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lorelune · 6 months ago

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O4O: part iii // PART 1

|| jing yuan x reader || E/18+ || omega4omega w/ milfy jing yuan || wc: 17.6k of 37.3k || ao3 ||

You are on the precipice of your heat. Jing Yuan must cope and navigate his desires, both old and new.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

💦🎀 this piece is apart of SPRING FEVER: an omegaverse collab! 🎀💦

✨ O4O masterlist ✨ // part i — part ii — part iii -> PART 1 (here) & PART 2

🩷 extended author's note

❣️ please note! part iii of o4o is separated into two posts here on tumblr. part 2 can be found linked above and at the end of this post as well. part iii is up as a single chapter on ao3 additionally! ❣️

notes: oh my god. loves. we made it. through blood, sweat, tears, a move, an irl relationship coming and going, WE MADE IT!!! i'm so excited for y'all to read and enjoy :'^) this piece would not have been able to be completed without the help of beloved betas (no a/b/o pun intended) @ofmermaidstories, @aimfor-theheart & @harmonydove. truly could not have done it without the feedback and encouragment :'^) all that said, please note the disclaimer above, stick around for part 2!!

CW: omegaverse, omega reader, omega jing yuan, top jing yuan (in this part) milfy jing yuan, mommy kink (both explicit and implicit), cry baby reader, fisting, knotting toys, biting, hurt/comfort, sickfic, past dan feng/jing yuan/yingxing, author-created omegaverse lore

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

It’s sometime in the past, during a sizable gathering on a private veranda near the Artisanship Commission. The evening has whittled into night, the breeze temperate and only a bit balmy. The air teems with the scent of freshly-fried food, liquor, and company.

Casks of plum wine and amber mead sit scattered across the many tables poised across the pavilion. Even at this hour, the space is filled with lively folks, clustered into groups. Folks from across the six Commissions gather, energy rising into the late evening. Cups have already been filled, emptied, and then filled again, several times over.

Jing Yuan enjoys it. It’s reminiscent of bygone times, with enough newness to not feel chafing or make him overly melancholic.

The folks that mill around him and the other Charioteers are not his peers that he trained with as a young Cloud Knight, or his closest companions as a member of the High Cloud Quintet. They are mostly workers employed closely to the Charioteers. All of whom deserve a night out to destress. It’s ‘good for morale’— that’s what he had told Qingzu when he said the gathering would be held at the Seat of the Divine Foresight’s expense. She couldn’t find it in herself to scold him, as she more than likely knew that the General would secure her her own personal bottle of favored strawberry liquor as an unspoken, off-the-books bonus.

Qingzu is nowhere to be found now. Some of the guests have taken to roaming around the pavilion, spreading out amongst its ponds and large stone and crystal statues. They’re beautiful at night; Jing Yuan wanders this area often. He enjoys the stillness of it. The lushness of this particular garden lends itself to being quite private as well.

Not so much now, as Diviner Fu slaps her hands on the tabletop. Her scent mixes with the honeyed mix drink that she’s been nursing. She whinges at Yukong, something about budgeting and the maintenance of the Matrix, and how ‘having one Master Calibrator is hardly sufficient’, which Yukong doesn’t seem to be disagreeing with, but Yukong’s lack of total, enthusiastic validation seems to ruffle Fu Xuan sufficiently.

It’s cute to watch, Jing Yuan cannot lie.

He himself is fairly sober thankfully. With all of the scents swirling, it would likely be overwhelming if he were to add much alcohol into the mix. He has been sipping a small amount of wine, but nothing more. He’s a weepy drunk after all. And he would rather have that intimate knowledge remain safely with him, and not shared amongst the Commissions as a fresh piece of gossip.

(He plans to save his tears, if any, for his nest. Camaraderie tends to make him misty-eyed once it is over and he is alone again, naturally. The absence of companionship must be weathered accordingly and privately.)

As Jing Yuan opens his mouth to tease the imbibed Master Diviner, a firm hand lands on his shoulder.

”C’mon, it’s gettin’ late.” The hand pats him. “We gotta get you home, baby.”

There’s a moment of incredible stillness where the entire company of his table (the Charioteers, all of them—) stare at whoever is behind him, agape. It must look quite funny. Jing Yuan pauses with the warm contact. The scent of sunshine heat and the wood embers of low burning hearth surround him.

He turns and sees you.

Jing Yuan recognizes your face from the Sky Faring Commission’s roster, but can’t put a name to it. He does not know you which makes all of this more comical.

(You are not anyone to him, not yet.)

You are, however, quite cute. Jing Yuan finds himself a bit distracted and charmed by the shape of your lips, the wideness of your eyes. You stand, poised with an arm offered to him, wearing a look of abject horror.

The scents behind him begin to sour. This is… not just bold, but stupid. Judging by your expression and such casual language, the lackadaisical offering of your crooked arm was not intended for him. There’s a flush on your cheeks and a haze in your gaze; he assumes you’re as drunk as the rest of the party.

Jing Yuan smiles.

“I suppose it is about time I turn in for the evening.” He rises with a stretch and a yawn that’s at least half legitimate. “How kind of you to offer me a hand.”

You stall for a moment, visibly mentally stumbling as you stare up at him, scent sweetening, “I’m so sorry—“

”What’s there to be sorry about?” It’s a bit cruel to speak to you like this, he knows. All eyes of the party are on the two of you and this blunder, and Jing Yuan causing more mischief is not in great form. “I am happy to have an escort home. Shall we?”

He links his arm with your own.

The veranda is left behind, more than one of the Charioteers (and your companions?) squawking at you as you depart. You stay tense near his side until the sounds of the party fade into the night. When Jing Yuan sneaks glances at your face, you have the look of someone who swallowed something bitter and rotten. Your scent remains sharp, tart on the back of his tongue, even as you near quiet neighborhoods and his estate.

He stops you outside the gate and plies you with a sweet smile.

You immediately bow, bent fully at the waist, “G-General, I apologize— deeply apologize— I mistook you for someone else and h-have made quite the fool of myself. I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused.”

”None of that now, please. You’ve not been an inconvenience in the slightest. If anything, I should be thanking you as your interference allowed me to escape that party a few hours earlier than I was expected to be there for.”

”… I-I—“ You raise yourself up as Jing Yuan tilts his head down to you. Even at your full height, he’s still quite a bit taller than you. Wider in the shoulders and with a more honed, straight-spined posture. By comparison, you almost cower, hunched a bit as you look up at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. “If you’re certain, General. I never meant to cause any trouble.”

”You did not cause any trouble— at least not for me. Though, I may suggest limiting your plum wine consumption when around your superiors.” He says with a cheeky smile.

There’s an indignant, watery look your eyes take on. You shift on your feet, and your scent ripens like summer fruit (an omega, clearly. Jing Yuan suspected as much.) The attention he gives you, though paltry, has you preening.

“I-I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, General. Thank you for being understanding, and I swear it won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure.” Jing Yuan chuckles. Given how you’re swaying on your feet, the hangover you’re sure to have the following morning will perhaps keep you from over-indulging for a while. “Would you like an escort home? It’s quite late.”

“General, t-that defeats the purpose of me walking you here, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps, but this was an accident, wasn’t it?” He hums. “Though I am grateful for a late-night companion, it wasn’t a necessary measure. You, however, may benefit more directly from a guide this evening?”

“No need, General.” You shake your head. Your scent goes bitter, just barely, the scent mingling with the blooming flowers of his garden just beyond the gate. “T-Though I am grateful for your kind offer, I’ll be fine getting home on my own.”

Jing Yuan doesn’t like your answer.

(It seems like a poor idea. A young omega, not wearing any scent patches or protective clothing, wandering in the night while a glass or two too deep in their cups. It feels foolish to let you go off alone.)

“Are you certain?” Jing Yuan implores you.

“More than.”

Your smile is transparently pathetic.

You walk away that night. You leave Jing Yuan outside the gate of his estate with only the wisps of your scent left, clinging to the well-trimmed bushes and vines that crawl the stone and metal walls of his estate. Jing Yuan swears he carries the smell of you with him that night as he enters the manor and readies for bed. As he flips through a book of poetry by candlelight, he feels almost certain your scent has come along with him. It rolls into his nest.

It is the first way you linger with him.

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

There is much planning to be done following your trip to the Alchemy Commission and the revelations that come with it.

Jing Yuan handles most of it. At the behest of his own gentle pressing, you allow him to do so. Despite the various supplements and tinctures you are given by Lei Huiling to control your current symptoms, you are still not in the greatest health. You maintain a low-grade fever and stay fatigued in the days that follow your visit. Keeping you rested (and preferably not stressed) for your impending heat is vital.

Jing Yuan sorts through the necessary clerical work. A few weeks of time off is secured for both of you. It is to be a ‘shared sabbatical’ on paper. He knows that this will only further the rumors that you are his taken mate, but he doesn’t exactly... mind that. The rumor mill has already been thoroughly fed and stirred with how often you two have been seen in public together lately. Jing Yuan thinks that you have been too out of it to notice the attention, more often than not. And when you do—

(You cling to him a bit more when you do notice many eyes on you. You find comfort in him so explicitly—)

Jing Yuan certainly won’t do anything to dissuade public opinion, not unless it becomes necessary. It’s something to mull over.

Fu Xuan gives him an earful about ‘taking good care of you’ and to call her if you need an ‘alpha of virtue and good standing’. Jing Yuan knows that won’t be needed, but teases the Master Diviner about her chivalry regardless. As thanks for her generous offer and penance for his impish behavior, he bestows on her the mantle of Acting Arbiter General in his absence. Fu Xuan seems plenty satisfied with this.

Yukong is agreeable and seems... quite pleased with the recent developments of your coupling. Her tail swishes happily as Jing Yuan relays to her via hologram that you will be out for a not-insignificant length of time for medical reasons. She congratulates him and then chides him in the next breath.

(“I better see you court them properly following this, General. If I catch them sporting any claim without a matching couple’s charm on your wrists’, you will be receiving the scolding of a lifetime.”)

Jing Yuan takes her threat seriously and writes himself a note to secure the necessary colored threads and blown glass beads to construct the courting bracelets. It may be a good post-heat activity to do together, he thinks initially. However, perhaps, he would prefer to keep your bracelet design from you until it is completed and it can be gifted to you properly. There’s a fair amount of decorum in courting that Jing Yuan has forgone, somewhat tactlessly, up until this point. It would do you both well for him to recall some of it and, as Yukong suggested, court you once this heat has passed.

(Jing Yuan likes the sound of it so, so much. Even if his own courting instincts are under-used and unearthed these days.)

In the meantime, Jing Yuan takes care to assist you in preparing for it.

The markets are abuzz when he returns several days in a row, purchasing and pocketing little bags of sweets and dried fruit. A few hard cheeses and seed mixes as well. Anything that he can find that he thinks you may enjoy and is easy to eat during the lulls of it. He takes a trip or two to the compounder in the Alchemy Commission to fetch the litany of medications and supplements Lei Huiling had prescribed. Each vial and bottle is labeled clearly with dosages, penned in his own hand.

Jing Yuan prepares a number of blankets, bed linens, and clothes for your nest as well. His own nest becomes overstuffed with them, but he hardly minds. He takes great care each evening to remove his usual adhesive scent-blocking patches and scrub the area free of any potentially sticky residue. It’s a diligence he rarely carries for the activity of washing that area, as it hasn’t been particularly relevant that his scent be so easy to spread. Now he finds himself washing and rinsing the skin at least twice. He massages the glands on his neck as well; Baiheng always had said that scent releases easier than way.

Jing Yuan’s nest has never smelt so much like… himself. The petrichor and charged air wrap around each linen, with the sweetness of honeysuckle just a touch behind it. Omega’s scents tend to be sweeter or spiced. Jing Yuan hadn’t fully realized that his leaned toward the former. Sleeping each night in a proper, scented nest of his own does feel lovely. Indulgent, even though Jing Yuan has a suspicion that this will become routine in time. He doesn’t mind procuring the wealth of blankets and pillows smothered with his scent, and equally wouldn’t mind having some drenched in your scent as well.

You have admitted that you are having trouble getting your own nest together, but Jing Yuan hopes that his offerings make it a bit easier. He thinks that they do. Your scent always brightens and goes gooey on the sides of his palette whenever you receive a bundle from him at your door.

You have not yet let him enter your home.

It makes sense. If an alpha’s home is their den, an omega’s home in its entirety is something of a nest, even beyond the bedroom that it usually is made in. You had seemed woefully uncomfortable when Lei Huiling had pointed out your dysregulated nesting behaviors. It can only be interpreted as something akin to shame to Jing Yuan. He knows you are preparing in your own ways, readying your space for someone to share it with you.

You tell him, explicitly, that you will handle the procurement of any necessary toys or lube. You say so with hot cheeks and can’t meet his eyes (even though you’ve shared a bed once before and he has had his tongue in your cunt. He finds the display endearing.) You also tell him that your little home, tucked away in a pleasant corner of the Luofu’s northern floral district, is also outfitted with scent locks on the doors and windows, so there shouldn’t be any leaking of heat smell.

Dutifully, you meet each day during lunch. You take the tapered dose of your suppressants and a regulating tincture with a full glass of water that Jing Yuan helps you drink (you do not need his help, but you like it. Jing Yuan likes giving it to you.) Your plate is always clean by the end of your lunches, though sometimes it takes an hour or two for you to get through the meal. Your appetite waxes and wanes.

By the time you reach your final, smallest dose of your suppressants, you can hardly make yourself eat. You look at Jing Yuan warily after swallowing down the pills, mincing and shifting on your knees beneath the latticed gazebo of the favored garden. Wisteria drips from frames nearby, casting petal-shaped shadows.

“I’m nervous, Jing Yuan,” You tell him softly. “Really nervous.”

“I know,” he tells you. He has known since the day you left the Alchemy Commission with a parcel of medicine. Your scent hasn’t lost its sour edge, never entirely. “Does it reassure you, knowing that I’ll be there?”

“... I think it scares me a little more, knowing that.” You swallow.

Jing Yuan tilts his head inquisitively and brushes hair away from your face. He leans down close, so your breath mingles, your scent in his mouth. The flavor and taste of it provide him such a wealth of information. You know this; it disarms you. You have nothing you can hide from him, just as he most enjoys.

“Will you tell me more? I intend to help ease your heat for you, not make it more stressful than it already is.”

“… Will you think less of me if I tell you?”

“No, not at all.” He assures you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You shiver with it and nod.

“I’ve... never shared a heat— my own heat before,” you confess and squeeze the hand of his that you hold. He assumed as much. “Never with an alpha, omega, or beta. I’ve always spent them alone with minimal relief. I’m not sure what it will be like to be so out of my mind and around another person. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I speak or act out of turn while I can’t make sense of anything other than... heat.”

Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully, “Do you remember how I acted, during my heat?”

“Of course.”

“And how was I?”

“... You were lovely, as you are now.”

“Thank you,” he steals a proper kiss from you and pulls away without allowing you to chase him. “Did you scorn me then, for not being fully lucid? Wouldn’t that have been cruel?”

You stumble mentally. Jing Yuan watches it in your eyes.

“I-I mean, I didn’t. Of course not. And yes, it would be cruel.” You frown at him. “But, I think mine are worse than that, Jing Yuan. I’m in pain more often than not, rather than aroused. Half of the time, I end up on the bathroom floor because I get so nauseous. And even if I don’t get so sick, and I am, um, yearning, let’s say— I’m not very experienced, even outside of my heat cycle. I’m very grateful for your help, but what if it’s all just... too much in the moment?”

Jing Yuan lets you finish before kissing you.

This kiss is slow, deep, and reverent. Consuming. He means it to be, he needs you to feel it. Words rarely fail him, but this is part of his strategy, to coax you into feeling and breathlessness in tandem with sweet words. You mewl beneath his touch when his tongue darts out to taste your lips.

He pulls away with a heavy breath.

“You are not too much,” Jing Yuan reminds you. “I am very capable of handling you, in whatever state that is, especially during your heat. Whether that is sickness or ‘yearning’, I will be there to ease you. I cannot offer you a knot, or the solace that comes with that type of coupling, but I will be there in all other ways.”

“... What if you get overwhelmed?”

“We will deal with that if such a thing occurs.”

“Okay.” You sniffle and concede, burying your face in his unmasked scent glands.

He hoists you closer and pets you. Contact like this has become commonplace over the past few weeks. It soothes both of you, calms the fractious omega in you, and the antsy, overbearing omega in him. It drenches you in each other’s scent.

“Dear?” He asks once you’ve calmed in his arms. “May I clarify a few things?”

“Mhm,” you pull away just enough to look at him in the eyes and cup his face in your two soft hands.

Jing Yuan already knows the answers to the questions he is poised to ask you. However, you need to know he knows. He needs to soothe the frayed nerves that will surely follow.

“You noted your own inexperience earlier, and that you’ve never shared a heat. Have you ever laid with anyone, heat-addled or otherwise?”

There’s a pause. You tense up, flushing and struggling to meet his gaze, “I-I haven’t— not other than you, during your heat.”

Something in him cracks, unfurls, and wants more of him. He feels glutinous.

“I am your first?”

“... Yes.”

“... When I touched you during my heat, were those your first times being intimate in those ways?”

“Y-Yeah, I hadn’t g-gone that far before.”

“I see.” Jing Yuan cannot help the coy smile that breaks over his face. You look ready to combust. “I’m honored to be your first. I’ll be sure to take good care of you, hm? As you deserve.”

You nod up and down, looking like you’re ready to squirm out of your skin, “... ‘Honored’? It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Actually, he’s elated. Ecstatic. He had a hunch, but he wasn’t entirely certain. The confirmation has his belly swooping, heating. He grins. “I will get to deflower my omega. I can imagine no greater privilege.”

His slip of the tongue is somewhat intentional. Maybe a little devilish, depending on your reaction.

‘My omega’.

It may be a step too far— in which case, he can do damage contro. Perhaps not backpedal, but clarify. However— that becomes clearly unnecessary as your gaze darkens. Your pupils widen. And for the first time since that awful day in his garden, your scent is fully sweet.

“‘My’ omega?” you say, softly, like if you speak too loudly the phrase and its meaning will disintegrate. “Your omega, Jing Yuan? Be sage with your words, please.”

He is being, perhaps, a little bit less sage than he should be. But he is being honest. And his honesty is something he covets giving to you.

“I am being truthful.” He nudges your cheek with his nose. “My omega, if you wish to be.”

Your expression shatters, revealing something that is only his to see. With scent blooming like honey and hearth fire, your eyes go wide, your lips tremble. It’s sweet, innocent even. Your gaze is so tender, it soothes something in his chest that he’s just beginning to name. He wants to hold you to his chest and keep you there. It’s hard to understand. But he wants you to be his.

You swallow, slow and audible.

“Only if you’re mine too.”

Oh, by Lan, he wants to be.

(And Jing Yuan hasn’t wanted to be anyone’s in so long.)

(His energy and vigor have belonged to the Luofu, so nothing like the Sedition of Imbibitor Lunae or the events surrounding the dissolution of the High Cloud Quintet ever happens again or, if something so disastrous were to occur again, that it would not be so deeply mishandled. It’s paramount. He has a beloved apprentice to look after. He has the gardens he tends and his birds to feed, but there is a distance with all of it. It is parts of him doled out, not his whole. Jing Yuan has not been whole since he saw Yingxing’s eyes carved with Shuhu’s insignia and Dan Feng mutilated into a man that couldn’t be called wholly different or the same.)

And yet—

He wants to sink his teeth into your neck. Over your pulsing, inflamed, undertended scent gland. He wants you to bite him until he bleeds, so everyone knows that the Divine Foresight has someone to hold again, however potentially fleeting.

“I am yours,” he answers. The unhindered, airy quality of his own voice throws him off. He relishes it as yet another new thing that you’ve brought out in him to be shared.

