#i may have lost the metaphor there but i hope everyone understands

[cathodic-clairvoyant]

I think the black box model of talking about complex things like more intricate systems is useful at a high introductory level but I think it cannot be the extent to which someone is explained that topic.

[majikkulu]

━━ ❝ masterlist ❞

these are my personal observations and may not resonate with everyone. please take them with a grain of salt, as i'm not a professional astrologer! :))

(i don’t know much about greek gods and goddesses, but i joined a top model contest where i have to dress up as a greek deity. it landed on hecate, and since she represents witchcraft and spirituality, i felt inspired to do an asteroid hecate lmaoooo. i hope yall will like my interpretation ;pp.)

asteroid hekate (100) is a greek goddess who rules over witchcraft, crossroads, and the night. she represents the deep, hidden parts of life, like the mysteries of life and death, and changes that happen in the dark or behind the scenes. think of her as a super-powered flashlight that helps you find your way when you’re lost in a dark forest. hekate helps you tap into your inner wisdom and guides you through tough times or big decisions.

where hekate is in your chart it points to areas where you might face crossroads, big changes, and hidden truths. it’s like having a special ability to understand things that aren't obvious right away. hekate also helps with personal transformation, helping you move from one part of your life to another.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 1𝖘𝖙 - they have a really cool, mysterious vibe that makes people curious about them. their intuition is super strong, and they might even have psychic abilities. this gives them a natural wisdom that others find fascinating, especially if they’re into spiritual stuff. while they might be drawn to spiritual practices, fully embracing them could be challenging. they’re very sensitive to their surroundings and trust their instincts. their journey involves listening to their inner voice and following their gut. people feel there’s more to them than meets the eye, and their powerful presence can be very magnetic. however, they might struggle with knowing exactly who they are and what path to take.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 2𝖓𝖉 - they’ve got a knack for making smart choices with their money and possessions through their intuition. their financial situation might go through a lot of ups and downs, but these changes help them figure out what’s truly important to them. they might find themselves deciding what to keep and exploring new ways to earn money. they probably value items with special meaning. over time, their priorities might shift, and they’ll rethink what’s worth holding onto. they might be drawn to earning money through spiritual work like astrology or tarot. even though their finances can be a bit unpredictable, they should remember that their true worth comes from their spiritual and intuitive gifts, not just material things.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 3𝖗𝖉 - they speak in a way that’s intense and full of insight, often using metaphors and talking about deep topics like psychology or mystical themes. they might have a natural understanding of what others are thinking and feeling. advising their siblings or close relatives might come easily to them. however, they might find it tricky to clearly express their own thoughts and feelings, which can sometimes lead to misunderstandings.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 4𝖙𝖍 - they might go through major changes related to their family and home, like moving or shifts in family dynamics. their home could feel like a special, mysterious place that they protect strongly. they might discover deep truths about their family or even uncover secrets. they could be someone others rely on for emotional support, which can be a lot of pressure. they might have inherited spiritual abilities from their family, and these could be a big part of who they are. handling strong emotions and family conflicts might require them to take a step back for some introspection and healing. it’s important for them to set boundaries to take care of themselves while still being there for their loved ones.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 5𝖙𝖍 - they’re drawn to exploring spiritual themes through their creativity. creative activities help them express their deep, hidden truths. when they date, they look for strong emotional or spiritual connections and are often attracted to people who share their mystical interests. their intuition makes these connections intense and transformative, helping them understand themselves better. they use creative outlets to connect with their inner self and explore spiritual practices that make them happy. they’re also great with kids, understanding them intuitively and guiding them with wisdom. they might face creative blocks, but these challenges often lead to new insights or breakthroughs.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 6𝖙𝖍 - they might be drawn to careers with a spiritual theme, like healing or counseling. their job situation could change a lot, and they’ll likely know intuitively if something is wrong with their health, which might lead them to holistic practices like energy healing or meditation. emotional or spiritual issues might show up as physical symptoms. their daily routine might include spiritual practices like meditation, and they might naturally organize what feels right to them. helping others could be fulfilling, especially when it comes to understanding their personal and emotional struggles. however, this placement might also lead to stress or dissatisfaction, causing them to overthink their path or daily tasks.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 7𝖙𝖍 - they form deep, transformative relationships and attract partners who are intense and spiritual. these partners might push them to explore new sides of themselves and their relationship dynamics. they have an intuitive understanding of their partner’s needs and desires. they might be drawn to mysterious partners who reveal hidden parts of themselves or their relationship. some connections could feel significant or even karmic. this placement can also bring challenges related to control and emotional conflicts, similar to having pluto in the 7th house.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 8𝖙𝖍 - for them, intimacy can be intense and revealing, bringing up psychological and spiritual truths about themselves and their partners. they might be interested in exploring hidden or taboo aspects of sex. their intuition is strong when it comes to shared finances. they might face fears and psychological issues that lead to personal growth. they could be interested in mystical practices like astrology or tarot. working through past traumas and unresolved issues can bring healing and a sense of renewal. however, they might encounter issues with control or power in their intimate relationships or financial dealings. despite these challenges, they could do really well in business.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 9𝖙𝖍 - they might experience changes in their beliefs and how they view life's purpose, often leading them to a more spiritual perspective. they could be drawn to esoteric or occult philosophies and approach learning with their intuition. traveling might bring transformative experiences and new insights. they might be attracted to places with spiritual or mystical significance, prompting deeper reflection. exploring the universe and its mysteries could fascinate them. their deep knowledge and intuitive understanding can make them a great teacher.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 10𝖙𝖍 - their career and goals might go through changes, and they could be drawn to roles that involve mystical practices. the public might see them as someone who brings a unique, transformative energy with innovative ideas. their strong intuition can help them make decisions that lead to success. in their work, they might take on a mentoring role. this placement can bring intense or challenging experiences, and they might explore hidden aspects of society.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 11𝖙𝖍 - they might experience deep and transformative friendships and interactions. they often attract friends who are intense or spiritual, bringing significant changes into their life. they might be drawn to groups with mystical or esoteric interests. their long-term goals might involve spiritual themes, and they have an intuitive sense of their dreams and aspirations. they could experience intense dynamics within their social circle, like power struggles. they might take on a leadership role in their group, providing guidance and support. their aspirations have a spiritual purpose, leading to a fulfilling journey.

𝖍𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖓 12𝖙𝖍 - they might go through inner changes and transformations, exploring hidden parts of themselves. this can lead to self-discovery and healing. spending time alone can offer them growth and spiritual insight. they might be pushed to confront and address shadow aspects of themselves, which can be intense but also healing. they may need to work through self-sabotaging tendencies. their path involves deep inner work and exploring hidden realms, so trusting their inner guidance and intuition is key. this placement can bring healing, inner peace, and insights from unknown sources.

[cadewitha]

my contribution to payneland day 2 is that in the myth of Achilles and Patroclus Charles would be Patroclus and Edwin would be Achilles (I’ve seen most everyone else say the other way around, but let me explain)

First of all, their relationship is similar to Achilles and Pat in the sense that Achilles never really had anyone to truly understand him before Pat. And while he may have been surrounded by others (Cat King, Monty, Simon), it was never in his cruel “destiny” to forge connections with anyone. That’s, of course, until he meets Pat and a friendship/ love affair is forged between the two of them, making them inseparable. Edwin was never meant to be happy. His life sucked, and he went to hell unfairly. His destiny was written in such a way that he should never experience joy, and YET.

Charles comes from a similar place as Patroclus. He had inattentive/abusive parents, never really felt a sense of belonging, and was inexplicably drawn to this one boy (Achilles/Edwin). Once meeting his Achilles, he found himself dedicated to this boy within a number of HOURS. Such devotion has only ever been written of in myths.

I feel as though we can get really caught up on the VISUALS of myths. In the story of Achilles and Patroclus, Achilles is this buff, golden, god-like man (just like Jayden Revri amiright haha) while Patroclus is a weaker, scrawny and nervous boy. When given these descriptions, it’s easy to say that Edwin is obviously the physically weaker one, and Charles is the brawn. Even knowing their personalities we can fall into this assumption, as Achilles is undoubtedly more of a people person then Patroclus, but I still feel this way of thinking to be incorrect. The answer, for me, lies in the dynamic.

