above him, he came. His release coating his stomach, and your hand, still firm on his cock as he rode his orgasm out with a shuddering moan.
Pulling out, you collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, letting Ford take over. First wiping you both down, then releasing you from the strap, soon replacing the end of the toy with his fingers, his mouth grazing your breast hungrily as he laid beside you.
He cursed under his breath. "Oh, sweetheart, you're soaked."
Hot kisses trailed across your skin. "You don't have to. T-this, mmn, was about you."
He tutted, a glint entering his eyes. "But I thought I was your good boy. Don't you want me to make you cum? You've gotten so wet for me."
You whimpered, answering with a nod as you carded hand through his hair, gently, this time.
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sugdenlovesdingle · 1 day ago
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post US election hangover WIP Wednesday
thanks for tagging me @nisbanisba @carlos-in-glasses @captain-gillian
this whole US election mess is giving me war flashbacks to the Dutch election from last year with unfortunately a similar outcome... and the less said about that the better. I'm normally a news junkie, but today I turned off the breaking news notifications. I've had enough of things happening for now.
I'm also a big fan of sticking my head in the sand and pretending certain things don't exist so I've been writing ficlets all day - mainly for bucktommy (the brainrot is real at the moment) but here's a little something for tarlos with Judd that's been living in my drafts for a while. I don't really remember where I was going with it but maybe this will get the creative juices flowing enough to finish it.
---
“Whose face are you picturing?”
Judd looked up and saw TK leaning against one of the machines in the firehouse gym.
“My own. But I’m not in the mood to talk.”
“Ok.” TK shrugged and sat down on a bench with the weights. “I’ll just sit here and watch then.”
“You want to watch me work out?”
“No, not you. My dad is trying to convince Carlos he’s allowed to use the gym here instead of paying for the one down town.” He explained. “And I do want to watch him work out.” He grinned and winked at Judd.
“Can’t a man just work out in peace here without you making eyes at your fiancé?”
“Sorry, not today.”
Judd rolled his eyes and focused on getting a few more punches in on the bag. If he could just work through his frustrations in peace, the world would be a better place.
“Yes Carlos I’m sure. I’m the captain here and I officially give you permission. You’ll be my son in law in just a few weeks, you’re family.” Owen said, gently pushing Carlos into the gym.
“It’ll only be a few weeks. Just until the gym at the station is done. It’ll be done when we get back from our honeymoon.”
“You can just keep using it after that too, nobody here minds. And like I said, you’re family.” Owen turned him around and patted his shoulder. “Have fun.” He said and left, leaving Carlos standing in the doorway.
TK got up and walked over to him, slipping his arms around his waist.
“If dad says it’s ok, it’s ok.” He insisted. “Come on, we can work out together.”
Carlos raised an eyebrow.
“What? Here? Now?”
“Not that kind of work out. We can do that in the bunk room.” TK teased, a little too loud so Judd would overhear.
“As long as you do it on your own bed and not when I want to sleep, I don’t care.” Judd told them and turned back to the punching bag.
“You alright Judd?” Carlos asked, walking further into the gym and somewhat timidly setting up one of the treadmills.
“Judd is in a mood but he doesn’t want to talk.” TK explained, sitting back down on the weights bench.
“Judd just wants to work out in peace without some smart ass know it all bothering him.” Judd snapped but TK ignored him.
“I can go…” Carlos trailed off.
“No you’re alright. It’s your fiancé that doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“I’m not doing anything! I’m just sitting here admiring my future husband in his workout clothes.”
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tagging: anyone who wants to share something to make the sucky parts of life suck a little less today.
And also my askbox is always open for prompts! (for tarlos or bucktommy - but please no crossovers because i suck at those)
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2demondogs · 1 day ago
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With Chrismas around the corner (not really but basically), i would love an Arthur x GN!reader where Arthur proposes to reader for Chrismas and they obviously say yes because, well, it's Arthur, who wouldn't?
Anon did you read my mind. I was just thinking about proposal fics when you sent this ask because I have yet to stumble on one somehow... I'm sorry this took forever btw T-T
Shoutout to my platonic boyfriend for helping me with ideas because I got writer's block <3
Words: 3k oh my good lord Tags: canon divergence (it's just people leaving the gang a chapter early), Arthur does not have tuberculosis, INSTANT spoilers for character death, cheesy shit
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It's been too long, you're realizing, since holidays like Christmas felt like special things. There is a double-edged feel to this one — it is the first since Hosea's death, since leaving the gang — but it is the first, in a very long time, that you've spent in the so-called right way: in a warm house with four solid walls and someone you love, how those fanciful books Mary-Beth used to talk your ear off about always wrote.