You brighten and launch forward, arms wrapping around his shoulders so tightly. His arms find their way around your waist, squeezing in time with your sweetened laugh. The sound (that could make flowers bloom and dough rise) soothes the thing in him that is wanting. You kiss him like the sky kisses the sun at noontime. He bring you closer still, trying to sink in your skin.

Jing Yuan, for all of the preparations needed for your heat, is unafraid of its difficulties. You are his, and Jing Yuan must get you in a comfortable nest and assure that you are cared for. Your heat will boil over any day now, it’s only a matter of time.

And Jing Yuan is excited.

...

Your pre-heat symptoms rise on a thankfully brisk morning. Jing Yuan receives a text from you just as he awakens in his own nest:

[you]: could you come over? my fever is back.

Jing Yuan doesn’t bother responding; he hits the ‘call’ symbol next to your name on his jade abacus. Shifting upwards, the white linen covers he’d been under slides down, falling around his waist.

You pick up on the second ring. “Jing Yuan?”

”Hello,” he speaks warmly. “How are you feeling?”

”I’m okay. S-starting to feel kinda gross.” He can hear the grimace in your voice. You thump around on the other side of the call. “I-I think I have everything ready though. As ready as it can be. If y-you’d like to come over, you can.“

”I’ll be there as soon as I round up a few things myself.” He tells you. “Is there anything last minute that you would like me to fetch?”

”I-I can’t think of anything— I need to check my lists though.” There is more thudding through the speaker. “I—I— can I text you?”

Your bumbling is hopelessly endearing. Jing Yuan smiles, “Of course. I will see you soon regardless, hm?”

”Yeah, I‘ll see you then. And Jing Yuan?” you say. “T-thank you, so much.”

The warmth of your words fills his chest. His own scent blooms, soaking into his nest and the walls of his bedroom. He wants to hold you so, so badly.

”Of course.” His tone sounds rich in his own ears even as the call disconnects from your end.

…

It only takes Jing Yuan an hour or so to finish his own final preparations. The necessary bags are packed and hooked on his elbows as he makes his way toward the flower district. It’s early enough that there is little foot traffic to ogle the Divine Foresight playing pack mule, which he is grateful for. It would be an unwelcome distraction.

His fixation is on you.

Jing Yuan makes a single stop on the way (having not received any messages from you in the interim) to grab a box of treats that he thinks you will enjoy. He balances it in his hand, flat on his palm, and unlatches the little metal gate to your front yard.

Though Jing Yuan hasn’t been inside of your home, he has been outside of it several times during the past few weeks. Jing Yuan has dropped off a number of items for you to keep in advance of your heat— scented items, and his own clothes and toiletries that he would be remiss to not have during the throes of your heat but will more than likely forget the day of.

He’s glad he has had the foresight to be intensely... intentional about your heat.

It has steadied you, he knows. The days where you’ve simply sat, side-by-side or with you tucked into his lap, seem to soothe you more than any of the Alchemy Commission’s prescriptions have been able to. He knows you appreciate the space that those moments provide. He figured it would, and built the time to see you in that way into his schedule because he had a hunch that slowness was what you needed most (in opposition to the burn and speed that a heat necessitates.)

He’s been careful with you. Not that he’s treading too carefully around you, but he does treat you gingerly. Careful touches that he has learned that you don’t mind (a hand on your waist, his lips on your cheek), encouraging you to take the same from him if that’s what you wish. He always asks before initiating any further intimacy. Despite the fact that you’ve shared a bed and will do so again, he knows this helps you feel safer about the exchange.

It helps him too, really.

Heats, by their nature, tend to feel out of control. Even if one is medicated and informed and knowledgeable, they can still be so unpredictable. The phenomenon of heat cycles is, of course, something produced by biology and therefore affected by any number of other factors beyond the physical. Jing Yuan still isn’t sure what caused his own heat to trigger early. The lack of control doesn’t truly bother Jing Yuan— one cannot control everything even if they keep it within their gaze after all — however, the care and intentionality steadies him just as well.

From the way you’ve described your previous heats, they have always been chaotic things and painful to endure. Doing what he can to ease that, especially ahead of time, calms something in him.

He knocks on your door only once before you open it. His heart aches when he sees you.

You’re already sweating (poor, poor thing), pupils half-dilated despite the golden morning sun slanting toward you. Your scent curls around him, sweet more than sour, warm more than acidic, but something unpleasant wading underneath. He softens and smiles.

“Hello,” he says to you. You haven’t spoken yet, only blink at him owlishly.

“Hi,” you reply softly back. Cutely, you mince in place. “... Would you like to come in?”

“I would be very happy to.”

It’s the invitation Jing Yuan had been waiting for, truthfully. He doesn't want to crowd you, not now, not when things can progress at whatever pace you’re most comfortable with, safely.

(That may change. Jing Yuan has prepared for that and shall use his hand and force if necessary. Tenderly. For your own good.)

Jing Yuan follows you inside your little home and takes it in as you futz with a small, glowing panel mounted next to the door. A scent locking system; it’s one of the pricey ones based on the glance he takes at the interface. You tap around on it a few times and Jing Yuan watches.

“Dear?” he asks.

You startle and jump a few inches off the floor, hand on your chest, and turn back to him, “Uh-huh?”

“No need to be nervous,” he says gently. “I understand why, but there’s no need to hold onto those feelings. Would you be able to show me how to operate your scentlocking system? In case I need to.”

“Oh— okay. Yes. I can.” You shake your head from side to side.

Jing Yuan grabs your hand as you poke around the panel, “I-It’s really simple. This screen lets you lock individual windows and doors— I-I have a courtyard in the back that has a sliding door that needs to be locked too. This other screen—” you tap around more, the interface follows. “Lets you lock and unlock all of them at once. There’s also this button which will let you vent scent if it— it gets to be too much. I-I have a remote for it near my nest t-too.”

“That’s good to know.” It’s a useful feature. An expensive one. Briefly, Jing Yuan wonders how you can afford it with your salary at the Sky Faring Commission. “Though I don’t believe it will be necessary, it’s nice to know that the option is there.”

“It’s... nice to have, I suppose.” Your hand falls from the interface. There’s a trace of something festering and sad on your face, but you shake it off and tap your clammy cheeks. “S-sorry about that, I f-feel so weird about everything. Like I’m two seconds away from crying at all times. It’s awful.”

“Heats can be overwhelming.” Jing Yuan reaches for your hand and squeezes.

You squeeze back and nod, a bit solemn. “... Can I show you what I’ve prepared, and maybe, my nest?”

Jing Yuan can’t help but light up at the suggestion, nodding with a little more vigor than he expected himself to. “Absolutely. I’d love to see.”

You give him a proper tour, starting in your small foyer, and then to the living room. There’s a plush-looking, rounded chaise lounge in the corner piled with a few blankets that Jing Yuan recognizes. A round pillow rests among them, embroidered with a content-looking cat face. A basket sits on the ground next to it, stocked with a number of snacks, drinks, and adhesive heat pads among others.

Your kitchen is well-stocked too. At least a week's worth of meals and snacks are already prepared and packaged up in neat boxes, stacked in your fridge. This was Jing Yuan’s doing, mostly. There are services for this type of food preparation, specifically for heats and ruts. It was easy for him to place a quick, albeit indulgent order. Despite the abundance of sealed meal boxes, he can catch a glimpse of a few irregularly-shaped containers that must be filled with your own cooking.

You’ve always taken comfort in the familiar and your little treats. It’s endearing you’ve made an effort to have some personally prepared for the two of you as well.

The courtyard you mentioned is small. There’s enough room for a few petite garden boxes, one growing clusters of herbs and another with lush wind violets and poppies. Otherwise, there is only a low table and two sitting cushions. A gurgle trills in the distance, rushing water from one of the freshwater aqueducts that line this section of Luofu neighborhoods.

You quickly enter back inside, and dash to re-enable the scent locks. It’s a bit hard to watch. Your anxiety is palpable, in the way you move and regard him. There’s a tremor in your hands and in your tone as you sputter out a few nervous quips to him.

Jing Yuan would like to ease you; it’s his most central goal.

He slides behind you with a heavy sigh and wraps his arms around your waist. It’s a good fit, one that feels secure. You feel so lovely to him as he bumps your cheek with his nose.

“Dear,” he keeps his voice in a low purr. “May I kiss you?”

You swallow audibly and your stiffness drains out of you. Like a stopper has been uncorked and you sag against him.

“P-Please—”

And so, he does.

Turning you in his arms, he presses his lips to yours while cradling your jaw. Warm fingers stroke down your cheeks and trace the line of your jaw. Your hands, still shaking (poor thing), grip the fabric of his shirt with enough force to drag him closer.

It’s good. It’s sating. The sensation of closeness like this is something you both need, even if you’re still learning the steps of how to seek it with each other. The contact you’ve shared in the weeks leading up to your heat has been mostly chaste, meant to comfort more than to arouse, and it has served its purpose well. Physicality has gotten easier for you in some ways, he knows. He feels it in the way you stretch on your tiptoes to be closer to him and let out a soft sound against his lips with hardly any hesitation.

Jing Yuan relishes it.

Sliding his fingers down your cheeks, tracing your jaw, he kisses you in a way that denotes hunger but doesn’t entirely satiate. It’s a morsel of something larger, to be explored in pieces, lest you become overwhelmed and weathering your heat becomes even more unpleasant than you predict it will be. He pulls away and you gasp for a breath or two, tilting your forehead up to his with a whine.

“Jing Yuan—” It’s light and sweet, the way you speak. You steal another kiss and Jing Yuan laughs into it. His hands slide to the back of your neck and it’s only then that he feels your fever.

“Oh.” He presses his lips firmly into your forehead. You’re warm there too. Too warm. Poor thing. “Is it starting to hurt, dear?”

You preen under his attention but still look uncomfortable as he asks. You shift from foot to foot. “A-A little. Nothing too bad, but I know it’ll get worse.”

Certainly. He hums. “May we continue the tour, then? Afterward, we can focus on getting settled.”

You peek up at him shyly, “T-The last thing to see is my nest. D-do... you want to see it?”

“Of course, I would,” Jing Yuan assures you. “Would you show me?”

You nod, more enthusiastic and energetic than you have been in weeks. Clasping your hands together, you guide him past your living room and a half bathroom, to a door that he knows must be for your bedroom.

“Give me a moment.” You squeeze his hands. “I-I just want to make sure things are p-perfect.”

He squeezes yours back. Of course.

“Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.”

A look of relief passes over you before you dart inside your bedroom and gently shut the door behind you. There’s an immediate rustling and assorted thumping, which Jing Yuan can’t help but chuckle at. He knows the feeling, and he’s certain that you have probably been futzing with your nest almost constantly.

(A satisfactory nest is a very important thing to show a mate, after all.)

And even if Jing Yuan isn’t an alpha, and he cannot give you any of the things that an alpha would expressly be able to provide during a heat, your instincts will tell you to complete some of the same gestures. Showing him your nest, how well-prepared you are. Jing Yuan has no doubt that you’ll be rolling over to show him your soft belly once you are more comfortable and settled with his presence.

“Okay.” You stick your head out from the crack in the doorway. “I-It’s ready. Come see?”

You offer him your outstretched palm. His heart flutters as he takes it.

Your bedroom is... somewhat unexpected. Jing Yuan is not entirely certain what he expected from the space, something cozy, something homey, but there’s such a level of detail and diligence that Jing Yuan is surprised you managed the space all on your own.

(It makes his heart hurt, thinking of you like that.)

The windows are covered by thick-looking curtains, made lighter by a sheer inner curtain that hangs secondarily. They keep all the sun out of the space. Your bedroom seems intentionally low-lit, the only lighting sources being a few lamps and a strand of string lights around the corners of the room. A round, friendly-looking lamp sits on a bedside table, oscillating several colors in a slow, steady rhythm. A vanity is tucked in a corner, though its contents seem to be entirely packed away. The little bench that accompanies it is stacked with blankets, all in a well-folded pile.

Your nest itself is resplendent.

Your mattress is large— almost as big as his is, which he hadn’t expected. It’s piled with familiar-looking blankets and articles of clothing. There’s a central point to the nest, where pillows are stacked behind for comfortable lounging. A few doughy-looking plushies have made their home in your nest as well. One looks like a round, sugar-white cat. He recognizes it as a plushie made in his own likeness— like they sell in the markets. He can’t help but think it is overwhelmingly sweet for you to not only have one, but keep it in your nest.

At the end of your nest and bed is a chest, covered in a plush fabric. It looks soft to the touch. On the bedside table, you have stocked a basket with little snacks, electrolyte drinks, various medicines, lube— anything one could need for a heat.

You stand beside your nest, practically shaking as you bounce on your toes. You wring your hands as you watch him take in your space, little by little.

Jing Yuan takes ample time, examining your space, but not entering any further than the doorframe. He would not want to slight you or make you uncomfortable in a space that is so truly and deeply your own.

“S-So?” You ask softly, kicking the ground. Your house slippers have little cat paw patterns on the tips of the toes. “What do you think?”

Jing Yuan sighs your name with a smile that radiates all the way from the base of his spine, his sternum— somewhere deep and true and real. Your scent is so thick here, so intensely you. It’s not mixed with anything other than clean linen and the herbal soap you must use in the shower. It’s nearly pure. It’s indulgent for him to open his mouth and take your scent into the back of his throat.

He can only regard you with warmth, “It is a very lovely nest. You have done so well.”

You soften instantly. If you were capable of turning into a warm puddle, you probably would’ve. Jing Yuan can’t help but preen; he knows how to pick and choose his words well. It is one of his greatest skills.

Relief looks sweet on you as you all but collapse in the side of your nest, face first.

“Thank you,” you whine, muffled into the linens. “I tried very hard.”

“And it shows.” Jing Yuan barely restrains himself from bouncing on his toes. It’s so cute. You’re so cute. He needs you in his mouth. He holds himself back. These things must proceed gingerly, even now.

You whine once more. Your legs kick up and you cross your ankles. “You’re going to kill me, Jing Yuan.”

He gasps, something fake and theatrical. “I could never do such a thing,”

It feels like a part of him is shedding. It’s welcome.

Sweetly, you turn your face to look at him. You do look awful— really. It will only worsen from here, and Jing Yuan has every intention of tending to you properly.

“May I join you?” he asks.

You tense. Jing Yuan does not move.

Nests are the most intimate, vulnerable place for an omega. They are deeply personal spaces and are meant to be safe. Always safe. And Jing Yuan has put together, over the months and weeks of growing closer to you, that this type of closeness and space-sharing in your own nest is difficult.

As quickly as you entered his nest for his heat previously, you don’t share that enthusiasm about Jing Yuan entering your own.

He expected this much. It only stings a little. Not enough to bruise.

It takes you a few moments of inner turmoil before you truly look at him again. Soft and sad in your eyes. You bunch the linens of your nest in your fists and haul yourself up enough to sit. Tentatively, you pat the spot next to you.

“You may.”

Jing Yuan is so, so careful when he sits next to you. He moves slowly, keeping his posture softened. Your scent, under the heat-sick, swirls with anxiety and want in equal parts. It’s reassuring as much as it worries him.

You take one of his hands and bring it to your face. Gently, reverently, you hold his wrist to your jaw and scent him. Jing Yuan helps you a moment later, twisting the appendage so his scent is smeared on you.

“Thank you,” says Jing Yuan.

You scoot closer to him, wrapping yourself around his bicep. “Thank you, Jing Yuan.”

It’s enough. Something has cracked and Jing Yuan can’t help but indulge it as you both descend into the soft expanse of your nest. Your scent overtakes him, and Jing Yuan breathes it in through his mouth.

...

Several things require discussion before you lose your complete lucidity. One of which is sex.

This has been talked about before. Several times over the last few weeks, but you and Jing Yuan came to the conclusion to speak again on the day your proper pre-heat began in order to have both of your most current thoughts on the matter. As much as you’ve shared with him in the past (that you haven’t shared your heat before, that you are not at all experienced with sex, that you have specific preferences that, at the time you shared this, were too embarrassed to disclose to him, regardless of the privacy of Jing Yuan’s garden.)

You are clearly more open now. You lay between his legs, a hand intertwined with his.

“Can I show you my t-toys?”

“Of course, I’d like that very much.”

Jing Yuan won’t deny that he’s been curious about the more specific flavors of your preferences.

You shuffle on your knees to the end of the bed, leaning over the edge of your nest, to the chest below. Hastily, you place several silken sacks on the bed.

Jing Yuan shuffles along with you to examine them.

It’s not a large collection, notably. In the number of toys or the size of any of them. It’s maybe three dildos, a singular (albeit sturdy-looking) wand vibrator, and a set of pressure cuffs for the wrists and ankles, meant to stimulate your scent glands with friction. The box for those clearly hasn’t been opened. Overall, all of the collection looks fairly new.

Jing Yuan cradles one of the phallus-shaped toys in his hands. It's similar to the others in your collection— not huge, but not small either. And notably—

It isn’t knotted.

None of your toys are.

This concerns Jing Yuan instantly, though he doesn’t voice it overly.

Craving a knot is one of the most expected desires to manifest during a heat. Among nesting urges, cravings for safety, and safe company is the explicit want to be full. Stretched. The pop of an alpha’s knot into an omega’s hole during heat is a unique, singular type of ecstasy that most omegas deeply enjoy. A toy doesn’t produce quite the same intensity of sensation (it lacks body heat, blood, and the all-important personal, intimate connection, after all—), but it’s still sating enough. Enjoyable, in Jing Yuan’s experience, and certainly better than nothing.

Heats without knots are incredibly difficult to bear.

It’s already been established that your heats are difficult; Jing Yuan wonders if the lack of knotting toys is a cause of your difficult heats, or a symptom of them. It seems vital to surmise this in your case.

“Dear?” he asks, gentle and easy. “I’d like to change into something more comfortable. Is that alright with you?”

You nod, “O-Of course. I put your things in one of my drawers.”

You tell him this so easily like you don’t know how it makes his heart flutter so wildly.

True to your word, the clothes he has been stockpiling are folded neatly in the top drawer of your dresser. Jing Yuan pulls out some soft, breathable lounge clothes and a favored robe of his and sets them aside.

You clear your throat. “You can change here, if you want.”

“Hm?” Jing Yuan is surprised by your willingness. “How forward.”

“I-It’s not like I haven’t seen you bare before. I’ll be seeing you that way again soon.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to force yourself into sharing space when you’re not ready to,” Jing Yuan reminds you.

“I know that.” The bed creaks as you adjust within your nest. “What if I want to see you bare?”

“You do?” Jing Yuan makes himself sound a bit more incredulous than he actually feels. Exclusively to make you squirm. He indulges, just a little. As a treat.

“I— of course I do!” you exclaim. “A-and not just because I’m starting to feel my pre-heat. I t-think you’re very pretty, Jing Yuan.”

Jing Yuan has been called many things, over his centuries. Handsome, attractive, beautiful, gorgeous, stunning— but so rarely pretty. It implies things that don’t match his stature. He’s always been tall, especially for an omega. Broad, with muscles built from Jingliu’s rigorous training (even if these days, they are buried under a layer of soft, peacetime pudge that Jing Yuan finds himself very comfortable having). His skin bears the scars of a thousand battles, and nearly as many wars. His voice has always been deeper, more gravel than ichor.

Yet, you call him pretty. And tend to call him pretty, or beautiful, or all manner of compliments that imply him to be softer and more dainty than he, to his own eyes, is.

He finds it endlessly charming. Attractive of you, to view him in such a way and express it to him.

Jing Yuan can’t help but smile as he begins to pull away his everyday garments. “How sweet of you. I’m flattered.”

“It’s the truth,” you tell him with a whine.

It’s true, at least to you. He can feel your eyes boring holes into his back as he strips, trading his cloak and lion-headed pauldron for soft, nearly sheer loungewear. They match yours fairly well, in both weight and color. Though yours are soaked through, and already smell of sweat. Jing Yuan imagines you slept in them.