Patroclus views Achilles as his savior, his light, his hope. Charles absolutely feels this way towards Edwin, as showcased by the emphasis on the lantern and warm lighting often used when the camera is showing Charles looking at Edwin. Achilles views Patroclus to be his reprieve, his comfort, his heart. Edwin, obviously once again, feels this towards Charles, as showcased with the only scenes where Edwin acts or appears relaxed are the ones where the two boys are interacting or simply together. Even the whole Hell segment could be considered a metaphor for this, as the times when Edwin feels most lost are the times when he doesn’t have Charles. Again this is a huge theme in the myth of Achilles and Patroclus as shown with Achilles’s grief at Pat’s death, and depictions of him being lost anytime he is without Pat.

My last point is that Edwin, to me, feels like a classic greek hero. He has gone on a massive, gods damned journey, he has discovered comfort that has been ardently tried to be ripped away from him, but ultimately in the end found an eternal peace. Edwin is a hero. I’m not saying that Charles isn’t, as he too has many traits, I just feel that this myth isn’t quite his. Maybe Hercules because of the anger issues, lol. Either way, I believe that in the case of Achilles and Patroclus, Edwin is most likely to be Achilles and Charles as Patroclus.

[beauty-and-passion]

Why you should listen to Chonny's Charming Chaos Compendium

I didn't expect to truly write a post about this album.

Anons introduced me to its genesis, production and themes and they seemed interesting... but was there enough food for thought?

I had no idea. My expectations were positive, so I imagined I would listen to something good: I just didn't know if this album had enough for me to talk about and say something new - considering that the CCCC fans already did a great job analyzing every detail of the songs.

But when I listened to them (and read more theories/explanations), I noticed some interesting things. Things that stirred my brain and made me think. Things I wanted to talk about.

So here I am, writing a post about Chonny's Charming Chaos Compendium Volume 1. I am not pretending to explain the lore or the songs in detail and I don't want to bother you with an extremely long post. All I want is to give you some material to decide if CCCC is worth a try.

And, if you've never heard about it before, I hope my words will spark your interest, because this album deserves more attention.

One last thing: please be aware I will talk about all sorts of themes, from love to suicide, because those are also the themes of the album.

_______________________________

A simple plot

I can hear you, fans who have listened to the whole album: simple story?! It's complicated! It's open to interpretations!

And yes, you're right. But if we consider the core foundation on which the songs are built... well, that's quite straightforward. With this album, Chonny Jash is telling us about his struggles and how they led to a psychological split inside him into Mind, Heart and Soul. Then these three parts start fighting, until they find a way to reunite again.

And yes, we can also add that this is a time loop and things are destined to repeat themselves, but the structure is still simple, clear and concise. As clear as the tripartition of the album into Calamity, Cacophony and Concord, three parts that correspond to the story's three main points: the split, the fight, the reunion.

And this simplicity isn't a bad thing, oh absolutely not. This is perfect.

There's a common misconception that a good story should be complicated. The plot should be complex and convoluted and the more complex and convoluted it is, the better the story will be. I made this conceptual mistake too and it took me years to realize how wrong it was: the better stories are not the most complicated ones, but the simpler ones.

Why?, you may ask. Isn't a simple story proof of amateur writing - or even worse, lack of creativity?

Actually, it's quite the opposite and there are four reasons why:

If a story has a simple, clear foundation, it will be easier to build on it: a simple foundation is stable and strong, it won't break down too easily. You can add layers and metaphors and hide your plot points behind different interpretations, but your public won't get lost, because the foundation would still be clear: there are three figures, they fight, they reunite. Everyone can understand it.

If everyone can understand your foundation, your story is universal. Everyone can approach and experience it, from an old person to a child, and everyone will find something inside: a message, a feeling, a piece of advice, anything.

If your story is universal and the foundation clear, your vision is also clear. And if your vision is clear, you know what you're doing. And if you know what you're doing, your story will be much more organized too: there won't be dull/useless parts, filler, or moments in which you're just dilly-dallying, waiting for the right idea to strike.

Since your story will be more organized, the flow will be better too and the events will make sense, the public will be more prone to welcome the suspension of disbelief and immerse themselves in the story. People aren't stupid, they can subconsciously feel when an artist is confident and the story is strong. And once they feel it, you win. The public is yours now, you can guide it into your world and show your vision as you intended. And people will let you do it, because they know they're in good hands.

This is what I experienced too, the more I progressed with my listening. There was a lot of care behind every word, the lyrics kept explaining and expanding the plot and everything showed the confidence of an author who knows what he is doing and how to do it.

And there's nothing better for a story, than a confident author.

_______________________________

Clear elements despite the ambiguity

Even if the foundation of CCCC is very simple, the story is enriched by a ton of ambiguities and things purposely left very vague. They may be better explained when/if Volume 2 comes out in the future, they may be left open to interpretation forever. It doesn't really matter: having a full understanding is good, but leaving everything behind a veil of mystery is a good choice as well. It depends on Mr. Jash's choice - and if my previous point wasn't clear enough, I trust this guy's choices.

However, despite the ambiguity, I also really appreciated how there are a lot of extremely clear elements in this story, starting from some events, to specific details of the main characters involved.

Some examples?

Heart tried to shoot/kill/destroy Mind

Heart's breakdown is due to something love-related

The whole series of events is stuck in a loop

Mr. Jash threatens suicide if the parts of himself don't reconcile

Mr. Jash frequently talks about how he keeps making covers of songs others made before him

And what about the details? For example, we know that every character has a specific set of elements associated with them:

an object: a blindfold (Heart), a crown (Mind), a trident (Soul)

a name: Artemis/the moon/Juno (Heart), Apollo/the sun (Mind), Atlas (Soul)

a color: black+purple (Heart), blue+white (Mind), gray+red (Soul)

And those are all elements we get from the songs and they get stuck with you, while you progress with your listening.

Again, this is a very clever choice: considering everything is open to interpretation, having some clear elements serves as "anchor points" in a sea of ambiguities. By doing that, the listeners won't get lost in a maelstrom of possibilities, but they will keep being guided down a clear path - the one traced by the main points of the album (breakdown, fight, reunion).

Also, having some fixed elements keeps everyone's attention too: some people might like to get lost in pure ambiguity, but most lose interest in a too-vague story. Even if the author had a clear plan, if everything is too obscure, people will inevitably think: "It's incomprehensible, so the author had no idea what they were doing" and ditch the story entirely.

Mr. Jash handled the ambiguity aspect very well, by balancing the obscurities with the clear elements. And this proved, once again, how clear, strong and detailed his vision is.

_______________________________

Favorite character?

Ooof, that's hard.

Each character has a specific personality and that alone proves how carefully Mr. Jash planned every element related to them.

Heart is sad, desperate, apathetic, prone to self-pity, sick and tired of everything. But he's also strong enough to try and oppose Mind out of fear of what he could do. He tried to attack someone as powerful as him and take him down, just to preserve the Soul and save their vessel.

And that proves he's not weak at all: he's a lot more powerful than he seems. And, as he said, he's not a child: he felt Mind could've been a threat, so he took the matter into his own hands and tried to find a solution.

And it makes sense his solution was so drastic, because it was dictated by feelings. Because the Heart is influenced by feelings. It's perfectly coherent with the kind of character he is.

Same goes for Mind: he's cold, harsh, a threatening figure because of his design/nature. He takes control of the situation, he appoints himself as the new leader, he wants to react, do something, move forward and ignore the element he sees as the weak link.

And he definitely doesn't hold a grudge towards Heart, nope nope: my bro spent a whole song saying "Look at Heart, he's an idiot". And then, if this isn't enough, he ended his song, by calling Heart "akaryocyte": which is a cell without a nucleus. Hence, a virus.

I'll admit it: this sick burn is the sickest burn that ever burned and probably the most clever insult I've ever read and that made Mind top #1 best character of the album - sorry Heart, but Mind is too sick. (Also, I am a cold logical person too, so I ended up thinking the guy wasn't so bad after all.)

Last but not least, we have Soul. And Soul is basically shut down all the time by these two motherfuckers arguing, to the point he looks more like a shadow, rather than a real character... until he decides that you know what, time to show how confident he actually is:

You must be so arrogant to think that either of you Can control The Soul so wholly When to be one whole you can't hold solely

One song was enough to show Soul's true colors. He's stronger than the other two, he's more in control than them and he's the only one able to draw a line and make an actual threat: if they do not find a way to reunite, he will kill them both.