The house is warm enough, anyways.
There's work that needs done on the cabin. Some of the wood is rotting out and chipped at the corners, forming into sharp splinters that you've brushed against one too many times, but it is a house. You haven't had this pleasure since before joining the gang.
Sometimes, with how content Arthur seems at baseline, you wonder if he's had this pleasure since early childhood. On quieter evenings, ones less reserved for happiness than this one, there has been clipped discussion about how Arthur has never had domesticity like this. Silently, it was an admission of how good it is to share this freshness with you.
During a ride into town, he'd admitted that he had never picked up painting because it was the sort of thing only steady folks got to enjoy. You'd gotten him a set of oil paints when no one was looking — he's worth much more than a few measly dollars, but that means little if you haven't got them to begin with. Some habits die hard; he was happy you remembered what he'd said only a few hours before.
Come the new year, Arthur plans to find work that will pay. New things are a luxury neither of you care much to indulge in, but the repairs will take lumber and maybe a few extra hands. Ones with more expertise, at least, because Arthur's houses usually have not had foundations.
You could simply move now that time has passed, yes. You could find somewhere much farther away, maybe even New York, and pack yourselves in alongside the other sardines bustling about a city, undetectable in uniformity. Shave beards, got jobs, change clothes, cut hair and color it, too, if paranoia strikes— but keeping low to the ground has worked itself out so far, and there is no more of that deathlike stagnation in the air of this place.
Sentimentally, you think this Christmas will seal off whatever makes this cabin yours. Shadows linger, there's been a few odd creaks that've spooked the horses, and maybe it's going to shit a lot quicker than either of you want to admit, but it's your shit-house and the shared stubbornness between you has always brought you nothing but closer to one another.
Arthur is tired of running, and so are you. Last week, he talked about writing to Mary-Beth and Simon, maybe checking if Kieran — the utterance of the man's proper name was a confirmation of the last of that stockholmlike regret having worked out of his system — had broken and followed his little girlfriend. It wasn't said with malice, just some amusement.
"Why do you think he would?" You'd asked.
"Dutch only saves people who don't ask for it," he'd said, and that wistful look in his eyes vanished before you could ask what it meant.
Maybe it's the hard work that makes it feel like a real, true holiday. Pearson and Grimshaw stopped working everyone harder in the winter over the years, once the familial glamour faded with each new addition to the gang. It was no longer a tight-knit group, but a posse, more or less, of runaways and strays all against a big, evil thing like the rest of the world, or whatever it was that Dutch grew to fear.
Since November, Arthur has been saving the best catches to be salted and stored for Christmas dinner. Each addition is cleaner skinned and cut than the last, and the newfound worst of them ended up being ate upon his return from hunting. You've both been saving back herbs since summer, dried and ready to be crumbled into the heated up pot come time for a real feast. Cornbread was made by hand for the first time since you settled down here, drizzled with honey from the general store a ways out.
The latter was Arthur's only specific request for a fancy dinner. If you hadn't gotten him a single gift save for making it, he'd still be happy as a clam.
He's been putting that goddamned honey on everything. You're glad he seems to be enjoying things again, not as tightstrung as he was before you'd made off with him. That's how it feels, anyways, after the long and struggling conversations that were had before the decision was made. Family or life? It's a hard question for someone who has such little concept of either.
Now, the grey hair in his beard is catching the light from the fireplace where he's sat himself on a chair before it. They'd sprouted through the sun-bleached blond atop his head has been looking lighter and lighter in recent months, grey finally catching up to the discoloration and giving him some malcolored sort of tabby look. It's a good one on him, as much as he complains about looking old as dirt and that it's all formed by stress.
For all the lacking color, it adds a ruddy warmth to his face. Daydreams of growing old together find you when you focus on it, or on his wheezing laugh that's gotten worse with the cold weather. Despite the woolen vest he's been sporting, his fingers are as chilled as yours whenever they've brushed. Idly, you wonder if he's gotten whatever Hosea grew into, then remember they were never by blood.
Arthur hadn't wanted you to get him any gifts. When you asked if he would get you something, he'd flushed and changed his mind, apparently already having done it.