“Would you like to change as well?” He asks.

“... It’s not necessary—”

“What is necessary and what you would like do not need to be mutually exclusive,” Jing Yuan reminds you. You’ve discussed this previously, how your comfort and wants are paramount, as is communicating them effectively. “I will ask again, would you like to change?”

“I would— but,” you frown at Jing Yuan as he sits back into your nest again, pulling you into his lap without a second thought, “they’ll just get dirty again, really quick. I don’t know if it’s better than just toughing it out.”

“I don’t think toughing it out is worth it,” Jing Yuan says. “I’m sure, if necessary, a load or two of laundry can be done during your heat.”

“... I guess, yeah.” You sound more assured. You stretch to press a kiss to his jaw. Jing Yuan purrs with the contact, giving you a squeeze.

You let Jing Yuan pick out your outfit.

He does not have to cajole you to allow him this specific display of trust. Jing Yuan simply asks you and you nod, quietly eager in how you direct him to the specific drawer you keep your softest, comfiest house clothes in. The outfit he chooses is complimentary in color to his own, though the fabric is somehow softer than his. More worn, more loved. Older, surely. Something you’ve had for a long time. It’s, perhaps, not the prettiest or most chic set, but he imagines that it must be a favorite of yours.

With a little plying, you settle back into your nest, with Jing Yuan between your legs on his knees. He plays with the bottom hem of your shirt. Your skin is so hot where it brushes against his fingers. Pre-heat is descending on you quickly.

You keen below him, as to remind him.

“I have a few questions for you,” he asks. “Are you amicable to that?”

“Uh-huh,” You nod, running your tongue over your rapidly chapping lips. He imagines that you don’t have much true lucidity left. It’s best to take advantage of it while you still can. “I have some for you too.”

“Oh?”

“You start though.” Your words slur as you reach forward to squeeze his wrist, over the scent gland there. So tender with him.

“Alright.” Jing Yuan smiles, something sharp and cat-like. “Would you like me to fuck you?”

You freeze.

“... W-What?” Your cheeks grow hotter, eyes wide. It’s so damn cute.

“During your heat. Would you like me to fuck you?”

“L-Like— With the toys, right? That was the p-plan?”

“Not exactly.” He hums. He runs his fingertips just under your top in soothing little circles. “I meant myself, with my own anatomy.”

“Fucking me with your—”

“My cock, yes.” He laughs lightly. Your embarrassment is rich, and he is... perhaps being a little mean to present an earnest question in such a way. He is indulging, just a bit. He doesn’t think you mind as you cover your face and peek at him from between his fingers.

“I— I mean— Do you want to?” you squeak. “I f-figured that you wouldn’t be interested in that type of s-sex.”

“That’s a fair assumption to make.” He muses. Male omegas, in his experience, do tend to prefer being penetrated, rather than doing the penetrating themselves. This is the most common perception as well. “However, I would like to fuck you. If that’s not something you would enjoy, that is alright as well. I wanted to ensure that I offered it as an option to you.”

You stare at him.

“You... want to fuck me?”

“Badly, yes.”

“... Maybe this is rude but— Jing Yuan, have you f-fucked someone like that before?”

He has. Several times, though it has been a while. Though Yingxing had no proclivity or want to bottom, Dan Feng enjoyed it on occasion. Typically receiving from Jing Yuan, rather than Yingxing even. Yingxing had the sizable cock and fat knot of a virile alpha, and Dan Feng, as a Vidyadhara with no secondary gender, lacked the anatomy to take such girth easily or comfortably. Jing Yuan’s smaller, knotless, omegan cock was much more to Dan Feng’s preference.

Jing Yuan enjoyed the times they shared. It was a specific type of intimacy, different from being penetrated. There is, innately, some dynamic of power at play. Jing Yuan doesn’t mind being on the higher end of that if it’s you who he’d be with. After much thought, Jing Yuan thinks he’d like it very much.

“I have, though it has been quite some time. I may be out of practice, but I would very much like to.”

You stare at him. Really stare at him, before biting your lip. A sigh shakes from your chest.

“I... I would like that a lot, too. I-I think it would be really nice even.”

Jing Yuan feels the soft thing in his chest open its maw like it needs to eat you so lovingly. Hold you as he is now.

“I think it would be very nice as well.” Getting to fuck his Omega. He shudders at the thought, lewd as it is. It will be your first time experiencing penetration to his knowledge. He’ll make sure it is good for you, as you so deserve.

“I think so too.” Your scent goes spiced, warm, on the back of his tongue. Jing Yuan savors it.

“I cannot give you a knot.” He reminds you gently.

Jing Yuan knows you know this in your right mind. Even in pre-heat, you have the sense to know that he is an omega. The poking he’s doing now is mostly for his own benefit, something to approach delicately.

You stiffen below him, going tense in your shoulders. Jing Yuan expected this to some degree.

“That won’t be an issue.”

“Can you tell me more?”

“... Y-yeah, I can. I suppose it’s relevant.” You scrub a hand over your face. “I j-just don’t like knot. So, you not having one will be totally okay. Better, actually.”

“I thought as much,” he says gently, cupping your cheek with his hand. You lean into the touch. “I noticed that none of your toys have the ability to knot.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sure you know that will make your heat harder, right dear?”

“I-I know— I just—” You turn away from his hand. “I really don’t like it, or how it feels. Even during heat. I’m u-used to toughing them out without a knot, so it’ll be okay. Promise.”

Jing Yuan doesn’t believe you; he really, really doesn’t. There is more there that you aren’t saying. It feels cruel to pry in a moment so tender. He feels a bit guilty as he resolves to probe.

“As long as you are certain.” He says. “Can you tell me why you dislike it?”

You look at him warily.

He continues, “I want to know so I can help you the best I am able to while you’re in the worst of your heat. You don’t have to tell me, I would never make you. Though, I would be honored to know more about this preference of yours.”

“You’re— you’re so good at that.”

“At what?”

“Saying the right things. You’re too nice.”

“It’s easy to be kind to you.”

You whine and grab one of his hands, squeezing.

“I-I don’t like— how it feels to be stuck with something in me. Even with a toy, and n-not an actual alpha— I don’t like it. It feels bad. And it makes me so uncomfortable, I freak out most of the time. It’s not worth trying, especially during a heat.”

It makes something in him ache.

Jing Yuan dips down to hug you with his own squeeze.

You tuck your face into the crook of his neck and continue. “It feels worse to try and take a knot from a toy than it does to not have any knot at all. I’m used to it, so you don’t need to worry. I made sure all my toys don’t have a knot at all, so I can't get knotted by accident.”

“You are very diligent.”

“I have to be.”

You shouldn’t have to be. Even just speaking about this, Jing Yuan can tell it’s difficult. That it is tiring and painful to do, and yet you are. He appreciates it immensely, and the new insights you provide him are invaluable.

“Dear,” he says sweetly, pressing his lips to your forehead, and then sitting up once more, “Thank you for telling me.”

“O-of course.”

“It’s not so scary, telling me, is it?”

“N-no, it’s not. You’re not scary at all.”

He feels soothed. His fingers play with the seam of your lips, dipping just barely inside to chase the heat of your mouth.

“I’m very glad.” He withdraws his fingers and grabs the bottom hem of your shirt, returning to his original task. “May I?”

“Uh-huh. P-please.”

Good.

He peels your shirt off. It is, notably, sweat-soaked and a bit tacky to the touch. You’re bare underneath, your chest immediately spilling to the sides. You half-cover yourself superficially with your arms. It’s quite endearing, really.

He helps you slide on the new garment, this one with buttons in the front. He undoes each one reverently. You stay still and pliant under him. Your breathing evens out, and your scent is more warmly content than it has been in the entire last month. Your gaze is softened, gooey.

He says your name, honey-sweet on his tongue, “Do you trust me?”

“I do.” You say without hesitation.

Jing Yuan steels himself, coaxing his own scent into something more milky and kind.

“I may need to make calls of judgment during your heat while you’re not fully within yourself.” You’ve already spoken about this before, but he reiterates it now. As bluntly as he can manage, nursing the unbearably tender, soft, special thing that has begun to blossom between the two of you. “I will take good care of you, I swear.”

You look like you’re going to cry. “... Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Just— no knots.” You tell him once more. “And d-don’t be too far away for too long. It’ll make me sad.”

“Easily done.” Jing Yuan pauses. “Some of the decisions I may need to make may make you uncomfortable in the moment. I promise that I will only make these decisions if they’re entirely necessary.”

Your pleasure and comfort are the most important things, after all.

“I understand. I trust you, Jing Yuan.” And you kiss him.

It’s not chaste, this kiss. He can feel you shake as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, leaning into and licking at his lips to taste him. The musk of your heat isn’t too overpowering yet; this is still you. Fully aware and present and wanting.

When you pull away, you look struck in the best way. Soft-jawed.

Jing Yuan can’t help but kiss you quickly a few more times. Over your nose and cheeks. You nearly shriek with laughter, and it makes something in his chest ache like a well-worked muscle. Satisfied and growing.

Jing Yuan pulls away, stroking over your face. “There is something I would like to ask of you.”

You blink at him. “O-Oh?”

Jing Yuan must choose his next words carefully, hovering his fingertips over the (still) inflamed scent glands at the hollow of your throat.

This is something that you haven’t discussed in all that much detail previously.

Your scent glands and their relatively consistent inflammation concern him.

Lei Huiling, during a few of the interim checkups that you had attended, commented on their poor state several times. It’s not normal for one's scent glands to be so flushed. You always seemed to brush this off.

However—

Jing Yuan would like to scent you properly. And you would, probably, like to scent him properly, which is very difficult to do with your scent glands puffed up and so painful.

”Would you be amicable to me massaging your scent glands?” He asks.

You still and frown.

”… Why?” You ask warily. “D-do I smell bad?”

”Not in the slightest.” To make you sure of this, Jing Yuan skillfully licks around your scent gland with a flat tongue.

Tasting you like this makes his head spin in the best way, but there’s still something acrid and unwell about your scent. You jolt in his arms and let out a cry.

“I’d like to be able to scent you properly during your heat, and in your current condition, that’s not possible without causing you pain.”

You swallow and frown more deeply. “Y-yeah, but massaging them would hurt really badly too.”

“Has anyone ever massaged your scent glands before?”

”N-No.”

That seems unlikely. Jing Yuan can’t help but press a bit. “Not even your mother or father?”

You grimace, your upper lip curling. “None. Never them, especially.”

(Interesting. You rarely mention your parents, but when you do it is always with a hint of disdain and bitterness. Something to prod at later, when there isn’t a more pertinent priority.)

Jing Yuan hums.

Truthfully, Jing Yuan’s own parents never showed him that type of specific care when he was a kit or cub. They were both betas, after all, and though they have their own scent glands and olfactory systems, betas don’t require the same type of tending that omegas and alphas do. They didn’t know what to do with Jing Yuan most of the time, especially after he presented.

He was very lucky that his Master and Baiheng so quickly took him under their wing in that way.

On more than one occasion, during or following a long campaign, Baiheng would need to press and massage out his stuffed-up scent glands. The common wisdom is that an excess of cortisol and adrenaline can cause them to become… clogged, for lack of a better word. Understimulation leads to festering inflammation. Baiheng always seemed to know when Jing Yuan would need a session of careful touch and would sit him in front of her lap, and roll out his scent glands one by one. Neck, wrists, and even inner thighs if his scent, by her nose, was sour enough to warrant it.

It did hurt, back then. It still does when Jing Yuan must massage his own out, though this is a rare occurrence these days.

As much as it hurts, the relief that follows is more than worth it. In this case, both immediately and in that you’ll be able to be scented properly. By him.

He can’t force this, he knows. But perhaps he will suggest heavily, lightly coerce. It is unlike him to be so heavy-handed but perhaps this issue warrants it.

(Truthfully— entirely truthfully, it has been bothering him for some time. You’re his omega, aren’t you? He can’t scent you fully, even if he wants to. Not without causing you enough pain to yelp or cry out, and it digs at something angry and soft that lives in his guts. It’s been something he has wanted— needed to address.)

His hands curl into fists, simmering.

“I’m sorry.” He kisses your forehead and lingers. “It will help. It will make this all easier.”

“B-But it will hurt.”

“It will. And then you will feel so much relief. It will be worth it.”

You don’t seem convinced as you huff out a sigh. “Everything already hurts enough— d-do I need to? I’ve been okay before.”

“You haven’t had a nestmate like this before,” he reminds you. “It hasn’t been problematic before, though no one has been attempting to scent you, don’t you think?”

You huff again but don’t reply. You bury your face in his neck with a grumble.

Jing Yuan doesn’t push, not for a moment or two. You stew in place.

“I guess.” You admit after a while with a sniffle.

It’s then that Jing Yuan has enough of an opening to maneuver you between his legs. In his lap where you so rightfully belong. His arms wrap around your middle and he hooks his chin over your shoulder.

Surrounded by your scent, even as off as it is, Jing Yuan still relishes burying himself in it.

“I know it is frightening.” He begins, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “And I know that you already are uncomfortable and in pain. I would not suggest putting you in a state of further discomfort if I didn’t think it would be to your benefit.”

“I k-know.” You sniffle once more and rub at your eyes.

“I will be gentle with you.” Jing Yuan speaks quietly, just loud enough for you to hear. Not even the finches and sparrows that teem in your courtyard bushes will catch his words. “I want to take care of you.”

(Please.)

That makes a sudden, strangled sound bubble up from you. Something between a sob and an unintelligible word. You lean back into him and nose at his jaw, the best scenting you are capable of doing.

“O-Okay,” you say into his skin, tasting the salt there. “Okay, okay, okay— y-you can. But, please be gentle. I— I know I need it but I know it’ll hurt and that’s so scary—”

He shushes you, plies you with sweet words and reassurances, and settles back into your bed further. Back against the headboard for stability, with you still braced over his chest. The soft garment he wears has fallen open over his chest and he can feel you seeking out his warmth there as you both settle and adjust into the best position.

Despite all of his confidence, he knows he may need to restrain you during this process. It isn’t pleasant, not with how under-tended you are.

(Jing Yuan knows that such touch can be pleasurable— so pleasurable and lovely. Once this pain has been exorcized, there is something beyond that to covet.)

Jing Yuan examines your right wrist first.

“Do you know how this works, dear?”

“... The massage?”

“Mhm,” he hums. Your scent gland is raised on your inner wrist. An outcrop of slightly bulbous skin, undoubtedly hardened and hot to the touch.

“Not really.” You hesitate. “... I did watch a porno or two when I was younger that had scenes of scent gland massage, but that’s the extent of my experience and education.”

Jing Yuan chuckles and kisses the back of your hand. “This will be quite different.”

“I know. The clips were all so horny. I don’t think that their scent glands actually hurt.”

“More than likely not.” Jing Yuan says gently. “May I tell you what I intend to do?”

“Y-You may.”

Jing Yuan has gamed out his next move at least a dozen times over the last month. By the Arbiter, he (somewhat guiltily) fantasized about rolling out your scent glands even during his heat. Even back then, they hadn’t been in great condition. Despite all of your trepidation and discomfort, he does know that this can feel good in the end. For both of you, if he proceeds thoughtfully.

“I’ll massage out each of your scent glands, one by one,” Jing Yuan explains. “I’ll start with your wrists, then your primaries at your neck, and lastly the scent glands on your inner thighs. I’ll allow you small breaks if you ask or I feel it is necessary, but it will be easier to do this in one go, rather than stopping and starting.”

“I understand.” You nod and gulp audibly. “... Are you okay with doing this?”

“More than.”

As much as Jing Yuan would like to bring you comfort and pleasure, this is necessary pain. Not a chore necessarily, but something unpleasant that serves a greater purpose. He is skilled in completing tasks like this if it means the future will be easier and better for dozing.

You nod and settle back into him. Craning your neck, you kiss his jaw.

...

It is more unpleasant for you than Jing Yuan expected it to be. And more unpleasant for him by proxy.

You are so, so sensitive. He did anticipate a low threshold for direct touch on your most precious parts, including your scent glands. However, you are still more sensitive than he originally surmised. He makes due despite this.

You are doing your best, in his lap. But even with the least sensitive ones on your wrists, you breathe through your teeth.

Jing Yuan has lathered the skin there with a soothing, cooling oil he procured himself from the Alchemy Commission. It is doing something, undoubtedly, but still. You are on edge, bowstring tense, and barely holding yourself still in his lap. He can tell from the forced way you inhale and exhale, and the subtle shake that it hurts.

Your scent has gone sour. So acrid it makes Jing Yuan’s eyes water.

The massage forces more of your scent out and into the room. It’s almost suffocating, as much as Jing Yuan finds comfort in your scent and preens to be surrounded by it— this is overwhelming. Manageable, but overwhelming. Jing Yuan makes a point to nose into the back of your head, whispering encouragement.

“You’re doing well.”

“Thank you—” Your voice sounds cracked and frayed already. “— Hurts.”

“I know.”

He kisses below your ear.

Jing Yuan only stops his attention there when the scent gland feels softer to the touch. Less angry and less stuffed up. There’s been some kind of release, though it seems you haven’t registered it yet. Or can’t feel it over the soreness.

You shake out your wrist with a sniffle.

The next one goes much the same way. Jing Yuan keeps his touch firm and steady. He can’t go too quickly, lest the contact lose effectiveness.

You writhe in his lap with a whine, “Ow.”

He lays his forehead on your nape and squeezes you. “It’s hard, I know.”

Your wrists will be the easiest, he knows. They are generally the least sensitive scent glands on most anyone. Their function is for the most casual scenting, like that between platonic packmates and family members. Perhaps scenting one’s home as well. The scent glands of your neck do the most work, so there’s a chance that they will hurt the most.

Jing Yuan’s current assumption is that the glands on your inner thighs will be the worst by a significant margin.

He finishes up your second wrist and presses a few apologetic kisses to your shoulders. Your skin tastes salty with sweat, far too hot.

“W-Water?” You ask.

Jing Yuan stretches to fetch you a bottle off the side table. The top of the bottle is a sip top, which you suck on with a darkened expression.

“I know that this is difficult.”

“It sucks, Jing Yuan.” You rub your eyes. “N-no breaks, you said, right?”

“No breaks.” He confirms. It’s for the best, but the way you look so crushed and pained is so hard to ignore. Jing Yuan, were he a weaker man, would have stopped then and there to bundle you up and tend to you in a way that is less painful. One that feels less violent.

He is not weak, though.

Your water bottle is set aside and Jing Yuan readjusts you in his lap. You’re slouched lower, so your head is pillowed against his sternum. Your legs are bracketed by his own on the outside, bent at the knee.

Jing Yuan lathers his hands with more oil. The herbal scent mingles with the scents of the room uncomfortably, but he pushes through it. He must. It’s that simple. He steels himself.

The primary glands on your neck nearly jut out from where they rest under your skin. They always have, to some degree. These scent glands are the most vital, the most precious and important. They’re the center of the olfactory system.

Technically, there are two glands there— a primary and a secondary. The primary produces your scent, a unique mix of pheromonal signatures that radiate both your mood and personhood. The secondary one serves a different function. It’s smaller, maybe the size of a peach pit. This gland exists exclusively for claiming bites. It sits just under the skin and rises even closer to the surface during a heat or rut. It becomes engorged, flushed with blood and plasma, perfect to be bitten.

Jing Yuan will admit that he is no expert of biology, but Jingliu did give him a rather forceful lesson on anatomy following his first heat. Baiheng gave a more nuanced, kindly-spoken one after, that was more beneficial for his omegan sensibilities. They gave him enough to get by, more than enough. It helped when Yingxing first wanted to claim him, and both he and Jing Yuan had to explain to secondary-sexless Dan Feng what ‘claiming’ was for someone of their biology.