A couple words and Soul's picture got flipped: he's not just a background voice anymore, he's the leading figure now. And if he is sick and tired, then these three are facing the real shit.

But just like the other two, Soul isn't just that and we see it in The Bidding.

Here happens something incredibly beautiful: once Heart and Mind find a way to harmonize, Soul immediately rejoices: with the impatience of a child, he asks them to do it again, "One more time, go again/No, this can't be the end". Soul, this powerful figure who threatened suicide one second ago, begs them to try again, to do it "for me", because they can finally harmonize, because "I don't know how much more I can take".

Once again, with a couple sentences, we learn how heavy this whole situation has been on Soul and how eager he is to try again, once the other two find a possible harmony.

This doesn't just show how deeply Soul has been affected by the whole situation, but also (on a higher level) how strong hope is.

Soul was ready to commit suicide: a few verses before he said this was the day "we'll tie the rope". But one small step in the right direction, despite being flawed and made out of spite and resentment, was all he needed to change his mind and drop the idea of suicide entirely.

That also proves how human Soul is. Because this is what humans feel too, especially when they play with the idea of suicide. Most of the time, this idea is the result of desperation and inability to find a way out of a situation that seems impossible to overcome. But once these people find even a teeny tiny fragment of hope, the will to live overcomes desperation and people latch to said hope, no matter how small it is. And, just like Soul did here, they try to have it again, to repeat it, to feel that spark again.

Because the will to live is always much, much stronger than the desperation that leads to suicide.

_______________________________

The choice of a time loop

These three characters are stuck in a time loop: things are destined to repeat themselves. And believe it or not, but this is extremely human too - and a clever choice as well.

From a psychological perspective, Mr. Jash can "break" again anytime. Life is full of stuff and events, so... who knows? Maybe in the future, he will face another heartbreak and his Whole will break down into three once more. Or maybe it won't be because of a heartbreak: maybe something else will happen and lead to a new split, a new fight and a new reconciliation. Maybe even the lack of confidence that starts to shine in Concord is proof of a future split.

But if we think about it, the time loop works from another perspective too: a meta one.

Every time you listen to the whole album, every time to replay the songs, you are relieving the split. Every time you listen to them, Whole splits into Heart, Mind and Soul. Every time you trace their history, they split, fight and reconcile.

In other words: every replay is a new loop, a loop in which these characters are stuck - not just because of their humanity, but because they're characters and this is their story. They cannot escape from it, because that's their entire world.

I don't know if Mr. Jash thought about that while making this album... but he gave me this thought and that's just another proof of what I said at the beginning of this post: if a story is very well made, everyone can find a message inside it. And I'm sure you will find something too.

EDIT: You will find the whole analysis of CCCC Vol. 1 starting from HERE

(How about a coffee? ☕)

_______________________________

TAGLIST:

@royalprinceroman @mudpuddlenl @allmycrushesaredead @aquatedia @whatishappeningrightnow @effortiswhatmatters @bella-in-a-bag @doydoune @forever-third-wheeling @payte @hypnossanders​  @idontreallyknow24​  @imcrushedbyarainbowoffical @patton-cake​  @hereissananxiousmess​  @purplebronzeandblue​  @cynicalandsarcastic​ ​@lost-in-thought-20 @andtheyreonfire​ 

@riseofthewerewolf​ @rosesandlove44​​  @chewy-rubies @groaaaaan​ @arya-skywalker  @csi-baker-street-babes @queen-of-all-things-snuggly @reesiereads @dracayd-universe​ @starlightnyx​ @stubbornness-and-spite​ @averykedavra @joyrose-fandomer @mihaela-tbg @igonnatalknothing

@thatoneloudowl @grayson-22 @softangryfuckingdepressed @theotherella  @boopypastaissalty @nevenastark @varthandiveturinn @roses-bubbles @cuter-on-the-inside @coldbookworm @snixxxsmythe @charmingcritter  @analogical-mess @emphasis-on-the-oopsie @selfdestructivecat @yangwalkerao3 @the3rddenialist

[scvrchfx]

“you’re an angel, i’m a dog” laura lee could be seen as an “angel” not only because of her religious beliefs but because she represents the faith of the yellowjackets getting home. lottie can be seen as a “dog” because of the way most of the girls treated her. lottie was villainized by almost everyone for everything she did, even though all she was trying to do was help. laura lee was one of the only ones that believed in her when she was seeing things, and she didn’t think lottie was crazy.

“or your a dog and i’m your man” because laura lee can be used as a metaphor for the girls faith in being brought back, all hope was lost whenever laura lee died. the only thing that’s left of laura lee is the visions and memories lottie has carried with her throughout her life. and in some of lottie’s worst moments, the memory of laura lee has helped her overcome them.

“you believe me like a god” shauna and jackie were best friends. they were supposed to be able to confide in each other. jackie put all her love and trust into shauna and although she might have been controlling, i think she wanted shauna to be so close because she was terrified of loosing her.

“i destroy you like i am” despite shauna’s friendship with jackie, she still decided to sleep with jeff instead of just talking to jackie. i think shauna was in love with jackie and the only way she could express it was to be with jeff because he was jackie’s. or she simply could have wanted to consume jackie’s life, hence the cannibalism, marrying jeff, and basically taking the life that was supposed to be jackie’s. when jackie found out everything shauna had done and said about her it “destroyed” her. jackie had planned her entire life with shauna in it, and from one moment to the next she discovered that her best friend, who she loved more than anything, didn’t even like her as a person. when they were fighting, jackie couldn’t think of anything bad to say about shauna, even when shauna was spewing insults and pointing out all of jackie’s insecurities.

“i’m sorry i’m the one you love” seeing that tai and vans relationship started in the 90s, they were hiding who they were and their relationship together because of the amount of homophobia during that time. but it also goes deeper than that, they faced so many challenges and insecurities together. for example tai’s sleepwalking and how the wolf attack left van’s face. they may have seen themselves as a burden in a way, not wanting the other to have to deal with it, which may be the reason they are no longer together.

“no one will ever love me like you again” even though tai married simone, they’ll never have the connection tai and van had. van understands tai in a way simone can’t because she was there when tai’s episodes started happening and she was stranded in the wilderness too.

“so when you leave me i should die” after travis died, nat was distraught. she didn’t see a point in living after he was gone and the only reason she even made till the end of season two is because of lottie.

“i deserve it, don’t i?” nat maybe feels that she deserves to die, for many reasons. she had avoided death so many times and it had finally caught up to her. if it wasn’t for nat, travis’ brother would still be alive.

[lamardeuse]

This is not a Wendy's, and my story is not your burger.

A note up front: the following does not refer to the serious issues of racism, anti-Blackness and white supremacy in fandom spaces, which deserves a much more nuanced discussion than a ridiculous food metaphor could ever hope to express. This is a general discussion of fandom standards around tagging and warnings.

Over the three – now nearly four – decades that I've been in fandom, I've seen a lot. I've seen a lot of foolishness, and a metric fuckton of toxicity, and even some good faith, honest debates about how we should conduct ourselves as we move through fannish spaces and interact with one another. So from the start, let me explain that this is not the old lady crabbing at the kids. None of this is particularly new, and fandom culture ebbs and flows. Heigh-ho, nonny nonny, the wheels roll on.

That said, we need to have a talk. Because some people may not be as experienced as the rest of us, and need to understand some fundamental truths about fandom that they may not have picked up, because no one reads Fanlore from top to bottom for fun. That's not inherently a concern. We all learn from one another – I've learned so much from younger people in fandom, particularly here on tumblr – but there are occasions when younger fans could also benefit from some knowledge flowing the other way.

First, fandom is vast. It was huge when I started in the Dark Ages, and it's increased exponentially in the last fifteen to twenty years, since “geek culture” has gone mainstream. That widening of the circle – and more importantly, the naked commercialization of it by media giants who smell our money like vampires in a blood bank – is both a blessing and a curse, because on the one hand, more people who love a thing means more love for everyone! On the other hand, though, I think it's unmoored us in some senses from the fundamental truth that fandom is unhinged, joyful obsession, the fulfilment of a need for communication, creative expression and connection, and most importantly – community.