Whatever it is, it's good-sized, wrapped in one of the dustcloths you'd gotten him alongside the paints. He's been spending more time painting, lately, tucked in the treeline and looking over the cabin or deeper into the woods, studying something plein air the way those professionals do. He'd propped it against the wall this morning, and once you've settled on the floor before the fireplace — too cold outside not to crowd close to it — after dinner, he looks between you and the cloth like he isn't sure what to do.
"D'you wanna do the honors?" He asks, and grins although the twitch of his eye tells you he's covering timidity with faux cockiness.
"You go ahead," you say, half because he's closer. Tormenting him in small ways must be part of any good gift.
The painting is an image you recognize. A photo that one of the girls took for you months before things went down the hole, using the camera Arthur was loaned by some feller in town who wanted photos taken for a book. He never returned it, and it more or less became something he tucked beneath his cot and let the elements beat around. You can't remember, now, who it was or where he went to get it developed.
The little inkling of pride you felt knowing he kept putting off getting the negatives developed — not enough money, not enough time — yet was gone the next morning to have yours developed returns, now.
It's a much nicer rendition of it, your clothes not dirty and his arm around your waist, the other holding his hat to his chest. It's clear he preferred to give your portrait more detail, his own lagging somewhere behind in clarity and looking closer to the photo. You suppose it's easier to look at someone besides himself, but there's a clearer enjoyment in the lines of you, more care taken in the color mixes.
Ignoring the dense joy of the implications of that, of how obvious it is, proves difficult. Your cheeks twinge some from the wide smile before you realize you're even reacting.
"You'll be a big name someday," you say, and he may as well shrink in on himself beneath the praise, although he's heard it plenty of times before.
"Naw," he waves a hand. "Quit that."
"Really, Arthur." Scooting closer, laying your hands over his knee. He's moving his jaw when your eyes meet his, lays a hand over one of yours, heavy and warm. "It's beautiful. I love it."
"Good," he says. His jaw clicks. "I— uh, I love you."
The hunting knife you got for him seems small, though relatively equal. Arthur looks as pleased as ever studying it, half-mumbling appraisals of yeah, nice and sharp, sturdy to himself that likely would've stayed inside his head, if it weren't for wanting to show you he liked it.
A bone handle, which he feels over with his fingers before noticing it's engraved, fits easy in his palm. You were afraid you push your luck with maintaining its quality too far adding the tiny, vague bear shape next to the deeper cut of his name. Already impressive was the fact that you hadn't ruined it with the letters, being one of your first expeditions into anything of the sort.
"I would've gotten you one of those folding knives," you explain. "But they don't hold up as well, and I know you have one."
The army knife was Hosea's.
"Needed me a new huntin' knife," Arthur says. You know, because he's complained about his current one being close to snapping with all the skinning he does anymore. He squints at the handle, turns it over in the light from the fire. "Did you engrave the handle?"
"Yessir."
He smiles. "It's real nice," he says, pats his palm with the blade softly. It makes a dull noise, sturdy metal on skin. "Why a bear?"
"They remind me of you," you admit. Really, you'd spent a long time considering what else to add, because only his name seemed so plain; although he wouldn't be opposed to flowers or vines, they are a little more intricate than a simplified bear head. "Big and strong. Hairy, too. I'd like to hug one."
He snorts a laugh, but it seems thin. His eyes are fond enough on you that it couldn't be any rejection of your words, and so you brush it off. "You wanna hug a bear?" He asks.
"In a perfect world," you amend. "Don't they look warm?"
"You'd better stick to me," he says, smooths a palm over the thigh of his jeans. The nicest pair he owns, he promised you, because he feels ridiculous in slacks and seems to think you care what he wears.
Beyond thinking everything looks well on him, at least. You often find yourself concerned with that thought.
"I got you somethin' else," Arthur starts, running a finger over the bunched inseam at his own knee. "Well, uh— it's f'both of us, really."
Isn't that intriguing, you think, but your silent, undivided attention seems to make him outright nervous, so you say: "Oh?"
Some conflict happens over his face as he pulls his vest collar away and reaches into the inner pocket, takes out a stack of thin papers that he glances over before apparently relenting to something. Confusion finds you, until he takes a deep breath and holds them towards you.
"Read these," is all he says, and he sounds like it's almost painful.
He's written much, much more than that. Your stomach turns, once or twice, realizing they are pages from his journal. Uncertain why, until the first entries which are skittering on affectionate fade into ones much more flowery. They are all about you, days you'd spent together or times you hadn't, the things you've given him over the years and the things he wished he could've given you.