Pheromones live in all bodily fluids— blood, semen, slick and spit. When one’s bite is laid on another's secondary gland, and teeth puncture the skin and bear into the gland itself, a claim occurs. The mixing of one’s pheromones with the core of another's pheromonal system. It alters the one who is bitten. Their scent changes and their body will respond to their mate on a deeply biological level. An innate sense of knowingness and comfort. It’s permanent.

(Well, somewhat. Xianzhou natives regenerate and persist in such a way that after a few centuries, claiming bites tend to disappear if not refreshed. It happened to his own. Though Jing Yuan swears his scent still hasn’t returned to whatever it was prior to being mated, though the half-moon scar that he once had has long since faded.)

Claiming bites can be exchanged in this way between alphas and omegas, omegas and alphas. Some betas, even, can receive a claiming bite and actually have it take. Alpha-to-alpha and omega-to-omega bites take, but differently.

To be bitten by someone of the same secondary gender is an indication of submission.

For alphas, it tends to be the manifestation of aggression within a pack. The physical mark of vying for control within a unit. For omegas, it’s still submission. Less based in aggression, and more in establishing a pecking order.

(In either case, it’s rare for alpha-to-alpha and omega-to-omega claims to occur. Packs function fine without such brazen displays of submission. It’s archaic for the Xianzhou, something left over from the world of myth that they left behind.)

Still, the concept exists. It’s a whole sub-category of immersia pornography. In the living world, Jing Yuan knows it happens occasionally regardless of fads and favor. Baiheng once told him that Foxian mothers claim-bite their kits and cubs, to make sure their scent is always on their young.

(Jing Yuan has to still himself when he remembers this, in this instant. Claim biting you like a mother would be—)

He is grateful the smell of your pain is strong enough to cover the flare of his own scent and the slick that he feels leak out of his cunt.

“Are you ready?” he asks. He rubs around your scent gland, smearing oil.

“Uh-huh.”

You don’t sound confident. Your throat bobs with a gulp.

He presses down over your right gland with his index and middle finger. Unyielding and resolute—

You jolt. A wretched sound tears from the back of your throat as you arch away from his touch, away from his chest, and squirm away. It’s involuntary, clearly.

Jing Yuan drags you back with the arm that’s still tucked over your belly. He rolls his fingers over the gland in small circles. It— it hurts you. He knew this. But it's worse now that you’re in his lap, gasping for breath as he continues his ministration.

Your legs kick out as he pushes harder.

“Jing Yuan—”

You grab his forearm with both hands. Your eyes water, your scent is— scrambled. Pained and sour and unpleasant on his tongue but it’s hard to parse all of its nuanced notes. It’s more than pure pain and for that reason, Jing Yuan knows that the pain you’re experiencing will be worth it. He hushes you as he pulls away, tending to the next one.

Your head thumps against his chest with a whine, “Wait— I— D-do you have to?”

Your begging tugs at something in him. He still shakes his head and nuzzles your temple.

“I do.”

Sounds tumble out of you as he presses, slicking the skin and digging it. The second gland on your neck is equally as tender. He tries to be gentle while applying the necessary pressure, but it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference for you.

You push at his hand, shaking your head.

“Hurts!” The word rips from you and you pitch forward, folding over yourself.

Jing Yuan hushes you, murmuring gentle apologies (“I know, I know.” — “I’m sorry, dear. Be still for me—”) that he is unsure if you fully hear.

You barely hold back tears as he circles the gland.

When he pulls away, you are a wreck in his lap. A soppy, shaking little thing that is both attempting to squirm away from him, and seek him out for comfort. You nose into his scent gland while shoving at his arm that still lays in a tight band over your ribs.

He leans into you, kissing over your cheeks where he can.

Intentionally, Jing Yuan left you without your pants. You’re only in a pair of cotton panties that, upon a brief look, don’t have any sort of wet stain on the gusset. Completely dry. This makes sense given your current pain and brewing heat sickness, but it still makes his insides twist.

(The kind of touch he’s giving you now can feel so, so good if given time, care, and future opportunity. He’d like to help you get there.)

Jing Yuan cajoles you as needed, even as you sputter and protest in his lap. To stop now would be dire, and there are just two more spots to go now. The two scent glands on your inner thighs. These ones he can’t see swelling under the skin. There’s enough flesh and pudge there to disguise any visible cues of your rough condition.

Jing Yuan smooths his palms over your inner thighs, avoiding your scent glands on the first pass—

“Wait—” You gasp, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away. “W-wait, no, Jing Yuan—”

“Just a little more to go.” He attempts to placate you with a kiss on your shoulder.

It doesn’t work. You flinch as your breath shirks in a ragged inhale. “No, no, no— not there, no, no more—”

“Dear, it’s alright—”

“P-Please, those ones hurt the w-worst. Don’t—!”

Genuine, unrestrained distress bleeds into your tone as a sob shatters out of you. Jing Yuan aches, hurts down into his chest and heart and tummy because hearing you hurt is uniquely bad from just watching your discomforted facial expression and body language.

You knock your head back into him, skull thumping heavily against his sternum. Flailing for a moment, before you fully pitch forward and away from him.

You nearly manage to crawl away, but Jing Yuan is able to wrangle you by the waist before you can. In a swift motion, you are returned to your previous position against his chest. He twists his legs and ankles with yours and holds them open like that. The position is— straining. For both of you. But it’s secure and forces your tender glands to be fully exposed even as you stutter and shake your head.

“No, no, n-no,” you sob and shake your head. “No, no, please. I-I’ll do anything else, just n-not this. P-please—”

Jing Yuan takes a steady breath and squeezes you. Hard enough and close enough that he hopes you can feel the thundering of his heartbeat against your spine.

“I know it hurts.” He hushes you. “I know you don’t want to, but you have to, okay? You will feel so much better when it’s done.”

“I-I don’t care—!” You choke on your breath. “I-I don’t, I don’t— I don’t care if my heat is w-worse— I can’t—”

“You can.” He assures, resolutely keeping his voice firm. “You can, and you will. I know it is hard, and it hurts. You’ve done so well so far. You’re so close to being done. Can you keep being good for me, just a little while longer?”

You pause then. Ragged breathing is the only sound to disturb your dimly lit bedroom. It takes you a moment to collect yourself as you try so hard to catch your breath enough to speak while rubbing at your wet cheeks.

“I— I can be good— f-for you. J-Just for you, though, okay?”

For him.

“Good. Thank you, dear.” Jing Yuan coos, voice so soft and silken that he hardly recognizes the quality. (Good for him, you’re good for him, always so good and kind and soft and small—)

He places his hands gently over the glands. He feels their heat, then. It makes sense that these would hurt the worst, they’re more than likely the least most under-tended of the lot. Excess oil drips over the roundness of your innermost thigh as you shake. Still in tears, but calmer.

“I’m going to start now,” whispers Jing Yuan. “Okay?”

“O-Okay.”

You tense and brace yourself.

When Jing Yuan pushes down and circles, you bawl. It’s a violent sound. It shakes the gentle, soft atmosphere of your room as you immediately try to pry his hand away from the gland.

He snatches up both of your wrists with his free hand, gripping them together. The pressure he exerts there is almost too much, but he doesn’t falter. He can’t—

“Be good now.”

“S-Stop—!”

The word cracks with a sob.

It’s too much, he knows. You’re pouring sweat down your neck and back. You can’t close your mouth with how frantically you are breathing. Snot pours down from your nose. You beg, ceaselessly, regardless of the little praises and reassuring words that Jing Yuan gives you.

The last, deep pressure applied has you going rigid in his lap. Your teeth snap shut with an audible clack and you all but scream behind them. It’s too much, Jing Yuan knows this, he can feel and smell how this is too much for you, but he locks his jaw and keeps himself steady. He must.

By the time he pulls away from the gland on your right thigh, you’re all but collapsed. In on yourself, burning, tunneling to your core as you wheeze.

You shake. Like one of the delicate ginkgo leaves that litter the stone paths of his gardens. Like the wavering surface tension on the water of the stream that runs so close to your home. Like a fragile, little thing in his lap that has been so close to breaking for so long, and is too close to wholly shattering.

(Jing Yuan knows your heat will bring this for you. It’s a quiet knowledge. One he operates with at the core of his planning and strategizing, but doesn’t talk about with you openly. Not unless you asked. He is so deeply aware of how close you are to breaking and how much this scares you. He has already resolved to ease that burden however he can.)

“I’m sorry.” Jing Yuan can’t help apologizing. His own eyes— feel wet. His chest aches and he wants to squirrel you away into the depths of your nest and to his chest where he can quell your pain and lick your wounds for you. He wants to lick at you until you’re whole and well again.

“N-No.” You protest again. Weakly, you nudge the crown of your head into his chin. “You d-don’t gotta be. You said you h-have to, right?”

“I do.”

You nod, understanding. Speaking must be hard for you like this.

Jing Yuan gathers his resolve and bundles you, somehow, closer. You don’t fight him much anymore, only twitch and recoil as he wets the skin over your last scent gland with oil. It nearly shimmers in the low light.

You collapse against his chest, curling your fingers into his robe.

He kisses your forehead. “I’ll be as quick as I can be.”

You take a wobbling inhale and rub around your eyes, but nod all the same

(It’ll be over soon, then Jing Yuan can— do something. Something else that isn’t causing you such a great amount of pain—)

For your final scent gland, he begins by digging in with his knuckle, hard, into the center of the mass. You muffle a scream into his chest, hands beating against his sternum. It hurts him, he’ll probably be bruised, but he doesn’t truly care. He’s not even sure that you’re aware you’re striking him.

You mumble a stream of “make it stop, make it stop, make it stop—”s as he continues his touch, pressing more firmly and deeper into you. Your scent is— still muddled. Changing by the minute and it coats his throat like condensation. Suffocating. But he continues because he must and you’re so close.

Jing Yuan fully grabs your thigh, leveling his hand so that the heel of his palm is over your scent gland. With the strength of his arm behind his touch, he bears down and into you.

The sound that comes out of your mouth the next moment is inhuman. Wounded and pained and sharp, but there’s a gasp of breaking relief at the end. It’s a barely there wisp, but Jing Yuan hears it. You scramble, shaking so hard that he’s afraid you’ll truly break like a piece of porcelain.

He slows down his touch, easing off little by little until he’s rubbing over the scent gland with just enough pressure to be firm without bruising. You— you’re a mess. It’s endearing to see you in such a state as the pain of the massage fades away. Your eyes are red-rimmed and wet, around your mouth and nose is shiny with spit and snot. Your legs still shake where they cross over his lap. You sniffle and rub at your face.

Jing Yuan takes his palm, cupping your cheek to hold you again his chest, over his heart and breast.

You relax.

So does Jing Yuan, bit by bit as the adrenaline wears off. You need a moment, he knows, to collect yourself, and come back into yourself. He’s happy to let you ground yourself on him. Your breathing becomes more even and your eyes regain some clarity.

You peer up at him.

“... Water?”

Jing Yuan fetches you the nearby bottle wordlessly. You down half of it in a single swallow, and nearly gulp down the rest of it before Jing Yuan gently reminds you to slow down. You comply simply, so soft and pliant like this.

You sniffle. “That was a-a lot.

“I know. You did very well.” Jing Yuan tells you with a squeeze. “I know it was not easy.”

“... It wasn’t.” You sound wilted as you speak. “W-Will you have to do that... again?”

“I will.” He’s honest with you. “But now that you’ve had them... expressed in such a way, it shouldn’t be painful going forward. Just sensitive.”

Gingerly, he thumbs over one of the scent glands on the side of your neck. You stiffen, gasp, and then half-moan with the contact. Your legs go rigid and stiff, and a moment later you’re blushing so heavily, that Jing Yuan is worried you’ll go light-headed.

You buried your face in his chest once more.

“How did that feel?” He asks.

“Sensitive, like you said.” You give a muffled reply. “But not bad. Kinda’ good.”

“Good.”

Jing Yuan sighs, letting out a tension that he didn’t even know he had been carrying. He squeezes you closer, relieved, and wrung out himself. A purr hums out of him, one which he doesn’t quiet or hide.

You chirp to it, nuzzling into the line of his throat. Not fully content, but much closer than you had been before.

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

In the weeks after the pavilion party, you only cross Jing Yuan’s mind a small number of times.

Though your encounter had been quite endearing, and you quite cute— you certainly aren’t the first person to embarrass themselves in front of him. As... comforting as your scent had been as it clung to him in the hours after, it is, ultimately, a fleeting thing.

Jing Yuan accepts this and moves on. It’s better that way. He meets many people, constantly, all the time, and rarely do they linger with him on a personal level. The connections he keeps are few, and he prefers it this way.

(Forgive him for guarding his heart.)

The next time he encounters you, it’s during business hours.

He has a meeting with Yukong, a standard check-in, and for once he decides to go to the Sky-Faring Commission in person, rather than one of his usual hologram meetings (if it’s to escape the paperwork grind for just a little longer, why not?)

It’s midday, and the Commission is bustling with activity as Yukong leads him to the center console. Things are routine, there are no disasters, and no peculiar deviations in data and activity. All anomalies and oddities are accounted for and are being monitored as needed. It’s a relief, even if Jing Yuan expects it.

What he doesn’t expect is to see you flitting from desk to desk around the Commission.

Across the wide control room, you have a tablet tucked into the crook of your arm. Your lips are pursed as you tap around it, making conversation with a coworker. You smile when you speak. It’s charming to watch. It’s mundane and he didn’t expect it. He didn’t expect to see you and be intensely reminded that you are quite the cute thing.

You jump when a different coworker, a foxian, slaps her hands on your shoulders. You turn around, clearly indignant. Though Jing Yuan is too far away to hear you clearly, he can imagine the tone. His chest feels warm as he watches.

“General?” Yukong asks him, tugging his attention back. “Would you be amicable to take a tour of the upgraded sections of the delve?”

“I’d be delighted,” he says smoothly. Yukong excuses herself to put together a few things, and Jing Yuan makes himself comfortable with his hands behind his back, surveying the Palace of Astrum—

His gaze is brought back to you. Your foxian coworker chatters with you, having gathered your hands in her own, rocking the two of you in an odd, but friendly dance. The foxian catches his attention. She has downturned ears, the kind that some from the Yaoqing have, where they blend into their hair. This foxian has snowy, loose curls that ring around her face and jaw, draping into a long style down her back.

This must’ve been who you mistook him for during the party. Jing Yuan laughs to himself with a shake of his head.

(It is an oddly poignant reminder that, for all the courtesy and kindness you showed him, you meant that closeness for someone else. Friend or otherwise. There’s a melancholy with this understanding, this truth.)

The foxian’s tale swishes and her head jerks toward him.

You turn around, gaze sweeping the room, and then clearly, it lands on him.

And oh. It’s sweet. He can see the embarrassment in your cheeks as the foxian attempts not to split her side from holding in laughter.

Despite your surprise, you wave at him. Good-natured albeit nervous.

It warms something in him.

He nods to you and waves back. Your smile sweetens like sun-warmed honey.

...

Jing Yuan notices you plenty after that. You’ve been in his orbit for quite a while, haven’t you? Nearby, flitting around the Sky-Faring Commission under Yukong’s watchful eye. You’re often by the foxian’s side while she conducts her most important business. A helpful, sweet-smelling shadow.

(She confides to Jing Yuan that you’re something of a pup to her. Your family isn’t on the Luofu. They aren’t from the Luofu. You came here, all by yourself, a decade or so ago. She took you under her wing and when she notices Jing Yuan’s subtle interest, she gives him a firm, but well-meaning talking to about his intentions.)

It’s odd, more than worrisome when he first hears this. It’s unusual for an unmated omega to move without a pack or family unit. It’s not an unheard-of occurrence, but it’s usually not advisable. It’s also odd that you never wear scent patches.

You’re a curious thing.

Jing Yuan develops a quiet, but certainly present fascination with you. He tries to not seem too obvious. Only Yukong really notes his interest in you, and that’s due to how protective she is of you. His interest in you does lead him to visit the Sky-Faring Commission in person more often if only to catch a glimpse. Observe.

(Decide if indulging his inkling feelings toward you is worth any of the potential disasters that could come with it. )

It’s a low-burning thing.

He hardly speaks to you when he visits the Sky-Faring Commission anyway.

This isn’t entirely on him; you tend to scamper off after exchanging just a line or two of pleasantries. Your voice trembles and you look up at him with a reasonable amount of trepidation and anxiety when you do speak with him.

It is all surface level.

(At least, at first, it is. Jing Yuan doesn’t push further, and neither do you. You don’t even notice that he is probing you at all if he is to guess.)

Something shifts, one early morning.

It’s long before most of the Sky-Faring Commission is in for the day. Jing Yuan prefers meetings during this time if he is to attend them in person rather than through a hologram. There tends to be less fuss about the Divine Foresight's presence in the Commission so casually this way.

Yukong is already there when he arrives. As are you. You’re the only two in the Palace of Astrum, he assesses.

The two of you are tucked away in a corner, away from what Jing Yuan has identified as your own desk. Instead, you are seated on a plush bench, while Yukong kneels in front of you. Some of the hologram saplings that sprout from the metal floor obscure his view as he slowly circles closer.

The massive looms outside the Palace hum. It’s the only sound other than muffled sniffling— your muffled sniffling.

You sob, Jing Yuan thinks, as you cover your face with both hands.

“I-I’m sorry—” You say, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“It’s alright,” replies Yukong, voice barely above a whisper. “I know it’s a difficult time.”

“I should— I s-should be better than this, Madame Y-Yukong.”

She berates you for speaking lowly of yourself in her next breath, but her voice is gentle. Kind. The exact words are lost on Jing Yuan.

As you fully come into view, his breath catches.

You’re crying.

Big, round tears drip from your bloodshot eyes. They wet your jaw, darkening a spot on your outer garment where it lays over your thigh. You’re weeping, really, shaking in your shoulders as Yukong rests her hands on your knees, rubbing circles there.

Jing Yuan knows he’s intruding. He can’t stop himself from stealing a glimpse of the moment.

He feels... almost dirty about it. He’s captivated by your tears, your countenance, the way you grip the clothes over your chest and fight through a sob to tell the Helm Master “how foolish and daft and stupid you are”. It’s doing something to him.

(An awakening really.)

Affectionately, you’re a bit pathetic, and he wants— he wants you. Lucidly and fully.

Before the thought can consume him whole, he clears his throat.

The two of you jump. Yukong hastily rises and stands between you and himself. He can see your shadow, and how you have ducked to hide your face.

“General,” Yukong nods. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you had arrived.”

“I’m a bit early.” He shrugs, good-naturedly. “Is everything alright? It appears I’ve come at a bad time.”

Your scent clings to him again, this time sad and low, like the smell of embers as they hiss and lose their glow in late-evening mist.

Yukong speaks. “It’s alright, General.”

“I apologize—” You push yourself up and sway, daring to meet his eyes from around Yukong. You looked like a kicked puppy. And Jing Yuan has latent, though present instinct—

(He wants to take you away, somewhere safe—)

“No need,” he replies easily. “May I suggest rescheduling our meeting, Madame Yukong? My morning can be rearranged accordingly. I’m happy to procure a snack if you need some time.”

“I—”

Yukong cuts you off. “That would be much appreciated, General. Thank you. I should walk this one home, and then I’ll be available from then on, if that’s sufficient.”

“More than.” He looks at you when he speaks. “Whatever you need to do.”

You look like you intend to fight Yukong on this. But, Yukong deftly hooks her arm with yours and leads you from the Palace of Astrum with a slow, measured stride. She waves goodbye and urges you to too. You look back at him, still tear-stricken, ashamed, and crumbled, and wave.

“Goodbye, General. T-Thank you.”

He’s left alone then, with his thoughts and wisps of your unhappy scent swirling in the air.

Jing Yuan— well. He should get breakfast. A treat always does him well. First, though, he leans his forehead against a nearby pillar and runs a hand down his face.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

What are you doing to him? How are you doing this to him? He feels like a pervert. He— can’t decide if he wants you in his nest or his bosom. Both? It’s— a lot to sort through all at once. Something to ponder, truthfully, something to take his time with. He’s already been taking his time, and this is just another variable, another angle to account for.