Yes, fandom is – or should be, at its best – a community first and foremost. And just like any community, it's filled with individuals who form groups, subgroups and cliques. And none of those groups have ever, in the over half a century since the first Star Trek fan made Kirk and Spock fuck, agreed upon one single, overarching view of what 'community' means. Which means the minute you as a fan come striding up to another fan's little electronic nest on the AO3 or Youtube or tumblr demanding that standard X be applied to their fannish creation in the name of 'fandom courtesy' or 'fandom etiquette'? All the old ladies (gn) in fandom realize that you are desperately, painfully new*.

Does that mean that we shouldn't strive to be a community? Of course not. But I would argue that the single and only “rule” of that community is that we make an effort to treat each other, first and foremost, with kindness and grace, and the understanding that the person you are interacting with is not you. They're not even one of the fifty-two people you interact with on Discord who all agree to the same “rules of fandom” (newsflash: they probably don't). And if you come into their fannish space as a stranger demanding they cater to you, you are probably going to be in for a shock.

Commercialization complicates this issue, because I think one element that's new is that some of us have lost sight of the fact – or never learned – that fans do not place their creations in front of you like a server handing you a bag at a fast food drive thru window. They are not producing a commodity to be consumed for which you paid hard earned money that entitles you to certain rights, such as the right to complain if you ordered a burger with mayo and received mustard instead. You would certainly have a right to demand compensation if you're allergic to mustard and had to go to the hospital as a result.

Fandom is more like a potluck, a gigantic potluck with literally millions of dishes. At some tables, there are agreed upon warnings for certain allergens, but others are not required to be mentioned and if you have an allergy, you will need to ask directly. At some tables, you are told that there may be allergens in any of the dishes and you proceed to eat them at your own risk. That risk and your assessment of it is, for better or worse, entirely your responsibility to manage. And your preferences – level of spice, aversion to certain textures and flavours – those are not allergies and there is no prior agreed upon standard to break down every possible element of a dish so that you will always be able to avoid any contact with the foods you personally don't like. There never has been, and there never will be.

The only thing you can be certain of is that on every single table, there are dishes that people have created for you for free with love, effort, experience and care. If you walk up to that table and take a bite and then politely turn down any more, that's fine. If you take a bite, spit it out and loudly tell that person that is not what you were expecting, you wouldn't have tried it if you'd known what it tasted like, and you are appalled that this person did not inform you of every single ingredient before you tried it? You, my friend, are not going to be welcome at the potluck.

Fandom is not a Wendy's. The stories, songs, costumes, artwork, edits that we put out into the world are not mass produced burgers made in a giant factory and shipped to restaurants where you can rest assured that the burger you eat in London will taste the same as the one in Dubuque. And no, the time you invested in reading a fic, watching a vid or contemplating a piece of artwork posted freely on the internet is not something you have the right to demand a refund on either, because again, fandom is not a fast food restaurant, and our interactions with one another in fannish spaces are not transactions. Every creation you choose to put in front of your eyeballs took that person time and energy, and they are putting that out in the world to make a connection with other human beings.

The next time you leave a comment, choose connection. It's easier than you think.

(*I'm going on good faith here and presuming most people who do this are relatively new to fandom. I'm not counting the people who think it's fine and dandy to hurl abuse at strangers for not obeying their standards – those people should be blocked and excluded on sight. I sincerely hope that they get help for the demons that are chasing them and telling them this is an acceptable way to live.)

[citruslullabies]

i have a ghoulcy request 😩

something with lucy feeling down or depressed due to everything that happened in s1, but bottling it up because she doesn't know how to deal with it (ethics philosophers aren't helping her out this time) and cooper noticing it during their journey.

Trigger warnings: hints at suicidal thoughts, intrusive thoughts, HEAVY SPOILERS

Romantic/platonic?: romantic (can be taken as platonic though)

Requested by: anonymous

Category: angst to fluff kind of

Ship (romantic or platonic): Lucy MacLean x Cooper Howard

Word count: 866

Campfire

Everything had happened so fast.

One day, Lucy had been a happy vaultie who wanted to get married and live the cherry pie life like everyone else. And the very next she was fighting for her life and killing her husband who turned out to be a raider, before having to go on the surface to get her father.

There, she met a few interesting people. The Ghoul, Maximus, and Dr. Wilzig. She unfortunately didn't get to know the doctor for very long, having to saw his head off, and Maximus, she wished she could've kept around longer but unfortunately it wasn't in the cards for her. But now it was only her and Cooper. She didn't even get to have her father back like she planned, she didn't even know if she'd have any of her family back in her life. But now she walked across the wasteland with Cooper and his dog, who was.. well, Wilzig’s.

But she didn't complain, not once. She kept it buried as if it was nothing new - nothing important. But it all hurt.. she walked beside the ghoul, mind wandering off to when she and him first met. If she had known then how her life would've turned out she would've held still for him to aim and fire. Better yet, take his gun now and do it herself. But all she did was have a twitch in her fingers and not dare move any closer. She wondered how her brother was doing, if he was even still alive. She hoped so. If he wasn't then she had truly lost it all.

Cooper was quiet, seeing the sun start to set. They decided to set up camp, and he watched her for a moment as they appreciated a fire for warmth for only a few moments before they'd have to blow it out. She just stared into the flames, as if debating shoving her hands in to feel the closest thing to comforting warmth she'd have felt in months. But she refrained. He rolled his eyes and folded his hands over his stomach while looking unamused.

“Keep starin’ in that fire there and your eyes may as well melt out.” He grumbled, southern accent thick despite the ages. Lucy glanced up at him before turning her gaze back to the flames as if just completely enamored by it. The woman finally responded, knees up to her chest. Her blue vault suit was stained and muddled from shame.

“How do you think fire was made?” “What??”

The older man was taken back, staring at MacLean for a long moment. He was quiet, waiting for Lucy to respond but she never quite did. She wasn't as talkative as she used to be. Wasn't as happy, and he understood why. She has lost everything just like he did. She lost her happy life with a happy family, just like he did.

While a part of him found it humorous, another part of him felt like it wasn't fair for her. He cleared his throat and stared at the sky, his hand tracing the other where her finger was after he cut it clean off her hand.

“Ya know, you remind me of my ex-wife. Always bubblin’ up instead of talkin, keeping secrets that can just swallow you whole. Only difference is yours ain't gonna cost the world,”

He spoke while mumbling the last part, clicking his tongue and grinding his teeth together in thought. He felt awkward talking like this, more open than what he normally would. But he felt now was a greater time than ever. His words caught Lucy’s attention and she pressed her cheek against her knee. “Cost the world??”

It was an understandable question, something that caught her attention. Cooper wasn't much for metaphors so she didn't quite understand.. but he didn't elaborate any further, refusing to. Cooper instead took his hat off and placed it on the young vaulties head, covering her eyes with a flick to the back of his hat.

“G’night, MacLean. Shut your mouth and shut your eyes.” He said, putting the fire out and laying back. It was a strange interaction, probably the closest they ever had. But it was comforting in a way for both of them. Lucy wanted to say something more but she refrained, only getting cozy staring at the brim of his hat that he put on her head and feeling the mutt rest his head on her lap and giving a small tired huff. The whole world was asleep, so it was their turn to follow suit. “..goodnight, Coop.”

In the middle of the night, Cooper woke up and just watched her for a moment. Petting Dogmeat and keeping his eyes open, feeling something he hasn't felt in god knows how long. He tried to justify his actions and concerns but he couldn't for any other reason than he cared more about Lucy than he cares to admit, seeing the good parts of his wife every time he looked at her. But he kept it to himself.

He couldn't keep letting the world tear the things he cares about away. So this time, he won't let his care be known.

Thanks for requesting hon!

[marmaladedcroissant]

Inertia by AJR but it's just Darry having a mental breakdown.

I believe he fully knows he is going to die in Tulsa. He knows he's stuck there. He knows he'll never get the chance to settle down somewhere else. He knows that Pony and Soda and the rest of the gang still have their shots to throw. Soda may have dropped out, but that doesn't mean he can't opt back in. Pony has everything laid out in front of him, ready to be pieced together. "My two legs are broken, yet look at me dance." Darry had his metaphorical legs not only swept out from under him as his parents died, he had them shattered. Every hope of going somewhere else, of doing something better, gone. It left with his parents, buried right beside them in the lonely graveyard, mist nothing but tears from those still living as they mourn their dead.

Darry knows fairly well that he was born in Tulsa, he was raised in Tulsa, and he will *die* in Tulsa. He knows he'll never get out, so he gives everything he has to make sure that everyone else *can* leave, that they can settle down somewhere else, that they can do better than they are currently.