Each page makes your chest feel tight with a panicked joy, as if his hands were not fiddling with the new knife to occupy — distract? — himself but clenching hard at your heart.
One, near the beginning, says he thought of pickin' a pretty lil' flower, God bless it, I feel ridiculous; on the back of the next is pressed a variegated tulip, crumbling with age but holding firm to whatever adhesive glues it to the paper. Again, that creeping smile, like thyme. Another entry is entirely about your hair, because it had brushed his arm. Only a few sentences made up that page, below the cursive a choppy sketch of your horse.
Certainly, Arthur stays busy in his head. You've always known as much, but never figured any of it was about you. Not like this, anyways, though the dates spread from the week before Blackwater and you can only wonder what laid in that journal he lost before.
"Oh, Arthur," you start, looking up from a third-way through, feeling giddy but not wanting him to watch you so intently while you finish them. No wonder he was shy. It's his heart. "You're so sweet."
"Finish readin' 'em," Arthur says, doesn't meet your eyes at first. When he does, they're gentle. "They get sweeter, y'know, better finish 'em. 'Cause of that."
He is nervous. Hardly moving, besides the tongue running over his teeth beneath his lips, and the rambling every time he opens his mouth. You don't mind, never have. He's endearing like this.
Outings you'd went on infrequently, the dates of his favorites underlined, you're noticing, based on the tone of his words in them; his worries and fears about courting you, and some of what you mean to him though, with its succinctness, you have a feeling he wouldn't dare put all of his genuine love to findable paper; things he likes about you, and one page where he admits that he cannot keep himself from documenting you in every other entry, which tells you this small collection is hardly everything. The previous entries turn over in your mind again, and you are struck on a random page for a moment as their meanings take hold, realizing they were especially sliced from his journal to show you.
The entries leading to the last are what set your mind and pulse ablaze. From the first appearance of the word marriage, you swallowed your idea of what may be coming — Arthur's breathing changing beside you doesn't help any, and it certainly does not help that he leans down once you've reached the last page, plucking it from your hands. Before he does, you notice quite a few crossed out lines, scribbles as if he were frustrated with not being able to find the right words.
"Think I've got the balls on me to read this one aloud, at the very least," he says, voice laced with a chuckle. Breath comes uneasy, but you collect yourself enough to gather the pages back into a neat, ordered stack in your lap. "Unless you'd rather spare me," he adds, nudges your knee with the toe of his shoe.
"No." Your voice sounds strange, even to you. "Do me the honors."
Arthur bites his cheek, nods and lets it fall as he smiles. Still, his hand finds the back of his neck, the page held between two fingers that remain surprisingly steady. The knife lingers in his hand beneath it, and isn't it just like him to propose holding a weapon.
Propose. It takes its first toll on you, rolls over your back in shards of tingling.
"December twenty-fifth, eighteen ninety-nine," he starts, eyes flicking to your face every other word until the intensity of your gaze must make him too anxious. "It's a nice little life, livin' with the one I love," — rubbing his mouth, sighing some — "Jesus, I always gotta be sappy." You laugh, though it comes out more forceful than you intended, and relax some until he continues. "The thought of another day where anythin' could happen 'n' we ain't bound is somethin' I hate."
Arthur pauses, stands up and places the journal entry on his chair. You take his hands when he holds them out to where you sit, grunting when he hauls you off the ground with more force than you expected, feet shuffling into place to stick all-too-close to his. His hands are burning, skin feverish when you grab his wrists, as if you'd ever want to stop him as he eases onto a knee before you.
And his eyes throw you off balance, too, catching the light just enough that you can tell they are stinging. So are your own, now that you think about it, but intelligent thoughts go out the window once you sense him about to speak.
"I wanna be 'til death do us part," Arthur confesses, fumbles to catch both of your hands in his in an awkward, squeezing hug of a hold.
The way your bones catch on one another, well— it's not a sensation you'll forget, like the first time he kissed you and you felt it still a week later, warm pressure on your mouth if you got too lost in the memory. He looks as good, looks so nice, and you know your fingers would be shaking if he weren't crowding them together, steady.
When he says your name, the blood is rushing through your ears too loud to hear it clearly; you almost want to ask him to do it again. "Will you marry me?"
Nodding, face slack before it spreads in a grin. "Yes," you say. "Of course I will."
His is hidden by how he lets go of your hands, catching them before they fall in stupid, limp joy back to your sides. He lays kisses along the knuckles, all three rows of them. It's so awfully saccharine and yet you could never tell him to quit being sweet— not now, not as he stumbles to his feet after you pull him up and shake off his hold to grab his face, tugging him into a kiss.