He steadies himself (as he is so good at doing.)

This encounter solidifies the thing he has known but has had... trouble acknowledging.

He is enamored with you, at least a little. Perhaps a lot. At least, potentially a lot, in a way that makes him feel young and perverted and reminds him that he needs to continue to take his time. Step evenly toward you with small paces. He still can’t place if you like him, to be truthful. It’s another thing to suss out.

He gives himself time.

Perhaps he can obtain your phone number.

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

“Earlier,” says Jing Yuan, “you said you had questions for me?”

“Oh yeah. I did.”

You start to perk up from your cradle in his arms.

Following the scent gland massage, you had promptly fallen asleep on top of him, limbs tangled with his own. Jing Yuan can’t say that he minds, but the weight of you has him dozing off as well.

It’s good. And given that your pre-heat will surely be metastasizing into a full heat at any time, more than welcome. Any amount of rest he can secure for the two of you makes him feel more at ease. Your body clearly needs more time to settle, your scent still is muddled but slowly clearing up.

You sit up over his hips and brace yourself on his chest. Blinking, slow, like a sun-warmed cat showing an owner its trust and affection. Jing Yuan cups your cheek and you lean into it with an omegan chirp from the middle of your throat. You really aren’t all that different from a content cat.

“What did you want to ask?”

“It’s just one question, really… It might be kind of invasive.” You hide your face in his big palm. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’d still like to hear it still if you’ll tell me.”

You peek at him under your lashes and smother your lips against his hand. You collapse onto his chest and bury your face in his scent gland. It’s easy then, to lightly wrestle you to the side of him and get his arms around your waist. This position feels safest, the most secure.

You must feel the same as you nuzzle closer. Always so sweet with him, even if you are frightened.

“I... I wanted to ask about your old mate... mates,” you say so softly. “You don’t have a claim bite, but I read a few things that make it seem like you were mated at some point. You know that I haven’t really been with anyone other than you. And I guess I’m curious about what you’ve experienced... and what you’ve gone through.”

He hums.

Jing Yuan knows there have been rumors. Ancient, archival tabloid articles from the days of the High Cloud Quintet, speculating on the relationship status of “The High Elder of the Vidyadhara, Imbibitor Lunae”, “The Short-Life Furnace Master of the Luofu”, and “The Xianzhou’s most promising young Lieutenant strategist”.

They weren't so careful, hiding their affections back then. Yingxing didn’t care about his personal reputation, despite his known arrogance. Dan Feng welcomed contention from the preceptors and the public. And Jing Yuan had yet to learn all of restraint’s gentle dances. He knew some steps, but not enough to keep all of the throuple’s more... risque trysts from showing up in the next day’s forums and newsstands for an incredulous and gawking public, try as he might.

Despite all of the evidence, none of them ever addressed their mating in any official capacity. Privacy and all. Jing Yuan has parried the rumors now for years, even with the perception that he is an alpha. Given the... mostly detached way that he (publically) handled the exile of both of his once-mates, the whispers have fallen away in current times. More often, there will be a blurry photograph of him in a night market near an innocuous shadow with wild claims about him taking some mysterious partner.

It doesn’t bother him. It never has, really, but now he is laying in your nest and you ask him so gently, kindly, with a wrinkle between your brows, the conclusions you’ve drawn do give him a bit of anxiety.

“That’s a fair question to ask,” begins Jing Yuan. “I understand your curiosity.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” You nearly interrupt him. “Only what you’re comfortable with. It’s... not an easy topic, I imagine.”

“It’s not.”

You nose into his jaw, gooey. “Take your time.”

He does. It takes a moment for him to collect him and decide what to give you in this moment, if anything. He wants to, but his heart is still delicate in these deep, seldom-touched places.

“You are correct in that I was once mated.” He tells you, burying a hand in your hair. “Neither of them have any claim on me, and they haven’t for some time. My mating bite faded centuries ago.”

“‘They’?”

“Two,” he clarifies. “One alpha and one vidyadhara. I’ve rarely coupled after we parted, and when I have, it hasn’t been anything lasting.”

Nothing more than highly confidential hookups and heavy-petting sessions to scratch an itch that Jing Yuan struggles to reach himself. He rarely feels the need.

“... And they’re... gone?”

“Something like that.”

‘Gone’ is perhaps the most appropriate word for what happened to Yingxing and Dan Feng. Not broken up, not dead, just gone. Their Identities were replaced.

“... I’m sorry.” You squeeze him. “That’s so hard.”

“It’s alright.”

(It isn’t, not fully, but Jing Yuan made peace with the wounds the two of them left a long time ago. It does not rot anymore. Only aches on occasion.)

“It’s still hard.” You nose into his scent glands. “I can’t imagine experiencing the loss of a mate.”

“It’s not something I’d wish on anyone,” he replies honestly.

“They were your firsts?”

“First everything.”

“Oh.”

You nuzzle closer to him, your scent blooming and mingling with his own.

“No need to be sad on my account.” He squeezes your nape. “It happened a long time ago.”

“‘Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt anymore,” you remind him. You adjust to perch in his lap, cupping his cheeks. Your eyes are sad, still bloodshot from your tears earlier. “Thank you for trusting me to be close to you. It means a lot. And thank you for being close to me.”

His heart aches in the best way.

“Of course.”

Then, he kisses you. How could he not?

🎀💦 CONTINUED IN PART 2!! →

#lore writes #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #hsr x reader #WE DID!!! IT!!!!!#I'M getting up part 2 as we speak and i'll update links accordingly <3 #enjoy so so much

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literallys-illiteracy · 4 months ago

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So i've been playing through Hades 2 recently and, unless i'm just going insane, I'm fairly sure that in the later game (or in Hades 3) that we're going to fight against the gods in some capacity?

We have Nemesis, saying that the gods might deserve all of this happening to them, and that Prometheus didn't deserve his punishment; We have Moros talking about how he has ended the lives of mortals in interesting ways for entertainment; We have Heracles, who freed Prometheus, and who has been very screwed over by the gods in the past; In the previous game we had Sisyphus, happy; We have Arachne, whose story (and the amount she deserved her punishment) varies but still got fucked over; (Pan)Dora, where the last remaining item in her jar (box) was hope, sometimes seen too as a curse, the gods giving meaningless mortals hope in their lives; We have Athena talking about how compromise is failure and will only start more conflict; other olympians talking about flooding the earth or punishing mortals for siding with Chronos;

and finally, we have Prometheus, who is the most interesting character in the entire game;

Prometheus, the titan, is best known for three things:

He created the first humans out of clay (sometimes Hephaestus is credited with this)

He stole fire from the gods and gave it to mankind (which is why he is often considered the god of fire)

Liver. Bird. Liver. Bird. Liver. Bird [...]

Prometheus in Hades 2 is the god (titans and gods are virtually the same don't worry about it) of Foresight (due to his name being typically understood as to mean "Foresight" in contrast to his brother's meaning "Hindsight" or "Afterthought"), freed from the mountain by someone and who now fights against Olympus. Note that it was Heracles who freed him in the legends, and Heracles is a character who appears in game.

Prometheus clearly cares for humanity over all else, being their creator, and thus the source of their suffering.

The most interesting lines from Prometheus in the game are those regarding the future, after all he is the titan of foresight, specifically to do with mortals and the gods. Most notably, the recurring line:

Agent of Change.

Come then, Agent of Change, and show me what I know you can do!"

If you could see what i've forseen, you'd not believe it anyhow

(on death):

All... according... to plan...

Prometheus : "I could only... do my part..." [Melinoë : "Silence. Save your troubles for your master Chronos."] "It's not my troubles that I mean to save... Agent of Change..."

If suffering today brings a better tomorrow, so be it

and the most important line, the one that explains his persistence (in my eyes):

Gods could learn something from mortals, you know. For all their many failings, they have an admirable tendency to cling to hope; a certain quality we deathless often lack [Melinoë: Hope can be the salve for the naive. So many mortals hope they'll never die; a feeling born of delusion and fear] Yes! Mortals live short, painful lives. And even still they strive for something greater than they mostly can achieve. I fight for them! You gods only fight for yourselves

While there is all likelihood that my own foresight is flawed in this regard; all of this being simply a reference to the last curse of hope that remains in Pandora's Jar, I choose to see it that this is what Prometheus has learned through his years:

He fights for mortals, he suffers and dies as they do time and time again to strive for what is greater than himself, he clings to the hope that Melinoë will finally break this cycle and free humanity.

#literally's ramblings #Hades #hades 2 #hades supergiant #melinoe #hades game #Prometheus #Also I want to note just how much I love the depictions of most of the gods in this game #which is to say #they're all massive cunts who don't deserve their powers #There's a reason the most interesting people in Greek Myth are those who were wronged by the gods #Heracles; Arachne; Prometheus; Echo; The entirety of the Trojan War; Tantalus; Atlus; Cronus; Lamia;#Also those who kind of had it coming like Sisyphus; Narcissus; Midas

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thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch · 2 years ago

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the general of the luofu has a habit you've picked up on. a habit in which when he finds himself in a place of predicament, he will gracefully place his hands atop each other at the small of his back. that is why you also decided to develop a similar habit of standing just slightly behind him.

never when you had first relocated from a separate xianzhou alliance ship to the luofu's exalting sanctum did you imagine you'd be standing within the seat of divine foresight on a near regular basis. of course, the notion was not unheard of since it is the office of general jing yuan, but then again you hadn't expected yourself to eventually be working so close to him either.

working nearly in step with jing yuan was not in your relocation papers. when you first arrived and he was always on your heels, it nearly made you lose your cool more than you'd care to admit. the way he would just smile your lack of alone time off irked you further. you figured he was just doing it because he could, because no one would demand the general to knock it off aside from the master diviner and- more often than not- her nags were brushed aside unless absolutely dire.

but with that same, insufferable smile and persistence of his, jing yuan did what he did best and used it to his advantage until you were absolutely smitten with him, and he knew it.

you had attempted moving your work to central starskiff haven where all the hustle and bustle of the main hub for all things imaginable could take your mind off the dozing general, but it was a useless feat.

the bond between general jing yuan and yourself was something precious yet unnamed. it was seen and noticed, but you both refused to adapt to the way of labels- another thing jing yuan had a habit of. superstition about labels and them ruining everything he holds dear to him was a belief he had yet to be proven wrong.

the labeling and eventual tragic fall out of the high cloud quintet was more than enough proof for him. he would not risk you slipping away from him if he were to try and repeat the mistake. jing yuan was more thankful than you could ever imagine when you told him you understood.

"labeling a relationship with you, general, would surely bring unwanted gossip."

a rather poor excuse to try and ease his mind, since you both would float around each other's orbit, but it still worked nonetheless. thus, the nameless, labelless, and unspoken relationship that everyone aboard the Luofu knew about grew.

"he's like a weed," you had told fu xuan when she was once again pleading with you to try and convince him to do his job behind his desk and not run around avoiding it. once successfully coerced, fu xuan admitted she had no idea how you could withstand his stubbornness. "he's persistent and tough to get rid of. i just kind of let him be after getting too tired of trying to fix my garden."

jing yuan was easily within earshot of the jab, whether you meant to hurt his ego or not, you did bruise it. how could you not when you were calling him a weed just 20 feet away from the very desk he was confined to?

time can be both noticed and unnoticed by long-life species. on one hand, the passing of time seems so endless it just flits by seamlessly. 100, 200 years are nothing short of youth to them. until you reach the gate of older age where you then worry about when the mara will eventually strike.

jing yuan did not speak much of his past to you, and you never found a reason to harp and pry on it. you knew more than enough from texts and scrolls recorded in the halls you were fortunate enough to work in; no need to reopen old wounds he is too stubborn to admit still bleed.

the general who cares for the luofu cannot decide if he fears being stricken with mara himself and slowly losing his sense of identity to the point he cannot recognize you, or you being marked as an enemy for him to strike down because the mara struck you first more. should the former ever come to pass, he has faith that what needs to be done will be and you will stay safe with yanqing.

now, as you stand in the seat of divine foresight with the newly arrived trailblazers from the express also occupying the office with jing yuan, you notice his hands neatly folded behind him.

a slight advantage to the many layers of clothes he puts himself through dressing every day is that his two-tailed half-cape that rested on his shoulders and flowed down to his hips can offer some peripheral coverage.

like clockwork, when you noticed his hands placed in the small of his back, you took half a step closer to his diagonal and placed the pads of your fingers in the middle of his open palm. his fists would never fully curl behind his back, left open and lazily sitting on top of each other.

jing yuan's shoulders would drop just a fraction- hardly noticeable to anyone even if they were looking directly at him- every time you did so. the tips of your fingers were warm, a reminder of the present and also a teether to not let his mind wander too far.

he could feel the callouses on them, the rough skin so accustomed to battle ingrained into the skin of your hands and it brought him such comfort. his eyes gently shut and a smile lifts his lips, not one to mask behind, but one brought about naturally.

and just like always, when he felt your fingertips push lightly into his palm, his hand opened further, fingers pulling apart before he was curling them into yours.

yes, the general of the luofu has a habit you've picked up on. but he has also picked up a new habit of waiting for you to hold his hand when they're behind his back.

#jing yuan #jing yuan fluff #jing yuan x reader #honkai star rail jing yuan #jing yuan x y/n #honkai star rail #jing yuan blurb #jing yuan fic #hsr jing yuan #hsr #hsr fic #honkai star rail fic #honkai star rail fluff #jing yuan angst #jing yuan comfort #jing yuan hurt/comfort

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treasureyourfire · 1 year ago

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~ Your Fairytale Adventure Begins ~ ~ Choose Your Path ~

1 2 3 Reminder: * Trigger warning: All three readings have heaviness in them... 💔❤️‍🩹 I send everyone the supporting energies and wish all the best to reach a happy ending at the end of their struggles. * These are not gender-specific readings, in the stories I'll use They/Them pronouns. * These are collective readings for entertaintment. * I am not a professional reader and readings that I do are a part of my learning process. * The tarot can provide guidance, but you manage your own life according to your free will. Feel free to keep what resonates, and let go of what doesn't.~ * (English is not my mother language, sorry for the mistakes.)

* How is their life like a fairytale: Four of Cups, Knight of Swords, (the lowest card in the deck: Ace of Swords) * What magical qualities do they possess that can help them on their journey: Three of Wands * What obstacles do they need to overcome to achieve they fairytale ending: Reversed Sun, Reversed Chariot, Reversed Nine of Wands * What steps can they take to manifest their happily ever after: Tower, King of Cups

Over the mountain, over the valley, there once lived a human sitting in the shade of a tree. This human silently reflected on and taking stock of their life of that time. They were not satisfied. Disappointment and a sense of lack gnawed at them, and although they longed for something to fill this void, so that they could feel safe in their heart, they no longer believed in the opportunities offered to them with good intentions, promising improvement and happiness. Or maybe, even though they were offered in vain, they didn't see them behind the misty veil of their sorrow.

During their contemplation, suddenly, like some heavenly spark, an enlightening thought lit up in their mind. They were struck by an inspiration that spurred them to immediate action. They made their decision quickly. They decided to hit the road, arming themself for the struggles ahead. They was ready to change their destiny. Determined, unwavering, fearless, they galloped forward on the back of their fast horse, keeping their eyes fixed on their goal.

It was the beginning of a new chapter. Their enthusiasm and conscientious attitude helped them reach this milestone in their life. They planned their journey with foresight and awareness, preparing for possible obstacles. They looked to the future confidently. Full of hope, they embarked on this journey with commitment. The distance called them. They longed for a better world and were open to new experiences. They wanted to develop and grow, so that they could safely stand on their own feet and be a support for others besides themself. They had the opportunity to find companions who in return support them, inspire them, and can be of mutual help to each other during their journeys. The child in their heart searched the source of happiness, but in order to find it, they had to face several obstacles. Temporary setbacks dampened their enthusiasm. Willingly or unwillingly, perhaps they attracted the attention of others too much. Curious looks followed their actions;

"Can they rise to the task they have undertaken?" "Will they be able to do it?" Will they succeed or fail?” "Will their Sun ever shine?"

There were times when their momentum broke. They had to think about the direction to go next. They needed to take responsibility for themself and take back control. Perhaps, in the past, they were guided by noble intentions, but perhaps they did not follow the path their soul desired. They had to be honest with themself. They had to listen to their own inner voice, what they really wanted. They had to find their guiding star, which would bring them light in the darkness, and follow it with determination.

But what made it difficult for them was that they were forced to defend themself while searching for the star, and it was difficult for them to let go of this defensive state. It was like everyone was an enemy. They got into a situation where they thought about giving up because of the overburden. Up until now, they had barricaded themself from real or perceived danger for their own protection, but the constant readiness and persistent struggle to protect what they had gained had exhausted them. It was time for them to rest and gather their strength before committing to the next step. Maybe now it is necessary to accept help, accept the support of others, perhaps consider and change their standpoint.

Finally, the time for change was come.

They need to realise what is still present in their life that no longer serves their good. A drastic transformation must take place, all external obstacles or internal barriers must come down. It is necessary to break with habits or beliefs that hold back and limit their development and the achievement of their desired goals, so that they can create a truer, more authentic life for themself, in which their emotions can be fulfilled. The world has shaken around them, but they can use this dramatic change to their advantage. After the destruction, they may be given the opportunity to lay new foundations. A serious, difficult path may lie ahead, but after dealing with the old order and way of thinking, liberation and a fresh start can come, they can create their own kingdom, and achieve the emotional balance and stability that they wanted from the beginning of their journey. For a fresh start and a happy ending, they will need their diplomatic skills, their empathy, their devoted, service-minded character. If they follow their true path, in the future they will be able to maturely and wisely navigate in the deep, rich world of their emotions and become the warm-hearted leader of their empire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* How is their life like a fairytale: Hierophant, Ten of Swords * What magical qualities do they possess that can help them on their journey: Seven of Cups * What obstacles do they need to overcome to achieve they fairytale ending: Wheel of Fortune, The Moon, Page of Swords, Nine of Swords * What steps can they take to manifest their happily ever after: Three of Wands, Reversed Two of Pentacles

Once upon a time, there once lived a human who once felt like a respected member of a community. They respected its traditions, values and system. They felt safe, they had unconditional trust in those who surrounded them. They believed that this trust, this devotion was mutual between them and the group. In this unity, they felt that they had found something important, not only in the outside world, but also in themself.

But their world, in which they believed unshakably until then, suddenly completely collapsed around them. Life or perhaps their trusted companions betrayed them cruelly, inflicting deep wounds on them that forced them to the ground. They couldn't even move because of the pain. Disappointment, failure, despair consumed all their strength. They saw their situation futureless and hopeless. They needed rest, they needed to gather strength. They had to recover and then try to stand up again so that a new dawn could come in their life. They survived the disaster, but one of the most difficult stages of recovery must have been accepting this severe defeat in order to move on with their life... Rethinking they principles, they had to become open to this life-changing mutuation, adapt to their new situation and its challenges. They had to seize the new opportunities and use this change to their advantage in order to grow and develop.

During the journey ahead of them, their developed sense of reality will be great help for them. They have a very good sense that when they come to a crossroads, they make the right decision for their situation. They will need this talent when the wheel of their destiny leads them to the realm of the Moon, where everything is uncertain in the semidarkness, where terrifying creatures try to distract them from their path. They were destined for more than what they had so far, but in order for this significant change to occur, they had to be patient and open to the unknown.

In this unknown, there would be the chance to face their greatest fears, when they had to listen to their intuitions, their own inner guidance, and would also need an objective examination of their situation in order to overcome them and move persistently forward. They cannot allow themself to be deceived and diverted by the illusion conjured up around them, be it a frightening nightmare or a seductive vision that encourages them to chase unreal dreams.