And it probably stings like hell. Seeing the people who are only a year or so, or four in Pony's case, get to do the thing you had wanted since you knew how to want something, probably tears another hole in his heart. Adds another stone to the pile forming on his shoulders.

Weighing him down a little bit more. Until that pressure, that weight, folds him like a cheap plastic chair.

And he has no one to turn to. No one to help him. Simply because he's Superman. Muscles. Everything has to be fine. People expect him to be fine.

They don't expect him to crumble from the inside out. They don't expect to cut open the apple only to find the core missing.

And when they do, they don't know how to act.

So they leave it to the next person. A person that either never shows up, never cares, or simply takes on look at him and either decides he's a lost cause or some kind of charity case.

I understand how people relate to the other characters, or simply like them because they're snarky or funny.

Some people hate Darry because he hit Pony. And I'm not going to justify what he did. It was wrong and there were 100% better ways to go about the situation.

Everyone has their breaking point.

Darry had clearly reached his.

He's only 20. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's had to give up everything already. He's rarely ever allowed to show emotion. He bottles it up.

Those bottles break. It's just a fact. They aren't bags of holding that you can continuously shove full of feelings and watch as they swirl in a void of other repressed emotions.

Those bottles chip and crack.

Those bottles break.

And either Darry sweeps them into a new bottle, or he let's them soak into the dusty, dry pavement that has crumbled beneath his feet.

And he can't do anything to fix it.

So he walks away.

He always has to come back eventually. He has to deal with it eventually. And honestly, I'm terrified of how he could deal with it.

I'm terrified of the lengths he could go to just to ensure that everyone thinks he's fine.

Because that's what's expected of him.

So that's what he does.

He hides his pain. But someone along the line has to piece him back together. And he'll never be the same as before.

He'll never smile the same.

He'll never be as energetic, as caring, as tough. Because after a while, that sandpaper wears down.

[whatgaviiformes]

Favorite Fics - Self-Rec

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love❤

I was tagged by @mrmustachious. I'll tag @the-original-sineater, @gumnut-logic @tracybirds @mariashades and @womble1. Because if I've had to pick out of my children.... *evil laugh*. But in seriousness, I also want to hear from anyone else in the fic writing space. And only if you are interested. No pressure, but please also share your favorite personal fics if you want. We have amazing writers in our fandom, and you all have so much to be proud of.

...so, if I share that my favorite are AUs - will that further encourage you or further discourage you in reading them? I feel very torn about that. I'll mark which ones are the AUs with a *, I know they aren't for everyone, but I put so much heart into these.

These are in no particular order.

We Tried the World - Oneshot

Summary: “We tried the world... it wasn’t for us.” John invites a restless Gordon to visit him in Thunderbird Five while he's healing from his injuries. They talk Characters: John, Gordon, Virgil Why I like it: There's a catharsis to this one, and a meditation that I adore. Meanwhile, I feel like I succeeded at channeling John in way that may not be everyone's cup of tea, but captures one aspect of how he speaks to me. His art is his science, and I am quite proud of the prose in this one.

Directionless - Oneshot

Summary: Two Tracy's and a Lighthouse: "You actually want to avoid lighthouses," Gordon tells him. "The light's a warning that there's land nearby and not to come too close." "Hmm. Still. I imagine if one is lost at sea any light on the horizon, even a warning light, is a welcome symbol of hope, of change to come." He breathes the smell of sea salt. "Are you?" "Am I what?"  "Lost at sea?" Characters: Gordon, Virgil Why I like it: I feel strongly about the message in this fic and Gordon's struggle to figure out what's next, and I so love Virgil's presence to ground him amidst his thoughts. The light house was a lovely metaphor for the bonds I wanted to portray, and this story just feels like a warm hug when I read it.

Hold Fast* - Multi-Chap

Summary: Autumn, 1775. “The rigging ran through his blood; it was an energy, a lifeforce.” Characters: Gordon, Virgil, Scott, John, Alan, OCs Why I like it: It just felt right, despite being an AU. And though it's nothing I've ever read before, the heart of it very much is Thunderbirds. This is Gordon's hydrofoil story, just under the lens of the privateers AU. It was my first full exploration of adding depth to OCs. It also was posted weekly, which was a challenge for me that I actually succeeded in. And most of all... this story absolutely wrecked me. The feelings are raw, and very visceral.

The great wide open* - Multi-Chap

Summary: Gordon binds himself in the blue and meets the eyes of a dolphin trying to reach him in ways he can't understand. But maybe Virgil can. A prequel to "lend me the courage of the stars." Kermadec AU-djacent. Characters: Gordon, Virgil Why I like it: If you're going to go for an AU that's not too out of the box, choose this one. I enjoy that I've gotten to explore science Gordon in a way that feels right for him (to me anyway). I always see him as more hands on, but entirely competent, and with this series it's his oceanic soul that allows him to explore his brand of science with the calls of his heart. Enki and his family was a joy to discover, and I would be remiss not to include them in this list.

Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm* - Multi-Chap

Summary: An alternate universe. Gordon has a successful farm... and seems to have nothing to do with this International Rescue thing. Characters: Gordon, Virgil, OCs Why I like it: The beginning of chicken!Dad which has since become almost synonymous with me as a person. That and ships (I have no chickens nor have I sailed). But I also like that this story feels unique and that I had the honor to explore who Gordon would be under different circumstances. I feel like I successfully wrote an argument - a horrible one - and still managed to show that no one was in the wrong or the right. I'm proud of how tender the boys' reconciliation feels, and I hope this story feels genuine and organic and compassionate.

In summary, the ones I am most proud of are the ones that allow me to play with imagery and poetic prose, that allow me to explore the bonds of brotherhood and human nature, and that feel a little different despite also being as Tracy as it gets.

[breadedsinner]

Judith Banters: Isabela

Judith: For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your crew. Losing that many at once … that can’t be easy.

Isabela: There’s always that danger. My men all knew the risks, and the sea takes what it wants. We’d lost people before. But nothing like that.

Judith: Is there … something I can do? How would one honor a pirate lost at sea?

Isabela: Keep your honor. I’ve already had my own funeral. Poured some whiskey into the sea, the best I could afford. Hope wherever they went is better than this.

*

Judith: I want to help you, but I don’t see what more I can do if I don’t even know what this relic is.

Isabela: I’ll know it when I see it.

Judith: (sighs) All right … and so, getting back this item, this relic, this was your task after freeing Ferelden refugees?

Isabela: That’s right. He took advantage of their desperation, promised to take them somewhere safe, and took every last coin in the process.

Judith: What a monster! If he’s willing to do that, why would he honor this? I would sooner guess he would send you on some even more impossible task, keep you under his thumb forever.

Isabela: Maybe, but if I don’t get it, he will definitely have me killed.

Judith: If I can’t find the relic, I can at least watch over you, if he ever comes calling.

Isabela: He’d sooner send more men, but you helped me with Hayder so… I guess this is as good a plan as any.

*

Isabela: If we’re done here, I’m heading to the Rose.

Judith: I’ll come with you.

Isabela: What, you? Don’t take this the wrong way, Hawke, but I’ve never seen you so much as wink at someone. I didn’t think you had the appetite.

Judith: The workers there have all sorts of skills. Jethann is an excellent conversationalist, sometimes he even has good information for potential work I can follow up on. Faith has such skillful hands; she’s done wonders on my back. Although she claims I’ll need to come by once a month for a year for her to untangle everything.

Isabela: You pay them to talk and give you messages? Nothing else?

Judith: Oh, and their meat pie is much better than that of the Hanged Man’s, although it’s not without its own charm.

Isabela: Oh, Hawke, I just don’t understand you… although I could use a good foot rub. I didn’t realize how much walking I’d be doing working with you.   

*

Isabela: So, you really just go to the Rose for food and talking? Those ‘suitors’ your Mother picks for you are all sent home?

Judith: This doesn’t… bother you, does it?

Isabela: No, I just don’t get it. If it’s a matter of confidence, you could get anyone you wanted. With those legs? I wish I had legs that went on like that.

Judith: Oh, that’s so kind! I’ve always loved your hair!

Isabela: Well that’s swee—hey, don’t change the subject.