Arms come around your waist, squeeze tight enough to hurt, or to hold in place. Arthur runs a hand over your back, breaks the kiss to slide a hand into your hair and press your face to his chest, caging you in his arms. He smells warm, like good cologne, and you know he's been planning this.
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dizzybizz · 9 months ago
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sleepy gill and gill with the bubbled evil cat
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genericpuff · 1 month ago
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every now and then i get folks asking me "puff do you have any opinions on hazbin hotel"
and i know why they're asking because if there's any fandom that puts LO to shame, it's hazbin hotel / helluva boss and surely i must have some Very Strong Opinions(tm) about the show
but i seriously have never watched a single episode of that show and despite all the controversy and drama i've seen come from the discussion of both the show and its creator, the only thing that really bugs me out of the blue when i'm reminded HH exists are those exclusive playbills that people pre-ordered months ago and still haven't arrived
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that is it, that is literally the extent of my engagement with the HH fandom, there will be no further questions about what i think regarding HH because i literally have no idea, they are best asked to whoever comes close to being the generic-puff equivalent of the HH fandom
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nebulouscoffee · 10 months ago
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... well it's that time of the year already. If anyone's got a Star Trek ask I'd love a distraction <3
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radrobotz · 6 months ago
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actually why is the new fop cartoon animated like the ppg special from 2014
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cerealmonster15 · 5 months ago
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I have to ask WHY on earth did they turn Flannery into a goldfish??? What did he do to them to make them want to Literally Curse Him??
man. thats a good question. let's see if i have an answer JFKLDSKFLJDS
i'll be real a lot of it was me kinda winging it improv style - i should probs clarify [im not sure how clear i am on artfight lol] that moooost of my non twst characters are like, from a roleplay thing my friend and i do in google docs together kfdsjfl so thats where flannerys from. and then sometimes, plotlines and characters stem from an idea on a whim - like originally i had an idea for flannery to be a lost prince that was turned into a fish by like, enemy hitmen or sometihing.
and tbh that makes more sense than family betrayal LOL but i thiiiiiiiiiink i swapped it to son of a politician and also an influencer [cries lol] because it fit the 'modern au' better. modern fantasy. whatever. also we do have a separate au googledoc universe that IS royalty themed so maybe one day he will be a missing prince there teehee
ok anyway sorry i havent answered your actual question i got distracted lol. so aside from half of it being me coming up with shit on the fly and being kind of bad at storytelling klsjfkdshf the IN UNIVERSE ANSWER is like, flannery kinda just doesnt have a good relationship with his family - his parents suck and flannerys not a "useful asset" and is also the product of infidelity. so it's like, he's not going to be a powerful politician or business guy, he's not good on camera, and also theres this unspoken secret of him being someone else's son <- i think my idea here was like, the father is Aware his wife was having an affair and that flannery isnt his kid but neither of them have Spoken Of It because blah blah keeping up appearances a divorce would be a scandal whatever. you know how it is with traditional family values 😒
and i think i have also just watched a lot of youtube videos covering family vlogger scandals/ also just regular vlogger scandals, and sometimes that shits just wild LOL so i was like ok. politician dad doesnt like or care about this kid, vlogger mom sees his disappearance as months worth of content to milk lol. so they hired someone to Get Rid Of Him - i cant remember if they... planned the fish part. maybe. i guess so? the plan tho was just have him turned into a fish that would probably get eaten and act like he got kidnapped or ran away and then announce hes dead later.