With their truth-seeking sword, they must cut through the fog of visions and nightmares in order to clearly see who they are, where they are and where they are really going. Their struggle can take a toll on them. It can be a stressful time for them, with anxiety and sleepless nights. In exchange for their freedom, they may have to break the silence, make their voice heard, it is even worth asking for help from someone who has solid knowledge to navigate this swampy realm, who will help them clear their mind of toxic thoughts and set them on a path to find their way out of the oppressive darkness to the land of Peace and Understanding.

They were on the verge of a major breakthrough and transformation. The final decision awaited them. Whether they embark on this difficult journey alone or with support, it is crucial to thoroughly prepare for it, for the difficulties that may arise, and consciously plan their every step in advance, building a strategy. It is important to commit to their goal, but above all to themself.

In addition to preparation, it is also important to strive for balance and take care of both their physical, emotional and mental needs. Success will require juggling with different responsibilities and priorities, but remembering to rest and relax when they need it can prevent them from burning out and sapping their energy.

Although the idyllic, happy picture of the future may still seem distant to them, if they make the decision to go for it and persistently move ahead, the desired harmony and happiness can return to their life again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* How is their life like a fairytale: Ace of Pentacles, Six of Wands, King of Swords, Nine of Pentacles * What magical qualities do they possess that can help them on their journey: Queen of Swords, Eight of Wands * What obstacles do they need to overcome to achieve they fairytale ending: Five of Cups, Five of Swords * What steps can they take to manifest their happily ever after: Nine of Swords

Far far away, there once lived a pointful, sharp-witted human, who was given the opportunity to create a more fruitful and richer life for themself in the earthly world. This offer was a new beginning to build a durable, secure foundation for their future. They lived up to the invitation, entered the race bravely, and finally won. They proudly accepted their prize and took their rightful place in the empire. They became an intelligent, trustworthy leader who treated their companions fairly and addressed them with honest, clear words. They paid attention to always staying on the ground of reality, consciously handling and creating with their intellectual abilities. Their work has paid off. They created the abundance for themself what they could finally enjoy. They were independent and self-confident.

Their high-flying thoughts, ideas and clairvoyance were always helpful and they used them to advantage in difficult situations. They were understanding with others and helped those who needed advice. In return for their honesty and straightness, they expected the same from their companions. They did not lack fighting spirit, they resolutely defended what was important to them, carried out what they had planned, and stuck to their ideas.

But there are events in life when, unfortunately, no matter how much we want to, we cannot win. Such a painful shock or serious injustice or humiliation befell this person. They felt like they had failed. In the end they secluded to rest after the hard fight, to mourn the loss.

However, when we close ourselves off like this, we don't always see the good in our lives, we don't believe that our fate can change for the better, we can sink into the role of victim. We are filled with sadness and hopelessness. We can get stuck in the belief and emotional world that we are "losers", so we have a hard time realizing that we are still capable of joy and success. Once if they process and are able to let go of what happened, they will get back on their feet to leave behind the heavy grayness and start again towards a happier future.

The beginning of a big change came in their life. In this harrowing period, it is crucial to nourish their body as well as their soul and mental health and take the right quantity and quality of rest. For this, they may have to seek outside help to overcome the obstacles that their own mind has set up.

In addition to rest, engaging in activities that relieve their inner anxiety can help to them to find their way out of the oppressive darkness. It can be any creative, self-expressive activity, where they can put their thoughts into shape, express their feelings, or a form of exercise that suits them and relieves the accumulated inner tension. The goal is recovery and healing, rebuilding the shaken self-confidence.

Walking in nature, gardening, anything that brings peace to their soul can help. It may also happen that they allow a new science into their life, which arouses their interest and brings the zest for life again back to them.

If they learn to move on and let go, if they take care of themself, if they allow their imagination to soar again, if they rekindle the warrior fire in their soul, they can begin to heal and find their way back to the path of happiness.

#pick a card #pick a pile #pick a card reading #pick a picture #mine #tarot #tarot reading #tarotblr #tarot community #tarot journal #tarot card reading #pac #pac tarot #pac reading

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endwersed · 7 months ago

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WIP Whenever

Tagged by the wonderful @hedwig221b 🩷

I'm giving my brain a (brief, I promise!) break from my current WIP to work on the start of the top voted idea from my recent long fic poll - thank you to everyone who joined in with that! My planned next story is going to be an A/B/O neighbours AU, where Derek is a firefighter and Stiles is a single parent. I've actually got the whole first scene already done, so... here's that! 😊

It is already gone midnight by the time Derek stumbles into his apartment building, exhaustion running bone deep as he crosses the lobby as quickly as his aching legs and weary feet will carry him. The imposing wall of mailboxes slides quickly past his consciousness as he steams by, the key to his own bitingly sharp where it digs into the meat of his thigh through his pocket, but he won’t take the time to stop and check it. Not tonight. Not with every strained muscle in his body screaming at him to dump himself into bed as soon as is physically possible.

Stuttering to a stop before the chipped-metal doors of the elevator, he summons what truly feels like every ounce of strength left within him to raise a hand up to the little grey button to his left. It takes him a moment of slow, sluggish, heavy blinks before he notices that grey has not shifted green, is not lit up with the promise of an imminent arrival. It takes a few moments more for him to realise there is a note, taped up to the door before his sapped-stupid face.

OUT OF ORDER

There it is. Spelled out right there, right in front of him. A stark white sheet of paper, blocked out with this bold, bright, blood-red lettering that makes his temples throb that kick harder. Out of fucking order.

“Fuck,” he mutters out loud, stinging eyes shut as he palms at his forehead. “Can today get any fucking worse?”

A question as rhetorical as it is futile. It’s not like there is anybody around to answer him.

His teeth grind together as his hand falls away from his face, dropping to hang limply down at his side. It is a real, genuine internal struggle to fight against the agitated claws that want to slice through his fingertips, and it is only his years of practice that keep them buried inside his skin, keep his palms safe from anything worse than the blunt score of ordinary nails.

Forcing his eyes open again, he twists away from the broken elevator and stomps the few paces it takes to be able to push through the solid door that leads him into the dimly lit stairwell.

Eight-oh-two. The number to his apartment, all the way up on the eighth goddamn floor. This truth puts an unreasonable and infuriating number of steps between his drained body and the familiar comforts of home right now.

Back when he first moved into this place, a little over a year ago, signing on for an apartment on one of the highest floors hadn’t even registered as a thought, as something worth even taking notice of. He is a werewolf, after all, with werewolf strength and werewolf stamina. An alpha werewolf, at that, and with all of the preternatural advantages that come along with that particular status. A few measly flights of stairs were nothing, not to him.

That arrogance is coming back around to bite him in the ass now, though. He was perhaps a little too hasty when he signed his name on that dotted line; perhaps lacking in the foresight needed to anticipate the apparent inevitably of returning home off the back of the shift from hell, only to find himself staring down the barrel of concrete stair after concrete stair after concrete goddamn stair.

He bites back the fatigued groan that wants to rip from his chest and lifts his leg to drop the first boot down onto the first step. Fantastic. Now only a hundred fucking more to go.

Climbing and climbing, heavy footstep after heavy footstep, his entire body singing its raucous protest with each and every stride onwards and upwards. He makes it up one flight, then two, then three and four and five, and it is when he is turning the corner for the sixth, rolling his neck to stretch out the deep crick in his joints, that his ears catch onto a nearby sound, quiet and unexpected.

It sounds like… shit. It sounds like a kid. It sounds like a child, a boy, young and scared and alone, definitely nowhere near old enough to be roaming the halls of this not-very-nice apartment building in their not-very-nice neighbourhood, this late at night and without any supervision.

Instantly, Derek stops short. He tilts his head to the side and holds his breath, listening, tuning into the sound of the boy humming a tune that Derek does not recognise, softly and shakily. The footsteps that Derek can hear are light, aimless and hesitant. The siren call of home, of bed, leaves him in a flash. He turns to follow where his ears can lead him.

With each hurried pace forwards, with each hastily rounded bend, the sound grows louder, easier to pinpoint. The humming in constant, quiet and rhythmically repetitive, but those footsteps falter, more than a few times, halting with a short catch of breath, a skipped beat of a heart. As Derek draws closer, his nose wrinkles around the sharp, sour scent of fear.

The kid isn’t far now. Derek can tell, because the boy has stopped moving entirely. Listening in to the faint thump of a back hitting a wall, the slow slide of fabric against painted plaster as the boy slides down it, another soft thud as he meets the carpeted floor beneath. He carries on humming, never deviating from that same, lilting tune. But Derek can still hear the small, broken, hiccupping sobs, choked and breathless in a way that makes Derek’s heart clench, makes him break into a speed he would not have considered himself capable of, only moments ago.

He is practically sprinting as he crosses that final stretch, pushing through another set of heavy doors and out into the hallway of a floor he has never ventured to before, until – he finds him.

Curled up on the floor, with his knees tucked up to his chin and his arms wound tightly around his shins, is the child. He cannot be much older than six, if that. He is wearing pyjamas, fire trucks printed all over the soft cotton pants, a large one taking up the middle of his chest. His brown hair is a messy mop on top of his head, sticking up wildly close to his temples, and his face is pale around his flushed cheeks, spilled tears staining tracks against his skin.

It is clear that the boy hasn’t noticed him yet. Derek can tell from the way his face stays buried against his legs, his wet eyes screwed shut and his lower lip wobbling with his tears. Derek slows himself down to a cautious kind of pace, careful to press on with light feet to avoid spooking the boy with any sudden noises.

At only a few steps away, Derek pauses, keeping his hands held out in front of him. He silently curses himself for not bothering to take the time to shower and change back at the station. He doesn’t need a mirror in front of him to remember that his white tank top is a mess of black soot, his face smudged with smoke and dirt. He knows that he hardly looks like the kind of adult a frightened little kid is likely to trust.

He has to give it a try, anyway.

“Hey,” he says gently, and the boy’s wide eyes snap up to look at him. “Are you lost?”

Now, Derek is not typically very good with kids. Something about him tends to just… scare them. Laura says it’s his face. Derek generally tells her to fuck off. He doesn’t necessarily disagree, though. Today, add in the fact that the last fire of the night left him looking like, well, this, and he finds himself at even more of a disadvantage than usual.

No answer comes from the boy. He simply blinks up at Derek, his eyes red and damp. He sniffs, a breath that trembles as he pulls it in, and he unwraps one arm from his legs to wipe at his cheek with the edge of one sleeve. His heart beats unsteadily as the scent of his fear takes on a bitter, panicky edge.

Derek lowers himself down to the ground, dropping down to his haunches, intentionally unhurried. He meets the boy at his level and does everything he can to look even just a little less terrifying than Laura always tells him his resting face is.

“It’s okay,” he tries again, hands clasping between his knees. “I just want to help you. Do you live in this building?”

A heavy beat passes in silence. He breaks into a soft smile when the boy finally gives him a slow nod.

“That’s good, that’s great,” he carries on. “Do you remember what floor you live on?”

This time, the boy shakes his head. The corners of his mouth turn down, his eyes growing watery again, the air salty with nearly shed tears as his chin wobbles. Derek takes one look at the boy’s distress and has to swallow around a thick lump in his throat, forcing the reassuring smile at his mouth not to waver.

“It’s okay, that’s fine, we can figure this out together.” He presses an open palm against his own chest. “My name is Derek. Can you tell me your name?”

Another pause. A good few seconds where the boy simply peers at him, merely stares with those big, brown, tearful eyes, so full of nerves, wide open with apprehension. Derek makes sure to hold the boy’s gaze steadily, not allowing the curve of his mouth to slip. He waits quietly, patiently, as the boy sniffs again, chin still trembling as he tilts it up into the air.

“Johnny,” he says.

His voice is so small, shaking as he speaks. Derek lets his smile open around his teeth.

“It’s nice to meet you, Johnny.” He nods down to Johnny’s shirt. “Do you like fire trucks?”

Johnny blinks owlishly at him for a second, before returning that smile with full force. His grin is huge, crooked and gap-toothed, and the scent of fear dissipates so quickly that Derek actually finds himself a little taken aback at such an abrupt shift in emotion.

“I love fire trucks,” Johnny says, with all of the childish sincerity in the world. “Did you know not all fire trucks are red? Sometimes they’re yellow, or green!”

Derek bites at the inside of his cheek, a slight ripple across his shoulders with his soft laughter.

“I did not know that,” he replies. “I’m a firefighter.”

Johnny’s jaw goes slack immediately. Derek doesn’t bother tamping down his next breath of laughter.

“That is so cool.” Johnny pushes forwards onto his knees, hands flat to the itchy carpet as he inches a little nearer. “Do you get to ride in the trucks?”

“I do,” Derek says.

“That is so cool,” Johnny repeats breathlessly.

Derek can feel his eyes crinkling with the spread of his smile, head tilting as he takes in Johnny’s earnest excitement. This kid is absolutely adorable, he cannot help but think. His parents must be missing him very much, if they’ve woken up and realised he has disappeared into the middle of the night.

“How did you end up out here?” Derek asks.

The easy smile falls away from Johnny’s lips at the question, pressing into a tight line instead, his eyebrows drawing quickly together. His eyes drift just over Derek’s shoulder, sliding to somewhere behind him, and Derek follows his gaze with a twist of his neck, finding himself staring through the window on the opposite wall, the night out beyond it black with darkness and white with stars.

“I couldn’t see the moon,” Johnny says when Derek turns back to him, his voice melted soft and scared once again. “I just wanted to see the moon, but then I got lost, and papa always says I should sing my lullaby and find a nice person to help if I get lost, but then I couldn’t find anyone, and I don’t know how to get home, and I –“

“Hey, hey,” Derek comes soothingly in, two palms held placatingly out. “It’s okay now. You found me, and I’m going to help you.”

Biting down on his bottom lip with the one front tooth he has left, Johnny nods. He chews for a quiet second, tilting his head slightly as he considers Derek, before crawling that tiny bit closer, still on his hands and knees.

“You live next door,” he says, quiet but confident. “I remember.”

Derek blinks. He doesn’t recognise this kid at all, cannot honestly say he has ever seen him before. He isn’t exactly pally with his neighbours, though. He isn’t exactly pally with anybody except his sister. Hell, he’s barely even pally with her.

Vaguely, he does recall that he got some new neighbours, a couple of new people moving into the vacant apartment beside him, maybe just a little under a month ago now. Now that he thinks about, he is relatively certain that it was a guy, an omega, a single parent with a young kid. It would make Derek’s job of getting Johnny home a whole lot easier, if true.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks.

Johnny nods, quick and sure.

“I’m sure,” he answers. “You have a doggy. He’s brown and he has floppy ears and you call him Buddy.”

Oh. Okay. Well, that clears that up, then.

“You’re right. I do have a dog called Buddy.” Derek puts his smile back in place as he extends a hand out. “Can I take you home now?”

Derek can sense Johnny’s hesitation even before he smells the faint wave of worry in the air.

“My papa says I shouldn’t go with strangers,” Johnny mumbles.

“Your papa’s right,” Derek replies immediately. “But I’m your neighbour, and I just want to make sure you get back home safely. Is that okay?”

One more long pause. One final slow nod. Johnny fits his small hand into Derek’s palm, fingers curling around Derek’s knuckles, taking Derek’s help as he clambers to his feet, limbs clumsy as he arranges himself into a standing position. Derek rises up with him, rolling up to full height and finding that the boy barely comes up to his waist.

A tilt of his head lets Johnny look up at Derek. That lopsided smile is back on his face as their eyes meet. He keeps his firm grip on Derek’s hand as they stand together.

“Okay,” he says. “I’d like to go home.”

“Okay,” Derek echoes back. “Let’s get you home.”

Any earlier exhaustion has faded into nonexistence as they climb the stairs in tandem. Johnny chatters away about what seems to amount to literally anything and everything that comes into his mind, and Derek is more than content to simply listen as they ascend, supplying a little him here or a quiet ah there, just to make sure Johnny knows he’s still listening.

It is only a few more flights until they reach their floor, Derek swinging the door open for Johnny to pull him through. Derek leads them deftly through winding halls, all the way to the far end, where Derek knows his apartment is, and, apparently, Johnny and his papa’s, too.

“Derek,” Johnny says, tugging at an attention he never actually lost, Derek humming an acknowledgement, anyway. “Can I meet your doggy?”

“Not tonight.” Derek holds back a laugh at the immediate pout that juts Johnny’s lower lip out. “We need to get you home, your papa will be worried about you. You can meet Buddy another time.”

Johnny’s eyes go wide as he gapes up at Derek. Derek smiles back down at him.

“You promise?” Johnny asks.

“I promise,” Derek vows.

A few more paces, and then they are coming to a stop in front of a closed door. Johnny falls quiet all at once as they stand before it, chipped metal numbers nailed into the wood, reading out a number close to Derek’s. Eight-oh-three. He wastes no time in raising a fist and knocking just beneath them.

Seconds pass. He does not hear even a shuffle of movement coming from inside. Maybe Johnny’s father is out. Maybe he woke up and discovered his kid missing and is out looking for him, roaming these halls in search of his wayward son. Derek tightens his hold on Johnny’s hand and knocks again.

This time around, something stirs to life on the other side. Bedsheets rustling, a lamp flicking on. A grumbled curse under breath and bare footsteps padding along a wooden floor. The click of a lock, a moment before the door inches cautiously open.

It really is just that, though – an inch. There is barely enough space between the door and its frame for Derek to peer through, to see into the darkness of the quiet apartment, to make out the shape of a sleep rumpled figure standing just inside, narrowed eyes fixing Derek with their suspicious gaze. If Derek didn’t have his superior vision, this would mostly be a blur to him, right now.

He is a werewolf, though. He can see what humans can’t.

The omega in front of him is clearly just roused from a deep sleep. His dark hair is a mess, entirely reminiscent of his son’s, and he is wearing nothing but a loose t-shirt, falling down slightly over one bony shoulder, a pair of boxer briefs keeping him modest on his lower half. He has freckles sweeping across the soft slope of his nose, moles dotting the height of his cheekbones, a sharp jaw and a pink mouth, currently pulled all the way down into a severe sort of frown. Even in these shadows, Derek can see that Johnny gets his big, brown, soulful eyes from his papa.

Absently, Derek wonders how the hell he didn’t notice an omega who looks like this moving in next door. He pushes the thought quickly aside and plasters a trustworthy smile onto his face.

“Yeah?” Johnny’s father prompts, his voice sleep-rough and palpably impatient.

“Uh, hi,” Derek says. “I think I found something that belongs to you.”

Derek tips his head pointedly down towards the space just at his side. He watches on as the guy follows with sceptical, unhappy eyes, right up until they take in the sight of his son, still holding tightly onto Derek’s hand, pressing firmly up against Derek’s leg. The very moment his gaze lands there, is widens with shock, not a second passing before he is swinging the door abruptly open with the harsh knock of his shoulder.

The heart beating away behind his ribcage ratchets into overdrive. The scent filling the air snaps instantly into fear.

“Johnny!” His face shifts into fury as he stares at Derek with apparent disgust. He reaches out immediately to snatch Johnny’s hand out of Derek’s, pulling the boy quickly into the apartment even as he still sneers at Derek. “What the fu– heck, dude? Who are you and why do you have my son?”

Derek takes a sensible step backwards as he throws two palms up.

“I found him downstairs,” he hastens to explain. “I was just helping him get back home, that’s all.”

“Derek lives next door, papa,” Johnny chimes in, blinking up at his father with a dopey grin, free arm clinging around the leg nearest to him. “He has the doggy. You remember the doggy, right, papa? The one with the ears?”

For a second, Johnny’s father just blinks right back down at him. His teeth grit together as he lifts the hand not gripping onto Johnny’s to scrub roughly over his face, skating up to run through his messy hair afterwards. His mouth purses around a shuddering sigh as he leans down towards his son.

“What were you doing downstairs in the first place, kid?” he asks.