Judith: I’m sorry, Isabela. It took me a long time to learn this about myself. Most people … have certain appetites. They may eat whenever they get an opportunity, or maybe just every now and again. I don’t dislike eating, but I simply … don’t get hungry very often. It has to be my favorite meal, I suppose, for me to feel any hunger. Does that make sense?

Isabela: I suppose, although the metaphor is harder to parse when I’ve watched you down three bowls of Mystery Stew at the Hanged Man.

*

Isabela: You can’t seem to pass out coin fast enough.

Judith: You needn’t worry, it does not impact payment for the Guild. You will always get what you’re owed.

Isabela: That’s not the point, it’s your money. Don’t you ever spend it on YOU?

Judith: I did refurnish the estate and restocked the pantry .. and this new armor, and a new dress for Mother.

Isabela: Hawke, sometimes you are worse than Aveline.

Judith: …Don’t say things you can’t take back, Isabela.

Isabela: But you don’t owe these people anything! You truly think they would spare anything to you, if things were switched?

Judith: My family would never have survived without the kindness of neighbors, sometimes complete strangers. I believe we owe everyone that much.

*

Judith: Isabela, about the ship… can’t we talk?

Isabela: No, I think I’d rather stew on it for a while. I’m only here because I need the coin. Who knows how long it’ll take be to save up for a ship?

Judith: I can help get you a new ship.

Isabela: Ugh, that’s not the point and you know it! You keep trying to fix things that aren’t yours to fix!

Judith: Isabela, you know damn well Castillon did not deserve to walk out of there. You’ve always known that.

Isabela: It wasn’t your decision to make. And besides, there’s a thousand men just like Castillon out there! Does it really make any difference?

Judith: If that’s how you feel, why didn’t you just damn those refugees from the start, save your own skin?

Isabela: That … that was different!

Judith: Why, because this time the people he’d sell weren’t right below your feet?

Isabela: I. I need to think.

*

Isabela: So… you and Sebastian?

Judith: I suppose you find it very funny.

Isabela: Not at all! I’ve never been able to seduce a Chantry cleric. Unless you count lay sisters and brothers, but never has anyone left their station to sleep with me! Quite the accomplishment!  

Judith: Oh, Isabela, I didn’t “seduce” anyone, it’s more complicated than that. He decided for himself it was time to move on from the Chantry. And we just happened to get closer along the way.

Isabela: But you ARE sleeping with him, right? What happened to your “appetite”?

Judith: That’s all still true. I don’t get hungry much. But now that I’ve gotten to know him, I look at him and realize I’m famished.

Isabela: (laughs).

[thissliceofnonsense]

Feelings are overrated.

Little me thought I had to discover enlightenment before I became an adult because everyone talked about "how much free time you have now that you will never get again." "You're golden years" and yada yada yada. I had to discover enlightenment and get my life in order before I became a teenager because your life is over after that. (Which is insanely dumb, but I still feel like a bottomless pit whenever someone mentions the date)

Anywho, ten-year-old me got into the "self-help" sector of the internet (be careful in that sector) and found the whole "learning and productivity and the quality of your life and art depends on how you feel" "Your feelings are the determiners on close you are to your purpose or true potential." And I latched onto any info that I thought would be the 'secret'.

But when I paid some attention to my feelings I found how... abstract and unknowable they are. Like I'll be doing my favorite thing and overheating or feel a bunch of soupy clouds. Buzzes and throbs and waves of heat, sometimes sparkles or floating. (I like using the weather as a metaphor sometimes because that's what it feels like). Where those feelings good feelings or bad feelings? I didn't care before; I did what I wanted. But after the self-help sector thing - I became obsessed with labeling the feelings and trying to feel the 'good ones' all the time. It made the soft and fluffy feelings strained and the heavy lower ones feel unbearable... even though I'm still not sure if that counts as a bad feeling.

Then there comes "controlling your emotions". Which. No. You don't control something you don't understand, you drive yourself crazy in that pursuit. I did all the fancy rituals that didn't match with myself and continued to attempt to understand what emotions where what and how to trigger certain ones. It was exhausting and always ended in sharp and strained frustration.

The emotions didn't match with what I was doing, and always reset after I woke up. Not to mention the "am I hungry, thirsty. tired (the answer is always yes), or am I distressed, if so, why am I distressed I haven't done anything distressing.... unless.... okay new schedule. This will fix everything."

This may not match with everyone's headspace, but for me what I've found is best is to let the emotions come and go. It doesn't really matter. (This doesn't mean you should force yourself to do things even if you don't feel like it - that falls under the "controlling your emotions and can lead to feeling like a wrung-out piece of wet cloth) Let the unknowable stay unknowable, trying to understand and label and control these fickle things drives one crazy. To me at least, it's better to acknowledge the feeling and listen to it without trying to dissect it. Let it say its two cents then let it fade away (if it lingers then try breathing it out, just don't repress it that feels awful.) And sometimes it's best to listen to the feelings for a bit, because they are like little children in a way, they just want to be heard. (This sounds a lot like meditation I guess, I'd recommend just not getting too attached or obsessed with any particular emotion)

Moral of the story - listen to emotions without trying to dissect them and let them go. They are very overrated and don't matter that much in the grand scheme of things. So there's no need to get attached to any particular emotion or get fixated on trying to get rid of them.

I really hope that makes sense. The internal world is a field of nonsense that is very easy to get lost in. So treat it like a spectacle. Good luck to you all.

[aoqiue]

forgive me op for the tangent i am about to go on but oh my goodness has this entire work has me feeling wrecked to the core i must talk about it or i will explode into a million pieces.

first of all i have to say that i love the line you draw between aventurine and kakavasha. it feels almost innocent and full of that naivety that things could almost be good, they could almost be happy, they could almost be as they are.

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.

there is something so gut wrenching about loving someone so unconditionally despite everyone telling you that it's wrong to, that it doesn't exist, that you aren't meant to love and you aren't meant to be loved in return. but you know and you know in your heart that they're the ones that are wrong.

the emphasis on how much the mc needs aventurine to be safe and to be protected. the desperation because he is just so unreachable and they are blinded by their naivety, saving scraps of copper in hopes that they could give him the freedom he deserved oh of course things never work out the way they're intended to.

and god the way the mc is just so unequivocally devoted to aventurine makes me sick to my stomach. in a good way, it drives a knife into my stomach and i fall to my knees, but im grateful it doesn't feel too bad. the fight between instinct and what aventurine needs and the traumas that cloud his mind. don't touch him, don't use him, not again. because intimacy doesn't exist, and the memories never disappear. and how the mc has always been, and will always be his. even if he doesn't want them. even if he is afraid of them. because the mc loves, and aventurine is afraid of being afraid.

it's a wonderful way of implying what happened to him without explicitly saying what happened to him, through the emotional and psychological scars rather than relating the events. show don't tell as some may say. maybe that's why i enjoyed this so much, it allows you to follow the events of the story without spelling things out too obviously. and admittedly im not too well acquainted with omegaverse, but this was relatively easy to follow along without feeling like i was being "coddled" for lack of a better word. it is definitely a different change of pace than what i've seen, a fem-aligned reader that is but i think it's done incredibly tastefully

and it is so heartbreaking when the mc puts on the muzzle and it's the only time he laxes even if just a little bit. completely understandable of course, but to think the person who you'd give your life for would only lower their guard when you're ( metaphorically ) chained back is painful in itself. as much as the mc has been conditioned to be unbothered by the muzzle after all this time. because it's normal, it's routine, it's something that's always been there even if it hasn't been worn and even if it was meant to be thrown out. they can't throw it out because despite the horrible associations, it's still a part of them.

how neither of them enjoy the sex, how aventurine immediately looks away, how mc is so afraid of making aventurine afraid that they lie there still as to not scare him. how in the mc's shameful mind fogs it has always been intimate and loving of something of both their own volitions. how they have never allowed themselves to him in the past because they would rather rip themselves inside out than be the reason he experiences such pain. only to be left feeling aching and hollow and still wrong. because aventurine is afraid and the mc is powerless against it.