flannery's got an older brother that shows up at his school and is like, a clone of their mom, in that hes like "omg theres this GUY HERE who is PRETENDING to be my DEAD BROTHER i need to live stream this." and then something something their relation was proved and he pivoted immediately to "oh wowwww my poor sweet brother i cant BELIEVE our parents tried to cover you up like this wow i missed u so much let's be besties [lie]"
so anyway. there kind of isnt that a good reason besides drama + theyre in a magical setting and i thought it was fun LOL. flannery's one of my much newer characters so i havent had a lot of time to fully flesh out his character yet. he's a lil one note right now and i need to figure him out a bit more to make him,,,, actually interesting,,, but. 🫡
#asks#sorry u asked me a question and i spit out like 8 paragraphs of not really answering kfjdsfklJKDFJKLSDJG#oc: flannery#me opening my inbox: oh man true why DID they do that. bc they suck i guess. KLFJSKLDJFDKLSJF#SORRY i know it's not that exciting and it's kind of cliche as hell#but i am goofing in my sand box and also throwing things at the wall til i find what sticks#fallon [the brother] is a whole other thing he showed up and is just So Annoying and loves to lie lol#theres also this other guy nazari who is like. well not their childhood friend but he knows them both bc their dads used to work together#fallon and flannerys dad was nazaris dads work rival or some shit and got him fired <- i do NOT have details on that i keep it vague#On PURPOSE lol anyway now nazaris like well. i want revenge. im going to kidnap flannery. arent you supposed to be dead#he was like ok the family is acting like hes dead but clearly he is At My School and Not Dead im gonna kidnap him for ransom money or w/e#i cant really remember what his full plan was bc that plan got derailed by other characters klsdfjdsjlfj#but also fallons in love with him. i think my secret plotline for them in the royalty au is that nazari and flannery are arranged marriage#princes or some shit idk that hasnt happened yet i just drew something one(1) time#listen i turn everything into a soap opera. fanfiction. google docs roleplay#originally these google docs were like our pseudo dnd with rolls and stuff but then they just became mostly roleplay oc story time LOL#sometimes characters have college parties other times they discover they are a demigod. u know how it is.#ok sorry i dont think anyones gonna read all this i just love to ramble to myself lol#'sorry the reply was so long' [writes just as much in the tags doubling the length of the reply] OOPS OOPS OOPS SORRY BYE
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chaotictomtom · 1 year ago
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honestly still so upset the blood donation situation. makes me sit on the floor and sulk for an hour each time i think abt it
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dirt-str1der · 2 years ago
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Literally cant care about anything other than majima haruka bonding
#Yakuza loveblog#ohhh together ... this is less of a kiryu sickfic and more like harukas little city adventure#kiryu got sick because he was just not taking care of himself and keeled over like a victorian lady and haruka was like okay . im#cooking dinner tonight ojisan if i catch you out of bed i will be very angry with you !!!#sorry for using ojisan and uncle kaz interchangably theyre both just so fucking cute ... uncle kaz lets fuck hookers#haruka where is the methy . in my nose ojisan. uncle kaz get it twisted gamble you will win you understand you will break even#you wont lose. you wont go into debt. you will win. millions. get it twisted gamble and thats it.#majima ends up having to drive her home because he doesnt want her out on her own anymore .. which is funny because haruka yelled at him#because he joked about coming over to visit kiryu while hes sick and she was like NO !!! and he was like sheesh okay okay ...#and then shes like oh turn left here yeah this is where we're staying .. . you can come in if you want :) (she trusts him now)#i think harukas jacket also got ripped up and covered in blood so majima bought her that stylish puffer jacket she has in yk2#little girls WILL wear black singlets by the way just trust me on this kiryu also wore one when he was younger 'source?' just trust me#its like a staple of the wardrobe you need a black singlet and a jacket to wear over it plus its super cute and sensible#i like to make people straight up stab and hurt other people in front of haruka she doesnt care shes already desensitised#because she follows kiryu around every day and hes always caving skulls and making people spit out bloody teeth so seeing majima splatter#blood everywhere was nothing to her shes always getting splashed with blood every single day she doesnt mind#shes very brave to keep wearing white after that but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do#hmm wonder if i should have a proper writing tag so i can consolidate all this shit ...#well it would mostly be for keeping track of what ive already posted because i can never remember and i keep writing the same thing#over and over again ... i only have one brain you see ..#majima comes into kiryus house immediately makes a beeline for his bedroom and sees him all sweaty and feverish in bed too weak to move#and she starts panting like a dog and kiryu looks at her with fear in his eyes#guy whos about to get his shit rocked like crazy and knows it#sorry haruka look away !!! <- thats the header i have for this fic look away from the rest of the document !!!!
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zenyuumi · 2 years ago
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stunies · 1 month 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
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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!
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“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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end part i
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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
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trans-leek-cookie · 1 month ago
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its late-ish so my thoughts won't be well organized. Well they'll be even less well organized but anyway. I don't think murder is inherently like... Evil like it's not good but there are people who I believe the world is better off with them dead and I don't really care if it happens naturally or by another person's hand. But I can't stand the idea of fucking. Okay the specific concept I'm thinking about are "conscious rounds"- basically if someone was to be executed by firing squad there would be random guns with blanks so theoretically you might not have been the one to shoot the person to death. And I can't abide by that. Even if a murder is justified I don't think it can be justified by fucking self reassurance. I think if you are going to be involved in killing a person you should know exactly what you're doing. And I don't think this is like, something that will make people "better" necessarily (there are people who would prefer to know how they hurt someone and ended their life) but I think it's irresponsible to allow people to distance themself from the deaths they cause. And I think that's broadly true- we should be aware of like, the people who die or are hurt in the process of food, technology, clothing, etc. production because I don't think ignorance or self soothing does any good. Even if people don't care we need to know wether we want to or not.