It doesn’t look like Johnny wants to answer that one. Not for his father, at least. He drops his head to stare at where his socked feet are scuffing into the wooden floors, his mouth studiously shut and his eyes fixed anywhere but at his worried papa. Derek wonders just how many times this kid has gotten in trouble for pulling stunts like this before.

“He said he wanted to see the moon.” Derek isn’t entirely sure why he hasn’t backed off for his own apartment just yet, but he jumps in to help explain, all the same. The omega’s sharp gaze snaps back to him and Derek tries not to let himself be too bothered by the mistrust in his eyes. “I think he just got a little lost. Right, Johnny?”

“Uh huh,” Johnny mumbles, still not looking up.

Johnny’s father’s mouth is parted as his eyes swing between Derek and his son.

“He wanted to see the…” He trails off with a shake of his head, a crease between his eyebrows as a sigh pushes out from his lips. He drops down into a crouch, lifting a finger to crook beneath Johnny’s chin to tilt his head back up. “Johnny. What have I told you about wandering off without me?”

“Not to do it,” Johnny whispers.

“Exactly,” Johnny’s father breathes. “So why, kid?”

Instantly, Johnny’s chin wobbles. Derek genuinely has no idea how this kid’s father stays strong in the face of that. Especially not when his eyes go glassy, eyelashes starting to clump wetly together.

“I’m sorry, papa,” he says quietly.

Johnny’s father pulls him into a tight, quick hug. He lets Johnny press in closer, lets him tuck his little face into his neck, the fingers of one hand carding gently through the dark mess of Johnny’s hair. Derek simply watches silently, helplessly, and a little awkwardly, on.

“Don’t cry, sweetie,” Johnny’s father says softly. “I’m not mad. I just – I need you to be safe. Okay?”

“Okay,” Johnny sniffs wetly. “I am sorry, papa.”

“I know you are.” Johnny’s father presses his mouth to Johnny’s temple, a moment of touch before he pulls out of the hug just enough to look Johnny in the eye. “Now, I want you to go into your room and get back into bed. I’ll be in in just a minute so we can talk a little more. You understand?”

“Yes, papa.” Johnny turns his gaze up to Derek with a small, still tearful smile. “Thank you for helping me. I can’t wait to meet your doggy.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Derek offers a real, genuine smile in return. “I’m sure Buddy can’t wait to meet you, too.”

Sparing a final, impish, excitable grin in Derek’s direction, Johnny allows his father to guide him further inside the apartment with a firm hand pressing against his back. He throws an overly enthusiastic wave over his shoulder as he disappears into the darkness. Derek can’t help the fond smile that sticks to his mouth as he watches the kid go.

That smile slips entirely when he tears his gaze back to the boy’s father. This guy looks decidedly less impressed by Derek than Johnny did. With one eyebrow arched, he folds his arms defensively over his chest, pinning Derek in place with a long, hard, parental sort of frown, a clear accusation clinging to its edges.

“So,” he says. “You.”

Derek feels his eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead.

“Me?” he replies. “What about me?”

The omega catches his tongue between his teeth. His big, brown eyes are narrowed down to slits.

“You just happened to be lurking the halls at,” he pauses to glance at something on the wall beside him, “one o’clock in the freaking morning?”

Derek forces himself to stay rigidly still, forces himself not to give into the almost overwhelming urge to capitulate into some kind of false confession under this guy’s harsh unwavering glare. He tips his chin up and shoves his hands as nonchalantly as he can into the depths of his pockets.

Even more so than his first encounter with Johnny, he is achingly aware of how the events of his shift have left him looking right about now.

“I work down at the fire station.” Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t get anywhere near the levels of enthusiasm from Johnny’s father as he did from Johnny when he reveals this career path. “I was just getting home from a shift when I heard him walking around on his own. Figured he could use some help.”

Johnny’s father purses his mouth, openly appraising Derek with the slow drag of his eyes. They sweep down and up the length of him, from his old jeans to his dirty tank to his smoky face. Eventually, the omega blows a sharp breath out through the slight parting of his lips, letting his eyes widen from their suspicious squint, at least just a little.

“Fine,” he sighs out. “I guess I should probably say… thank you, then.”

Derek scoffs a laugh at the complete absence of sincerity in his tone. He gives a short, disbelieving shake of his head as he stares incredulously back at this guy.

“Don’t strain something on my account,” he replies drily, before letting his own eyes narrow right back. “You know, you’ve got a good kid there. Smart. He only agreed to let me help him because he recognised me as your neighbour.”

Johnny’s father clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He rolls his eyes as he uncrosses his arms, letting them hang loosely down at his sides.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “He’s obsessed with your dog.”

“I gathered that.” Derek hesitates a second before ploughing on. “He really is welcome to meet him, if he wants. If it’s okay with you.”

It looks as though Johnny’s father barely even registers this offer. He waves a flippant hand in the air between their chests.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he says. “Look, it’s late. Thanks for not turning out to be a creep, I guess. I’ll see you around.”

Derek already has his mouth open around a response. A cutting, caustic, offended retort to this guy’s apparent indifference, apparent agitation, that Derek literally jut helped his son get safely back home. But, before a single word can pass through his gritted teeth, the door slams shut, right in his face. Echoingly loud and blatantly final, leaving Derek standing out alone in the harshly lit hallway.

He sighs. He was looking forward to getting his ass home, he supposes.

Digging his keys out of his pocket and only grumbling under his breath a little bit, he takes a quick sidestep until he can stand in front of his own front door, until he can shove the key into the lock and twist his wrist to kick it open. He hears the instant shift of Buddy waking up inside, soft paws against the wooden floor as he pads from his bed in the corner over to where Derek is stepping over the threshold.

The door snicks shut behind him as he crouches, scratching fingers going right to the spot behind Buddy’s ear that he loves. He is granted a low rumble and a wagging tail for his troubles.

“Hey, Buddy,” he greets. “I met a big fan of yours tonight.”

Buddy pulls his head away from Derek’s hand in favour of rolling himself onto the floor, belly-up in open invitation. Derek breathes out a laugh even as he immediately dives in to give pets as so politely requested. He lets his mind drift to next door as his fingers move through soft fur.

He wonders just how much of a scolding Johnny must be getting right now. He hopes the kid will actually listen this time around, will actually let the warning to not go roaming around the building late at night ever again on his own sink in. He tries to imagine how Johnny’s father must be feeling, scared and relieved all at once, such an instant flood of overwhelming emotion at being handed the kid he hadn’t even realised he had lost.

It would explain why he was so rude to Derek, just now.

Or maybe he’s just a dick. Who knows?

Either way – there is no point dwelling on it. In all honesty, that is very likely the first and last interaction that he will ever have with that pair, with that father and son, that omega and his kid. Derek should be putting his mind to more important things right now, like getting his ass into the shower, and then getting his ass into bed, precisely where it should have been a damn while ago already.

“C’mon,” he says as he stands up, Buddy rising with him. “Time for bed.”

If he happens to dream of big, brown eyes and a panting, pink mouth…

Well. That’s nobody’s business but his.

Low pressure tags! @crownofstardustandbone @dear-massacre @demonicfaerie @eevylynn @like-lazarus

@lucky-bishop @patolemus @raisesomehale @seaweed-water @violetfairydust

#sterek #my fic #this is ~5k jsyk

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genericpuff · 1 year ago

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I feel mean criticizing an author's old work that they've deliberately buried, but sheesh the dialogue in Rachel's old stuff is really stilted. As awkward as LO's writing is, it honestly does show some improvement, so like...good for Rachel I guess?

I mean, it hasn't really improved though? Normally no, I wouldn't criticize someone's older work because by the virtue of something being old, it will naturally be improved upon and shouldn't be judged against what's created in the present (trust me, as someone with work from 10 years ago that hasn't aged well, I get it LOL).

But what's in the present... has all the same issues. I think it's easy to convince ourselves LO's writing is "better" because it relies on Greek myth to piece itself together, but when you aren't filling in the blanks for her based on assumptions made from the source material (which you shouldn't have to do) her writing in LO still doesn't have much to offer. Like, can we really call this an improvement?

If anything the writing in LO got even worse over time because it started to feel like ChatGPT was writing the dialogue and the narrative was crumbling under the weight of Rachel's lack of foresight / planning ahead.

I mean, just to get my point across, let me ask you one simple question: What is the actual theme of LO? What is the conclusion it comes to by its end to contribute to that theme?

This isn't me trying to minimize whatever improvements she may have made between the past and present, I just don't see those improvements, and there's a lot more to suggest that she was a lot more prolific 20 years ago as an artist than she is today. All of that stuff about Persephone / herself being a "workaholic" is based on stuff she went through 20 years ago that she doesn't even put on display now because it's all buried in deactivated Tumblrs and LiveJournals. But that's besides the point.

I think at best the "improvement" simply boils down to "at least she finished this one". But that's not necessarily a good thing because it's clear LO went on longer than it ever should have and that the only reason she even made it this far was because she was bound to a contract through WT. I guarantee you if it weren't for the success that WT's gave her through constantly advertising LO everywhere (and the fact that LO fit a very specific niche that was popular at the time) she would have ended LO ages ago, because just about every series she's done up until this point have been passing fancies that she's bounced between while still retaining a lot of the same tropes and crutches she always has.

LO is about a naive valley girl with mommy issues who goes to school to better herself. This is also the plot of The Doctor Foxglove Show. And while comics like Castle Castle, Woman King, and The Maiden don't involve school settings, they do still center around "girlboss" characters who hate their parents. LO isn't really an "improvement" among these tropes, just another rehashing that's hidden way better because 1.) she put it behind the veil of Greek myth and 2.) she's done everything in her power to hide the fact that she's been writing about the same pink-haired girls with mommy issues and trauma from evil men "except for that one guy who's perfect in every way" for 20+ years now.

And that issue of stilted dialogue goes way beyond even the comics. Read transcripts of her interviews or the Q&A from the end of the series that she did in her Discord and you'll see she has a really hard time finishing the thought she started on. I'm sure a lot of this can be chalked up to her ADHD / dyslexia, which is totally valid, but it just goes to show she hasn't done any work to actually improve her work in spite of her hindrances. She doesn't know how to separate Internet trolls from valid criticism and she seems to absorb any and all criticism as "proof" that she's better than everyone else, actually, and it's not her fault that other people are stupid and don't get her "vision". And I'm not pulling this assertion out of thin air, she's displayed this exact behavior before both within the LO fandom as well as her pre-existing fandoms around her other series.

Like, I can totally get the sentiment that "hate mail is a sign of success" and turning a negative into a positive, but there's a difference between deflecting hate mail from trolls and deflecting genuine criticism that's meant to identify your weaknesses and help you grow. That's what makes it all the more telling that she's built an audience around protecting and enabling her weaknesses rather than celebrating her strengths and empowering her to do better. She can't fall back on Webtoons as the only excuse for why the writing in LO is bad, her writing has always been like this and I feel like that's half the reason she's trying to hide it.

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything #tl ; dr nah she hasn't improved.. if anything she's just been more reinforced in her flaws because WT has enabled her to do the bare minimu #and because her fandom is made up of children #lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical

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themalhambird · 4 months ago

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ROP Ladies Week Day 5: Hurt/Comfort or and Angst

For @verecunda who wanted a fix it where Mirdania kicks Annatar's sorry arse or believes Celebrimbor on the battlements... it's not a particular triumph, I'm afraid, but Mirdania lives and she does believe Celebrimbor... cw- general violence/threat in line with series 2 final episodes in general

She reaches out to touch him.

He flinches back from her before her hand makes contact.

No- not a flinch. Recoiling, like an unprotected hand straying too close to metal so fresh-forged it’s not yet been plunged in water to cool. Like a horse catching wind of a serpent underfoot and rearing in a fit of dueling rage and fear. And he roars, “Keep your hands from me!” with a bellicosity she hadn’t known he could ever be drawn into- his fists clench, his eyes flash-

There were, at first, whispers- and later, open speculation. Open accusation. Fëanor’s line. Fëanor’s pride. Fëanor’s madness. Mirdania swallows, takes the smallest of steps back away from him, away from the edge of the wall, and raises her hands. Palms open, fingers spread. “Alright,” she says softly. “Alright, my lord, I’m not touching-”

Another explosion. Another projectile smashing something in the city. They’ve all grown used to it by now, Mirdania and Annatar and the soldiers on the ramparts, they brace themselves as the ground shakes but otherwise, they barely flinch. But Lord Celebrimbor- Celebrimbor cringes like a slapped puppy, hands flying up to cover his ears, the fingers of his left hand curling to pull at his hair in a mark of distress she’s only ever seen once before-

And the look on his face. A mix of horror and surprise, wild casting about with his eyes as he straightens again, like this is all new, like the whole of this long siege is a fresh revelation to him-

He’s not well. He’s clearly not well. Beneath the soot, and the grime, and the blood; his filthy hands, although he’s as fastidious about rinsing himself off when leaving the forge as the healers are when preparing to look at an open wound. Beneath all that, his eyes are ringed with exhaustion; his cheeks sunken, his entire frame grown haggard. He’s not well. He’s in no position to be up here, on the front lines- even without the distraction he’s causing with his rambling, wild accusations about Lord Annatar, who’s done nothing but care for Celebrimbor’s city, in Celebrimbor’s absence and incapacity- done nothing but care for , Celebrimbor himself-

If that’s Lord Annatar’s care, I’d hate to see his lack of it.

Narvi’s voice. A- disagreement, between herself and Khazâd Delve-Master following the Lord of Gifts’ own disagreement- row, more honestly- over the latter’s decision to shift his focus from nothing but rings, to the Doors of Durin project.

“He’s- passionate about the preservation of Middle Earth, Narvi, that’s all. He cares-”

“If that’s Lord Annatar’s care, I’d hate to see his lack of it. He might as well’ve struck Celebrimbor across the face, to speak to him so in his own Halls…”

“The wall,” Celebrimbor murmurs, blinking rapidly, for a moment almost seeming back to his old self. “The wall must be reinforced. I- there is- there are plans for this, why were they not followed- you!” his head jerks back up past Mirdania’s shoulder, a murderous glare rolling into his eyes like a stormfront-

“Let us look at it together, my lord!” Mirdania says. “We’ll go down, and we’ll look at the wall together, yes, and you can tell me your plan?”

She knows. She knows with sudden, horrible certainty that Celebrimbor must not be allowed to make a lunge for Annatar, must not be allowed to press his accusations, his orders that Annatar be seized. She has never been one for foresight but in this moment she knows, with a cold, prickling dread, that if he does go for the Maia’s throat…

It will finish him. He’ll be arrested himself, or cut down, and I don’t even know that Annatar- or the guards- would be wrong to do it- he’s not - something has gone so horribly wrong…

“The plan- yes, the wall. You’re right- Mirdania-” and he says her name like a desperate prayer, like he doesn’t trust that he’s got it right but he does, he does- “Wall first, deal with that-” a filthy look at Annatar- “-later-”

He pivots and makes for the stairs. Mirdania turns around, looks at Annatar, and smiles. He has such an air of concern, such a perfect blend of worry and hurt and righteous indignation and- and concern on his face. “I’ll take him back inside,” Mirdania says to him, offering him her half of the weary, it’s-hopeless-but-we’ll-stick-it-out-together smile of reassurance they’ve shared so often since Celebrimbor’s sickness first emerged. Since he first told her…

Death and Sulpher.

What would Sauron look like, if he were to be seen how he really, truly was?

“...take him back inside, get him to rest. I’m so sorry to see him attack you thus, my Lord,” she finishes, and he returns her smile-

Does it meet his eyes? Difficult to tell, by the fires-light. He’s always been a little cold. Does the curve of his mouth seem a little cruel? Or is it her imagination, her exhaustion, her fear, reworking scraps in imitation of her favourite teacher’s own habits and quirks-

“Much as it pains me, to see this complete decline,” Annatar says quietly, throwing a look toward Celebrimbor’s hurriedly vanishing figure. “It might be better for everyone if you were to make sure that, once he is back in the forge, he cannot go wandering from it again.”

She has to work to keep her smile in place, to keep her expression otherwise placid. A flash- a hint of an image in her head- as their eyes meet, their locked gazes sympathetic- and at the same time she is certain that the thought originates with him, not her, and she thinks- oh Eru Ilúvatar , she thinks she’s going to be sick as she looks Sauron in the eye and asks, in her best expression of a timid little girl frantic for reassurance, for guidance- “Would you…would you have me bind him, my lord?”

She is not imagining the smug satisfaction that twists his handsome, kindly face for the briefest of moments. “If you think it best,” he replies, the very cast-mould of concern. “I wish…but I fear mere locks will do very little, against the skill of Curufinwë’s heir.”

He doesn’t mean Fëanor, she thinks, as a ripple of unease spreads amongst- not all the soldiers, but the ones Mirdania knows are older. Ones who remember the first age. Ones who might once have dwelt at Nargothrond, or Doriath. Like the one who steps forward and says, “Perhaps some of us ought to come with you, my lady-”

“I will be fine,” she says, and before anyone can object further, she hastens after Celebrimbor. Mostly for his sake. But also-

She thinks, if she has to keep smiling at Sauron, her legs might give way.

And on the bright side, apparently Celebrimbor has siege plans in place. It might have been helpful if he’d mentioned that before there was a siege, and he was taken ill, or made ill, and Sauron overtook the city, but still. She finds him at the foot of the shuddering wall, directing a group of soldiers, and citizens, speaking of using rubble for the barricades, and…barrels of pickled rope in the watchtower cellars?

“-rolled up, arranged like nets- through them over the barricades, all along the walls- if they get through, one fire arrow will set the whole segment ablaze, they’ve been soaking in Dwarvish brandy since Ost-in-Edhil was built- don’t just stand there gawping at me do it!”

“Do as he says.”

Her voice lends authority to his. It shouldn’t. As the people around them finally scatter to obey the Lord of Eregion’s directions, he turns to her, suddenly seeming to crumple in on himself. He stands there, small and trembling and his exhaustion-lined face becomes uncertain and a little frightened. “I am not mad,” he says to her softly, but with an edge of defiant certainty. “I am- I am not mad. He is-”

Mirdania interrupts him.

:listening. Not here, she spells out in delve-sign - and thanks Aulë that Celebrimbor insisted on his apprentices learning the basics of it before being permitting them on field trips to the forges in Khazad-dûm. :I know - oh, but she’s out of practice, she’d had such good intentions- if they get through this, she’s going to apply herself to relearning but for now she has to make do with a clumsy :I know you right.

Celebrimbor’s gaze focuses, sharpens. He nods, and then sweeps off back in the direction of the forge. Mirdania hurries to keep up with him. The moment she’s reasonably sure that they’re out of a Maia’s earshot she says- “What is happening?”

She sounds more frightened then she means to be. But then, her heart is pounding, her mouth dry, and her world is falling to pieces about her both metaphorically and literally. There are more explosions. Again, Celebrimbor reacts like the sound is unexpected, like there hasn’t been days of this. Ahead of them, something glints in the rubble. Something- “Is that Fëanor’s hammer!?”

“What- oh, yes, I threw it at his head and he dodged. It broke the window, and the illusion-”

“Illusion?” Mirdania cuts ahead of him, picking the precious relic out of the broken debris it lies amongst and turning back to hand it to it’s rightful owner. Celebrimbor stares at is, even lifts his hand slightly as though meaning to take it- and then lets his hand fall again with a sigh. “I have been foolish,” he says bleakly. “So very foolish, Mirdania, but- there is time- I hope there is time…he wants the rings. Rings for men- for what purpose I don’t- control, I suppose- they’re not finished- but- he will not give us long,” he glances fearfully back towards the battlements. “Mirdania, I need to ask something of you I- I wish I didn’t. What did Sauron say, when I left- before you followed me?”

“He,” Mirdania blushes. “He insinuated- your father. Your grandfather. I am sorry. He implied you should be taken to the forge and- and bound.”

Beneath the coating of dirt, Celebrimbor grows ashen. “Very well. Then that is what you must do.”