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.

genuinely i have no words i am trying to make this as digestible and coherent as i can but my god i am sooooo i feel like i've just been dunked head first into a pool of ice cold water i've never been so torn apart by a fic before this will be my roman empire for the end of time

i apologize for being so violent i fear it is the only way i can express the depths of my emotions 😭

loving and wanting someone so whole-fully that you would let them engulf you in their entirety if the world would allow it. and i know it's made to be read as an unhealthy relationship but god does it tug at my heartstrings so dearly. to have one person you would turn the universe upside down for, even if they will never look at you in the same way that you look at them. it is so wonderfully beautiful in its own wrenching way. that if they could they would tear out their heart and give it to him with their own two hands outstretched and tell him that it's for him and him only and it's always been his.

"i like it [ his eyes ] because they're yours" "i like it [ their scent ] because it's yours" big fan of this. huge fan of this. even if the mc meant in on a personal level, and to aventurine it was nothing more than the familiarity of having someone that wasn't a stranger. and if that is the case then oh i am so tearfully destroyed inside and out.

aventurine hates his eyes and the mc knows nothing of their scent. and somehow they are both mentions of worth, both to each others and stranger around. though one surely has gotten the better end of the sick... and they smell like the desert after rain. maybe that's funny in an ironic heartbreaking sense. the way others consider them a blessing in a way that aventurine was considered one as well. the s after a rain, something that's supposed to be comforting in nature, something that leaves aventurine on edge.

loving to the point where it leaves a pulse in your chest a burning ache, one so warm it starts to hurt but you can't bring yourself to let go of it so you cling and cling and cling until eventually it burns you too

oh aventurine what an achilles heel you are if only you could believe it...

a more personal note for the author, my goodness this is so wonderfully written i have not been able to stop thinking about it since i've first stumbled upon it, im serious. it's always in the back of my mind i am always thinking of aventurine and his alpha that is not really his that would do anything he asked that would do anything to keep him safe that would do anything if only it could make him not feel afraid even if was only for one day

i cannot even begin to explain just how this makes me feel i have not done any of it justice to express myself so. genuinely it is such a beautiful piece you have cultivated your writing style so beautifully it has brought me to genuine tears and i will be thinking about this for the end of time for as long as i live

in another life i would be able to deconstruct every word and phrase and write in explicit details the emotions they evoke from me but for now i will have to settle for wailing into the covers of my pillows...

NIGHT FLOWER: part i

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

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

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

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

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

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

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

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

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

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re hiring me?”

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

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

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

“Kakavasha—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

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

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

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

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

“You're a shit liar.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

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

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

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

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

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

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

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

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You can't know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

It gutted you.

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

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

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

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hated being an alpha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

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

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

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

“I’ve barely—”

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

“You really need—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

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

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

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

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

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

Both of you inhale sharply.

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

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

Fuck.

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

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

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

Something claws the walls of your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—before he looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...oh.”

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

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

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

You only want him to feel safe.

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

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

He does eventually speak.

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

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

Aventurine breathes in.

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

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

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

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

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

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

“Although?” you prompt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

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

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

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

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

end part i

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

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

additional end notes

[anicekidlikeme]

Father's day, mother's day, one of those days.

The expectation of being granted a great love by my parents when I was a little girl, has been lost for a few years now. It feels as though my generous wishes ripened, rotted, then returned to the earth, and I am so upset that I have begun to think maybe where I am sitting that same earth is about to collapse. When I feel this way, I take up so much room. It's so heavy, it's so awful.

It is Father's Day. I hate these designated parental-days, and I hate how grateful you all must be feeling about your dad's today. I hate it so much that I feel like my bones are all broken. Mother's day is no better. I look at everyone's social media posts with beautiful family photos until I can't anymore. I have no relatives, and the closest I come to a loving parental embrace is when I lay on the ground and imagine myself to be a tree. Then, I have so much family.

When I was young I clung so tightly to this fantasy where my dad was a good guy with a strong love for me and looking back I sense I was just being a guardian of my spent love, and in turn a guardian of my spirit. Same with mom. By taking on this role, I also knew I had to preserve all the secrets of myself in faithful silence, and endure the defects that I may observe in my own self. All the times I felt lonely, sad, and family-less, those are all for me to endure. I endured knowing that my father wouldn't suddenly transform to have a gentleness to him, and I knew that I could not change my parents from the ground up to reshape them into a relationship I wanted. Sometimes some people just do not love you.

I know there are many errors to the way I love, and it is a painful and great struggle. It only makes it fucking worse when I am forced to think about that on days like these.

I don't want to be alone.

I wish I could hire somebody who could magically appear each time I felt alone to take it all away, to sit with me, talk to me, so I am not forced to think about this loneliness. They would say, pick a hand, spreading them both out, and then with it, hold mine for as long as I wanted. I have waited my turn to have that happen.

I wrote a couple weeks ago about how I like to imagine my sadness as a little child in my heart and caress it gently to rest. The child that lives inside me is so hard to blame right now for her loud crying. Even though really they are just painful screetches.

It is a strange thought, isn't it? A metaphorical child inside me. I like to think that when she cries she is just shouting at me, saying, I have no strong bones, I have no permanent teeth, I have no unique face yet. I am only a couple days old, I spend most my time asleep, and I have not one thing. My human-ness has no liquidity. It is impossible to be angry at me.

Isn't that the catch with a child, and wasn't I once one? Did my mother not think this way? Is it easier to deal with monsters than with babies?

I think yes actually. With a monster, there is only so much consideration to bear. Wouldn't we all treat it the same way if we anticipated its arrival? Put it in the cage, beat it if it gets loud, and understand that their suffering is well deserved, they are only hurtful after all. A child you must love, they are too innocent and need too much protection. I knew growing up that my parents were busy people, so I guess I do understand why I was mom and dad's monster. Convenience, that's all.

I suppose it is also convenient for them that I don't hold out hope anymore or reach out for love. The monster has escaped, but it won't be coming back. Good riddence.

I feel terribly guilty about my obsession with marriage, but I defend it all the time. Breakups, old friendships, and most of all my parents have taught me that nobody is tied to me by anything. They can decide one day to just get up and walk out of your life, it's almost too easy. It is a thought so devastating that I cant move. Since I was a kid, I always thought marriage was the complete assurance of permanence. How could it not be? It is the biggest act of love and with enough of it, there isn't even really a requirement for any fanciness. It's not like I am trying to replace lost love with new love. It's more so wanting some permanent love. Some permanent anything. A foundation. Like a heart house, where I feel home enough to see myself in, a house which I don't have to worry about losing because the mortgage is all paid off. I don't know if anybody else feels this way, I don't know if I want them to. I don't know why I do. I hope you all grew up in a home where you felt at home, without it, the whole thing is the hard part.

I thought that life could be very easy today if I just memorized my day in advance. I spent all of last night rehearsing a plan for what I would do today. The plan was to take a long shower, spend time doing my hair, put on a cute outfit, and sit in the grass taking pictures of myself and reading. We live in such a mechanical time, you get to pick a side in politics, religion, feminism, and stick to those attitudes and principles until a wave of better ones washes them out. We fight over them, we get defensive over them, it is all so extremely functional in a sense that there is no need to question your inner layer of thought. I love the mindlessness of planning, we can leave it all to the scientists and politicians. There is little need for inner consciousness or even a moral code.

But this is still life. There is terror, there is war, there are fights and there is sadness. I thought I had killed my inner critic with my bare hands, I thought I didn't give a shit about my parents. But when it all overcomes you, what is there to do except visit the grave without flowers?

You know I have no idea what my mom's current address is, and I don't think I ever knew my dad's, I thought that would make me happy, and on most days it does. But today is Father's Day, and it's effects are making me sentimental and sad about all the wrong people. I wish I had given myself the perfect day. I began to, but soon my heart collapsed. I didn't do my hair, I didn't put on a nice sundress, and I did not leave my apartment. I spent all day crying in the living room because the windows there felt like the only company of friends I had. Then I put on a lot of makeup, so Drew didn't think I spent my day crying and being pathetic while he had a lovely day with his incredible father.

Mom, dad, I feel so alone. I wish I were a toddler in a playground that could come running towards you as you sit on the park bench. I would be covered in mud and grass and give you hugs and maybe go biking or grocery shopping.

When I actually was a toddler, none of that actually happened. I am not reminicing, I am fantacising.

I wish toddler Vaibhavi could fall asleep in the back of the car instead of being worried that one of you would get angry and hurt me if I let my guard down. I wish I also had a cheesy Instagram story up today or somebody to even send an obligatory text to. My mom called me today and joked about how pathetic today must be for me. It is, mama. I didn't think you would be right. Day to day is easier if I never think any of your words are right.