And just. There are obviously more complex arguments that need to be made and refined and discussed but where I started with opposing the death penalty is internalizing that 1. Obviously, we aren't fucking clairvoyant- innocent people will die because of mistakes 2. Many of the ppl subjected to the death penalty will be marginalized and Black people are especially vulnerable because of antiBlackness) 3. The potential abuse of the system to falsely accuse people is enough to negate any possible "justice" the death penalty could provide and imo focusing on aiding the victims makes false accusations much less appealing because there is no longer* a punishment you can use to harm the person you accuse (idk how to exactly say this but like. I don't think punishment is inherently evil or whatever but 1. The state should not be allowed to use death as punishment 2. The punishments that currently exist (like jail) are largely fucking immoral on their own. Like if someone gets sued for damages that's its own thing. Sorry idk where I'm going with this but mainly there shouldnt be a legal way to get someone killed)
#I have a headache#Ask to tag#The death penalty is such. I can actually remember when I really internalized the problem with it. Not the exact time it happened#But I can remember my thoughts so well. And I feel like I'm generally + genuinely a violent person in a lot of ways#I try not to harm people but my default reaction for a lot of things is to hope someone gets hurt and even then I realized that just#The death penalty is a moral and legal failure. Like morally I still have a ways to go when it comes to like#Fully internalizing and analyzing why it's wrong- like I know it's wrong but I'm trying to get beyond just the basic ''its wrong because#It's wrong'' and into actually useful and arguable reasoning. But legally it's just. The potential to abuse it shoots beyond any subjective#Morality/ethics for me I just don't think a society where someone could be killed because of a false accusation#(and it has happened over and over again. And again it's especially harmful to Black ppl bc of antiBlackness)#Like: it doesn't matter if someone's guilty under no circumstances should the government be allowed to kill them#But the fact there is a way this can be weaponized means just. The death penalty shouldn't exist. Like that's the core I come back to#Sorry if this doesn't make sense. I can talk thru this more if something seems fucked up I'm trying to keep this post as like#I know I need to learn more and develop my opinions and think critically but I wanted t just.#I don't know I can't fucking live like this. I want to do more but there's a part of me that just. There's a violent part of me that#I don't know what to do about it. I just don't know
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martyrbat · 4 months ago
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oh tracy chapman we're really in it now....
#every single bill is overdue. my aunt dipped into her 401k because our trailer was about to be taken#a 600 dollar electric bill because the rates are up so much since we're in a 24/7 heat aversion and have 85%+ humidity constantly#water theyre trying to work with us but thats also overdue and the money we used to do a partial payment is money we don't have#car payment is & its fucking up REAL bad. 2 out of 4 o2 sensors are bad and shes kicking real bad anytime she idles and drives#and now shes getting stuck between the first and second gear. even parked its trying to throw into gear automatically#but driving from a light and it either barely creeps or it LURCHES real bad and is randomly accelerating and struggles to slow down#which. each sensor is about 50 to 70 bucks. we don't know which ones are fucked so its crossing fingers. my uncle is going to put her up#on blocks when we can scrape it together and im going to change two because i live 30ish minutes from a real store with a car#so we cant go without one since we literally only go to the store to get a day or two of groceries since. cant fucking afford anything.#still have hospital shit and bills and paperwork#paperwork with the company my dads driving under and they keep fucking with his paycheck#and now his air is struggling to work in the truck which is dangerous since#hes already got congestive heart failure & is working hard manual labor in extreme heat#and the power in the trailer keeps going off because the weather and blowouts from everyone using it#its 10:35pm and its 94f in here still. earlier it was 98 in here as outside is even worst and muggy#& our air doesn't work. my aunt had one (1) window unit that we're using with the doors shut but it doesn't do shit#and im still stress over my mither since she just had her fucking heart attack and none of this stress and conditions is helping#and my 'i want to cut everyone off leave me alone' isolation tendencies is in full swing#but. whatever. all cool and super 👍👍#I'm sorry for being quiet for a bit and coming back with a tag rant that ill delete later but. man.#anyways. updating the gfm's now and im sorry i haven't been on enough to keep more consistent.#thats been really selfish of me. ive set an alarm to remind me to update them and reblog for spread so hopefully going#forward they'll be more consistent. please remember to reblog even if you cant donate.