I hate being in this body in this specific life, but it's not like I can send it back, so I wil eat some grapes.

I don't have a nice ending for you, I'm taking a day off from positivity. But hey, here's a drawing I made on top of a picture I took of a bus stop in Syracuse, New York.

[freyito]

"ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴘɪʟʟᴏᴡꜱ" || ꜱᴀᴍᴘᴏ ᴋᴏꜱᴋɪ, ʙᴏᴏᴛʜɪʟʟ, ᴅʀ. ʀᴀᴛɪᴏ

✭ pairing(s): sampo koski, boothill, veritas ratio (seperate) x gn reader

✩ inspo: recent leaks lol

✧ a/n: i have been grinding out hsr for the past like two months cause i just got back into it and now i'm going into overdrive i need boothill so much (but im also like intent on pulling for acheron and aventurine).

gist of this (for those who don't follow me considering i've writen mainly mk) is they just really like putting their head in your chest. or some of them... and what they'd do/how they'd react if you did it to them. smth silly n fun :P!

🗒 cw: gn reader cause everyone can have boobs, written before 2.1/before boothill release, ooc boothill maybe?, not proofread

✎ wc: 1196

⎯Sampo Koski

Burying his face in your chest isn’t JUST a hobby for Sampo. It’s a lifestyle. It doesn’t matter what time it is, what he did that day, what kind of scheme he got down to, he’s finding a way to shove his face into your chest. He could be out of breath, having just ran for his life from the Silvermane Guards, and still plank into your chest. Doesn’t matter if he can’t breathe.

If you complain, he doesn’t let up. There’s no way to pry him away, so you might as well just accept it. Sometimes, he’ll even pick you up and haul you to bed. It is one of the rare times that he will actually pulls away for air. Mainly because it’s awkward to hold you like that, and he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

You start to wonder if it’s as amazing as he plays it out to be… the way he begs and begs makes you believe that it must be true bliss. It’d be a shame to let those beautiful big naturals go to waste, y’know? So, while Sampo’s out scheming, you’re plotting. How to ambush him, the best tactical position, all the statistics. Unfortunately, he’s cunning and skillful, so it won’t be as easy as you hoped.

Regardless, you won’t let Sampo get away with this unpunished. You spend all day and almost all night waiting by the door, ready to pounce at any moment. And the minute that door cracks, you're on him like a rabid cat. All he can do is yelp as you essentially tackle him, wrapping your arms around him and almost sending you both to the floor. As he steadies the two of you, you push your head into his chest.

It all makes sense now. You understand. You understand everything, it’s as if the universe has just unraveled in front of you. It’s oddly comfortable, something you get lost in easily. You ignore Sampo’s protests, letting your mind melt as you subconsciously push yourself further into your boyfriend’s grasp. And chest. You could stay here forever, comfy, satisfied, happy… until it starts getting hard to breathe. Only for a moment do you pull away, looking at Sampo. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face, something that screams ‘I know, right?’

⎯Boothill

You don’t get to see Boothill much, mainly because his first stop after a mission is the mechanics. He may loathe his cyborg body, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let it rust and break down. But on the rare occasion that he does come home to you, he really, really loves skin on skin contact. Or… skin on metal contact, that’s the right term. He doesn’t necessarily get exhausted, but it’s nice to feel human for once.

And yes, half the time he dives right for your chest. Given the fact that the only flesh remaining is his head, it’s just… really nice to him. If it’s not your chest, he’s laying his head down on your thighs and staring up at you with a cheeky grin. Whenever you ask him what’s on his mind, he just says it’s nothing, and urges you to play with his hair. Under all that metal, his (metaphorical) heart still beats, after all!

While you are very familiar with cold metal against your skin, part of you can’t help but think about returning the gesture. Would it be uncomfortable? Yeah, maybe. But you wouldn’t exactly throw yourself at his chest, you’re not looking for a broken nose. Still, curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back.

It’s quite a while til the next time you see Boothill, but you don’t take it for granted. Every single second you spend with him is taken into account. Even if it’s plotting something as devious as resting your head between his boobs. It could be comfier and all, but something about getting the galaxy ranger to stay still long enough for you to rest your head on his chest gives you butterflies. It’s no easy feat.

Oftentimes, you only get a couple hours with him. This was such a day, and you weren’t going to let it go to waste. When he settles down onto you with an exasperated sigh, prattling on about his latest adventure and how flashy Penacony was, you wrap your arms around him and swing a leg over his, managing to flip your positions. When you place your head to his chest, you can hear the whirring of machinery inside of his body, which feels fantastical in its own right. You’re met with a shocked expression and a bunch of “eh’s!?” thrown your way. You can’t help but laugh and go back to listening. In turn, all Boothill does is poke your sides, trying to get you up. But deep down, he appreciates the gesture, it’s something that makes him feel a little more human.

⎯Dr. Ratio

Veritas doesn’t even dream of putting his head on your chest, or your thighs. He’s a man of dignity, he wouldn’t even be caught doing that. He’ll lean on your shoulder from time to time, but he’s not very big on physical touch in general. It’s a very rare occasion for him to even hold your hand. But he shows his love in other ways. He likes being in the same room as you, doing your own separate things. It brings a sense of closeness, in a way.

However, you can’t help but think about what it would be like to use his chest as a pillow. He’s sculpted, like really well defined, and goddammit, you are no stranger to temptation. Sure, he’s a no-nonsense guy, but there has to be room in the marbled heart for some silliness. And you are going to take your chance, even if it kills you!

So, you devise a plan. You’ll ambush him when he least expects it, right after his bath. If only you could haul him off to the bed or the couch, get a couple of minutes in… but standing will have to do. With Veritas, you gotta be grateful with what you get. Which, you can’t complain at all, you’ve got a beautiful boyfriend.

It feels a little perverted waiting for him to come out of his bath, but granted, you’ve been in this same position countless times before. Although, you do fidget a lot. It’s hard to keep still, it feels like such a grand crime just waiting for him. But when he steps out of the bath you pounce. He’s warm and comfortable, exactly how you imagined it. It’s like heaven on earth. Oh, Aeons, you could stay here forever…

But he’s quick to reprimand you. Very few times have you seen Veritas blush. Even fewer to see his whole face red, to see him so expressive. He’s got a near disgusted look as he looks down at you, a little shocked, but above all, flustered. All he does is question you– more like, interrogates you. All the questions slip past your mind as you relish in the fleeting feeling of his boobs, so warm and comforting, it’s torture having to part with his chest.

© freyito, 2024 | masterlist | queue | kofi | star header by roseschoices DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[papsutimu]

All these lingering doubts don't just interfere with our concentration at work. They impact our core confidence in all that we do - in ourselves, and in our futures. Over and over, we live our days like this until finally, We lose everything.

Anyone could be suffering from depression. Show your care for everyone, even those who seem outgoing and talkative.

Depression drains your energy and affects your physical health.

Did you think depression was simply about having extreme thoughts?

Dreams are painful. But without them, I would be no different from a walking, talking zombie. My dreams have kept me alive, so I can stand here and tell you not to give up.

I fall asleep when I don't want to, but I can't sleep when I need to.

If there's no means of escape, what's the point of moving forward?

Learning to accept yourself is a lifelong lesson.

Life repeats itself, but not all hope is lost.

Nobody wants to be labeled "mentally ill." But if we meet someone who understands us, we'll realize that the label doesn't mean anything. The sad truth is that very few are lucky enough to meet a kindred spirit.

Technology sometimes causes relative deprivation, pressure and self-pity. But other technology like ambient music, online communities and medication help to alleviate our pain.

The metaphor of the bag. The burden couldn't be attributed to anything within, because the heaviness was within the bag itself.

What makes you happy? That's probably the trickiest question of all to answer.

We don't want to spoil everyone's fun at parties. So we pretend to be normal and act like everyone else.

We like to blame ourselves.

We might be weaker than others in some aspects.

We often dwell on trivial things. So our efforts soon go down the drain, again and again… On occasion, we may be willing to open up our hearts. But when we hide our true selves, it feels like people barely notice.

When you're sick, people generally ask if you're okay. Depression is as much of a physical illness, yet people tend to overlook it. Maybe that's because the symptoms can't be seen.

Which would be the greater suffering? To remain in this endless loop, or to find an exit that's just as meaningless?

You know what? Simply being alive is incredible enough.