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hexastitchimera · 5 months ago
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Genuine observation, no sass and no disrespect, but being someone who is chronically OFFline & an active volunteer/activist for over a decade, and seeing what people say is "crucial discourse" online is... Quite the trip, honestly.
#vee vibrates#I understand that some things are more important to others than they are to me but.#I really need people to understand that sometimes you're better off volunteering at a shelter of ANY kind if you want to commit real change.#Online advocacy is crucial but man am I worried as hell for the kids that don't seem to understand that offline is even moreso.#And being disabled + queer myself I know that it can (and often is) a safety and accessibility issue but zoouniverse.org exists.#That website where you solve history and math quizzes to give rice to impovrished families is online.#Just. Anything that puts this aggressive “”advocacy“” to rest. Ego will be the death of us and we don't need anymore of it.#And if anybody reads this and finds themselves getting upset ask yourself this: Why does this upset me? Do I see myself in this?#Because you'd know that I am speaking out of genuine desperation when I say all of this.#I am not any better than any online activist just because I do a lot of work offline.#I am just so fucking tired of seeing people misdirect their rightful frustrations and fall further prey to the elites' divisive desires.#Is it so much to ask of you all to finally be angry at those who truly make our lives miserable? Or are we just going to keep playing cop?#At the end of the day it's your choice. I cannot force you. However you will grow old one day and look back. Remember that.#I for one don't want to have any regrets about any time I wasted on bigots and trolls and people who have already decided on their opinions.#I want to look back and be grateful for the opportunity to help so many people as many helped me in my direst times of need.#I think that's the difference here. A lot of online folk didn't go through the poverty & severe abuse & bigotry I faced since I was born.#I went through hell and came out kinder in the end because I was at the end of the proverbial whip myself at several points before 16.#But trauma doesn't make you compassionate. You choose to be. And I choose to never repeat the cycle.#The day I do is the day I've lost both my mind and my spirit. I will never repeat my family's & abusers' horrific mistakes.#I will be kinder to a world that needs kindness now more than ever. Even if I scream my throat out forever doing so.#I don't need a voice to be heard.#Anyways sorry. I woke up on the desparate side of the bed. Thank you to all who fight the good fight.#Despite everything I've said I have so much more faith and hope now more than ever. We will prevail.#And thank you if you read all of these tags?? Safety love and solidarity to you you're the MVP. ;_; 💜
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arborryx · 6 months ago
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identifying wild plants in a very early stage of succession!
today i stopped by this big Mulch Pile and decided to see how many plants I could find growing in this one small area. the answer: way more than i expected!
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first i found what looks to be some kind of elm that got cut down but decided not to let that stop it. i also found a few different wild carrot patches. this one is next to some bur clover/burr medic (to the right) and stickseed (behind). the latter two plants are both new to me, so i'm not 100% confident on their identifications. corrections are always appreciated!
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i also found two types of mullein! these plants will grow tall stalks full of flowers in the fall, and they get pretty big. i find them on the sides of highways and on the edges of cornfields. on the left is common mullein, which has very soft, fluffy leaves, and on the right is moth mullein.
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the field was absolutely COVERED in thistles. besides the honeysuckle, it was by far the most common plant growing there. on the left is a bull thistle, which takes up a very wide area. on the right, two creeping thistles are growing on either side of a daisy fleabane (one of my favorite plants ever :D) with some bittersweet nightshade at the front left and a very tiny boneset (another fall flower) at the front right.
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final two plants, both of which i'm not very familiar with: on the left is some black snakeroot i found beneath the honeysuckle, and on the right is white avens, hiding in the shadow of a thick grapevine stem—one of several stems that extends up to wrap around the black cherry tree above. there were several black cherries at the edge of this mulch pile, the only things that didn't get cut down in this small area. and i'm very glad they weren't, because i got to learn about a new native tree today as well!
there were still a few more plants i had yet to identify, or that were too small to really tell what they were, but i had already spent like half an hour sitting in this mulch pile staring and taking pictures, so i figured it was time to move on. i had a lot of fun and i was really happy to have correctly identified most of these by myself before checking! (i use an identifier app, which can be wrong from time to time but is a really useful starting point for unfamiliar plants.)
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