“No! My Lord-”

“Yes, you must. And you must go to him and tell him that I begged to speak with him and I- I will buy you as much time as I can. Empty the city.” he starts to head up the steps to the forge. Mirdania shakes herself and follows after him as he continues : “There is a passage, it will take you all most of the way to the Doors of Durin. Prince Durin, I am sure, will grant you aid but if- if the King makes difficulties, tell him that Celebrimbor of Hollin, maker of the Seven Rings, begs refuge for his people on his knees and will be at the disposal of Durin the Third as soon as the threat to Eregion is dealt with. Make sure you take the hammer with you when you leave here, it’s as good a seal of my authority as any. ”

Mirdania does not know why Celebrimbor fears the King under the Mountain would be difficult. Strain, fatigue, the realisation that Annatar was not what he seemed making him mistrustful of all former allies, as such, but the deal those words imply… “You are- certain- there are not other- that there’s not more precise wording-”

“No, Mirdania. If it must be bartered for at all, then it follows King Durin’s protection will come at the highest of prices.There’s enough vagueness in what I’ve said that the King may grasp for less, but if it is the payment he decides he wants…”

If he decided that centuries of friendship between Eregion and Kazad-dûm was not enough reason to grant Eregion’s people shelter, the prospect of Eregion’s Lord- the greatest smith alive- indentured to the dwarves for as long as King Durin III lived…

Yes. That would probably do it.

Mirdania’s stomach churns.

The state of the forge, as they enter through the doors, does not help. Bile scorches her throat- tears sting her eyes- with effort, she forces them both back.

“Bindings, was it?” Celebrimbor asks, turning to her with a look of forced cheerfulness. “Well, and if your poor old Lord had gone mad, and needed to be kept from wandering off, where would you put him, Mirdania?”

“Don’t,” she chokes. “Celebrimbor, don’t-”

His expression falters- her composure breaks-

She is weeping in his arms before she even realises that he’s embraced her- or realised that she’s burst into tears. “I cannot just leave you to him,” she says. “I have- oh, Valar. Did you even order us to stay away from the forges? Have we all already abandoned you to- I’m sorry. Celebrimbor, I’m sorry!”

“Hush, child, all will come right.” he strokes her hair, rests his chin on the top of her head and holds her tight, as though she were a lost elfling all over again. “It will be well.” his voice is trembling. “I will make it all well. But we must- we must ensure there is time for you all to flee. And-” he swallows. She can feel the unsteadiness of his throat. “I am asking much of you, I know. I must ask one thing more- two thing mores, for I ought to ask your forgiveness for all of this.”

She has no words. She squeezes him tight, gripping the back of his robe with the fist not carrying Fëanor’s Hammer, unwilling to ever, ever let go of the older elf. “Word must reach Gil-galad. It must reach the Lady Galadriel. I- Elrond is close with Prince Durin, that ought to make it easier- there is probably a line of communication already in place between them.

“I will survive,” he adds, finally pulling back. She resists the urge to cling. He is trusting her to be responsible for his people- for their people, and so she makes herself step back, and dry her tears, and meet his gaze bravely. He smiles wryly down at her. “I intend to survive, at any rate. Uncle Matimo managed thirty years- I do hope Galadriel and the High King will come up with something sooner than that. And I am sorry I’ve brought this down upon us.” he shoots a glance toward his workbench, where the rings sit- almost finished, but not quite. “And now…” he sighs, and briefly closes his eyes. “Before he comes here of his own accord...”

“I’ll get the winch-ropes we keep in reserve,” Mirdania says resignedly. “And if I wrap your wrists with polishing rags first, they shouldn’t chafe at your skin too badly. You’d better find somewhere comfortable to sit.”

@ropladies

Epilogue: Mirdania got to Khazad-Dum and instantly went: Need to borrow your army. And Durin went: ??? and Mirdania went: Annatar's Sauron, need to borrow your army. And Durin went: "Oh that Fucker!". And Princess Disa went unto the King and distracted him while Durin and Narvi mobilised the dwarven troops. And Elrond appeared in the midst of these preparations and went: "...well that was eas- I'm sorry SAURON is WHO and HAS BEEN DOING WHAT?"

And outside Ost-in-Edhil, verily were the Uruks confused that all resistance to the seige had suddenly vanished. And then the order came from Lord Adar to withdraw, for Elrond had spoken with Adar and explained the situation. And Adar and Elrond and the Lady Galadriel hurried around to the city's main gates just in time to see that Sauron be yeeted from the Forge balcony by Mirdania and Narvi and set upon by the waiting dwarves. And Adar and Elrond and the Lady Galadriel shouldered their way through the crowd and, Saruon looked at the crown in Adar's hand and went: "Oh come on-" But said nothing more, for Adar passed the crown to Lady Galadriel, and the Lady Galadriel used it and the power of Nenya to destroy Sauron's form unto goo for another thousand thousand years.

(and with this, the dark power in the Dwarven rings was broken, and King Durin blinked, looked around, and went: what the fuck is all this gold doing here???)

#ropladies #roplaw #Mirdania #Celebrimbor #annatar!sauron #rings of power #rop fanfiction

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foundnthestars · 7 months ago

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UWAGH I FOUND YOUR ACCOUNT AGAIN!!!!!! YES!!!

Hi. Hello. Your fic is the fucking BEST. I read it earlier today and I'm definitely gonna go back and leave comments when I have more time to come up with proper words, but I wanted to come squeal about it sooner than that so! Here I am!

You write the conflict AMAZINGLY. Each and every chapter I was absolutely blown away by how *real* it felt. I especially loved the panic attack with Dipper and Stan, and how Stan was so out of his element but did his best anyway. I also just LOVE that Ford didn't want to restart the portal- and dismantled it instead. And the guilt, catching up to him in his nightmares like that, with him trying to come up with different ways to get them back while still tearing the portal apart.... it's so wonderfully done. All of it is so wonderfully done!!!!! Not to mention that brief glimpse of Mabel at home with her parents. I hope Ford doesn't send her back, but I've got a feeling that they're probably not going to give him a choice on the matter, lol.

I'm sorry for rambling AAAA I love your fic so much have an amazing day/night!!!!!!!!!!

HI! HELLO THERE! I'M SUPER GLAD YOU FOUND MY ACCOUNT TOO CAUSE YOU'RE MY FIRST EVER ASK!! :) fair warning, this might get long...

first off, wow, THANK YOU, this response made me smile and kick my feet — i just love that you love this fic. the response i've gotten on here in the past few days alone has been amazing and i love nothing more than talking about this thing with you guys. feel free to flood my inbox with asks or just come and ramble, seriously, you NEVER have to apologize for that i appreciate every word!

this au is conflict on top of conflict on top of conflict for the pineses. reverse drifting stars is really every member of the pines family stuck directly in their own personal nightmare scenario, and the uncertainty they all feel is bound to be at an all time high. i'm glad you think i'm portraying it well and that it feels realistic!

the panic attack scene was something i knew was coming the second i sat down and started writing. i'm a sucker for post-sock opera h/c fics, and i really wanted to explore dipper's post-possession trauma with stan as a witness. the kids really left him in the dark for a lot of things in canon, bill included, but a lot of dipper's walls will have to come down in ttwl. not just because of the lack of privacy when you're traveling tandem on unfamiliar planets, but because he doesn't have mabel by his side to help him through these things anymore. he's had his sister with him for every terrible thing that's happened since he was a baby, and now that support is just gone. that's where stan comes in, and they'll have to be that for each other. their bond once dipper starts trusting him and he loses some of that angst he's carrying around right now will be STRONG. super excited to continue exploring their dynamic.

(and, yeah, stan is extremely out of his element in that scene, but i imagine he's had some experience with panic attacks either from a younger ford or himself even, though i doubt he'd call it that if he was experiencing one.)

i'm also glad ford disassembling the portal felt accurate to the story. i struggled a bit with that decision, but i think ultimately it would play out like this, with ford battling with logic and emotion and his all-consuming desire to have a family and to belong. his nightmares are supposed to be the love he has for his brother rearing up and trying to tell him "hey! you're being incredibly selfish and stupid," but it really takes seeing mabel and seeing the true consequences of his actions reflected in her life for him to reconsider. though, without the oracle's foresight i think this would still be difficult for him. in ttwl, ford is banking on the fact that she's implied he will be the one to kill bill. his ego is very much still at play here.

and ohhh... the parents. i can do a whole post on them, and i probably will at some point. i've always wondered why people don't include them in drifting stars, though i understand it because they are a difficult work around. more on their reactions later, they'll be back! they handled things about as horribly as they could've but they love their kids very much and want what's best for them, and uh... let's just say the piedmont pines home isn't the greatest of places for a grieving child at the moment.

#gravity falls #reverse drifting stars au #drifting stars au #dipper pines #stan pines #mabel pines #ford pines #the things we lost #adventures of fic writing #answering asks #asks open #this is insanely long im sorry im crazy

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esshetic · 11 months ago

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Leo Season: Its In Your Mind

Leo Season and Leo New Moon.

There is nobody who enjoys their season like the Leo in your life, and I always enjoy celebrating Leo's birthday with them. I don’t enjoy my birthday, so it always feels like a burden to celebrate, but the way Leo takes pride in their season makes me feel super happy and warm.

This is LEO; it is the sun that basks down on you, makes your skin bronze, makes your eyes glisten, and just makes you look your best.

The Leo New Moon takes place on the 4th of August, while race riots have broken out in the UK, with the ‘Far Right’ enacting violence on anyone that is not ‘white’ in England. My biggest fear as someone who came to the UK as a 1-year-old and has lived my life with the feeling of unwantedness, hostility, and belonging nowhere, so this is highlighting all my fears about myself and illegitimacy in the UK.

The hostility, shame, and subsequent bending over backward to appease, helplessness, and simmering anger and volatility of what I may do if I have to be faced with racist abuse through this time.

Something inevitable that was simmering under the surface needed to erupt, Uranus square maybe, perhaps the full moon in Aquarius on the 19th of August, Aquarius being the sign of social groups and movement, this purging was needed to highlight ills in society that now have to be addressed, things coming back to community control and influence. Something to explore and develop towards the building up to this full Moon.

Leo wants us to feel loved and seen and valued no matter what.

How does Leo make you feel? Where is Leo shining in your chart this season, and what are the themes for you?

Leo - it is about you, a glow-up, but you are always shining, so it's more to know that you are doing amazing; all you have to do is be yourself.

Virgo - it's about your money, if you want that pay rise, you will need to believe that you deserve it.

Libra - it's about the space you occupy in the world and your head, do you live full-time in your head?

Scorpio - Leo fills you with a simmering rage at how easily they bask in the light and lack humility the way you think everyone needs to. Not everyone is so controlling with their emotions!

Sagittarius - Leo makes you feel seen in your own joy and makes you feel alive to be yourself.

Capricorn - Leo shines down on the seeds that you planted and provides nutrients to see them grow; it gives you foresight and vision.

Aquarius - Leo creates division between your heart and mind, your heart is normally carefully hidden while your head leads, it makes you forget that for a second and lead with your heart.

Pisces - Leo makes you feel motherly and protective of the innocence and light you see in others; you want to shield it from the harsh world.

Aries - Leo makes you reminisce on the past, childhood, reminding you to actually feel, you are not a robot.

Taurus - Leo is reminding you to have fun, invite more fun into your life, why so serious all the time?

Gemini - Leo invites you to big up yourself and the work you have done, your creativity is inspiring.

Cancer - Leo is asking you to slow down and savor the moment, take it moment by moment, the silence between the noise.

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sometimes-i-write-good · 3 months ago

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alma perdida - chapter two (point five)

Top Gun: Maverick - original character insert

6.6k || Bradley lets himself get roped into another stupid idea, pays for his decisions, and loves every second of it. [stinger & rooster playlist]

===

Genre: coming of age hijinks

CW: injury, spiraling, grief - normal top gun trauma type beat

Author’s note: is it obvious i have time blindness?? And that i bend the rules of the military and every universe i write in to suit my selfish pursuits?? i've also never broken a bone or rode a motorcycle,,, so if that's wrong,,, uhhhh oh well?? || cross-posted on ao3

prologue chapter one chapter one point five chapter two

===

Consequences. A result or effect of an action or condition.

Bradley’s mother loved to throw that word around when Bradley was growing up. “You really need to think about the consequences of your actions,” she would say. Usually in a huffy, aggravated voice while dabbing away at the scraped knee bleeding out because Bradley didn’t think about running when his shoes were untied.

A little road rash was worth the exhilaration of speed in the mind of a three-year-old. As the lectures went on the older Bradley got, he realized the full weight of what his mother meant when she told him to stop and think before he did something. Not watching yourself when you were younger bled into the actions of who you would become when you aged.

You rank high, you get cocky. You let the numbers go to your head, you do anything to stay ahead. You block an opening, you set off a chain of events.

You fly too close, you get caught in jet wash. You don’t anticipate what’s coming, you lose control of your jet.

You go down, you eject. You don’t wait for the canopy to clear, you hit your head upon ejection. You hit at the wrong angle, you break your neck. You break your neck, you die.

What his mother instilled in Bradley most of all about consequences was the feeling that burrowed deep into your chest after everything was said and done. Guilt.

If only those 20 seconds weren’t spent jockeying for position and Iceman had just moved out of the way when asked. If only Maverick had anticipated the jet wash and been better prepared to get him and Goose out of a mess. If only his dad had ejected the canopy during the flatspin before ejecting their seats and not ejected into a canopy without any forward movement. If only Bradley had noticed the slow withdrawal of his mother into herself before it was too late and the cancer came back.

“We could totally steal Mav’s motorcycle,” Bee said, hands on her hips. Somehow every stupid idea that entered her head left her lips with some unfettered confidence. “And still make the cookout by seven.”

Somehow, none of these lessons had been passed along to Bee Masters. She acted without thinking. Consequences did not matter to her. Kick her out of every school, ground her for months on end, or send her to a shrink when the options run out.

According to Mr. Metcalf, nothing worked.

“This sounds like a horrible idea.”

She grinned at Bradley. Her brown eyes sparked with mischief fully lit up behind those coke-bottle glasses of hers, and that’s when he knew he was suckered into whatever she had planned. “I’ve got it all figured out.”

“Okay,” he sighed, “what do we have to do?”

Rooster disagreed with Mr. Metcalf in some regards. They had found one school she would attend most days out of the week and, so long as Bradley spent the free hours of their days with her, Bee would more or less fit into the role of a model child.

Well, as model as a child dumped without a second thought could manage to turn out. When Bradley thought too long about her lack of foresight with her actions, sadness would seep in where guilt usually rested. If Bee had felt love earlier in her life than these past few years, would she still be reckless?

She grabbed him by the wrist, and Bradley let himself be dragged wherever the gears in her head told them both to go. “Do you know where Mav keeps his keys?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “He’s busy all afternoon. I overheard some higher ups talking about an important briefing. Must be big ‘cause they called Iceman back too, and he’s basically on the fast track to admiral now. If you need the nation’s best pilots running through logistics we are so totally in over our heads somewhere we aren’t supposed to be. Not that we are ever where we’re supposed to be. I’m serious, Bradshaw, when we get into the Navy we have to get high enough up like Iceman is so we can make a real difference-”

The mention of Iceman stopped him in his tracks. Bee, not expecting the sudden halt, jerked forward. “What’s wrong?” She turned quickly to search his face. “You don’t want to borrow Mav’s bike?”

A consequence of losing someone was an overabundance of confusing emotions, and no set place to store them. Bradley tangled with his grief at the most inconvenient times. He was supposed to forgive Maverick and Iceman and everyone else up in the air that day for the moments that robbed him of a father, and he did. Deep down - on the surface things looked hazy. He could still drown in a few inches of water.

What a mess that the mere mention of a name seized up his heart in his chest. All for a man he had blurry memories of to begin with. Flashes of images he wasn’t even sure belonged to him. For all Bradley knew these could be fabricated as a rationalization of things everyone else constantly told him. Your dad loved you very much.

Did he? All the spots a father should have been in his mind were blank. He didn’t remember the sound of his voice, the closeness of his hugs, or the way his laughter filled a room. Nick Bradshaw only existed to Bradley in the vaguest of ways. With a song his mom or Mav would replay because of Goose’s attachment to it or the faintest whiff of the cologne he used to wear. That was all. And somewhere in his consciousness grief mixed up who was to blame for that.

Bradley shook the thoughts from his mind. Losing his father had been an accident. If he sat down with the facts - his mother would be so proud of him - the realization that the world was cruel, above all else, usually won out.

“Nothing.” Bradley shot what he hoped was a convincing smile Master’s way. “We’re using the word ‘borrow’ now?”

Bee squinted at him. “We’re returning it,” she said slowly, giving Bradley plenty of time to break down and spill whatever caused him to freeze up in the first place.

He liked being the center of her attention. When Bee truly looked at something, she saw everything. Some weird, freaky part of her brain clung to information, analyzed it, and cataloged it to bring up later. Way later in some cases. The other day she brought up how he picked his nose the first day he met, which he didn’t remember at all but Bee’s memory hadn’t been proven faulty yet. So he stewed in embarrassment all night, totally unable to fall asleep.

“Since when did you care about semantics?”

“Since the first time you dragged me up into a jet and I had to start crafting excuses for the both of us,” he teased. “Are we going to borrow this motorcycle or what?”

Suspicion lingered momentarily. The pair knew how to read each other exceptionally well. To Bradley’s relief Bee could read his ‘don’t ask me about shit’ poker face best of all, and she resumed her tugging towards Maverick’s temporary lodgings.

They didn’t exchange many words on the way there. No one they passed spared them a second glance either. Mr. Metcalf had been bringing them to TOPGUN for years now. Whenever Mav was back in town, or was called back to train on a new jet, he brought them along too.

For a while Rooster wondered if being back was too hard on his caretaker. There were plenty of times he’d wander into the locker room to the sounds of Maverick sobbing only to slowly back out and tell Bee he couldn’t find Mav and they’d have to sneak into the hangars to get a good look at the newest jets.

The only other option for the two of them would be to sell the house Carol left Bradley and live the true military way. Base hopping and avoiding TOPGUN at all costs. Something Maverick might have done, Bradley felt, had Bee not dropped into their lives. Separating the two of them felt too cruel on top of everything life already dealt. So Maverick put on a brave face, exercised some questionable parenting by leaving Bradley home alone for weeks at a time at 13, and Bradley pretended not to notice how difficult walking down the halls without Nick Bradshaw’s presence was for both of them.

Bee walked into Maverick’s room and started rooting around like everything was hers. He followed her in. Why she had to go so far in when the keys were on the first ring next to the door was beyond him.

“What are you doing?” Bradley asked, leaning against the doorframe. His gaze followed her as she tossed one of Mav’s duffle bags to the side so she could root through another. “Shopping?”

She piled clothes up on the unmade bed. Maverick’s discipline slipped at TOPGUN. Whether to manage expectations or because his focus slipped from the memories in the hall, Bradley couldn’t tell. Half the time it seemed like Mav exhibited the same self-sabotaging behavior as Bee. He’d taken to parking his motorcycle in a GO’s reserved spot.

“He’s not even here today,” Bradley’s guardian would say. “Why leave the prime spot open for someone who’s not using it?” Whether or not that Maverick told the truth didn’t seem to matter. The spot had quickly become his. All higher powers protected the motorcycle from ever being towed.

“Mav has an extra leather jacket in here somewhere.” Bee turned to give him a once over. “And jeans.”

Bradley looked down at his shorts and oversized Hawaiian shirt. It had been his dads. “What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?” He asked. If anyone but Bee were questioning his clothing choices, he might have been a bit insecure but she, more often than not, had a good reason for commenting. Even if her judgemental gaze lacked tact. “It’s 100 degrees outside, Bee. I do not want to be wearing all those clothes.”

She stood up, jeans and leather jacket in hand. “Then you don’t get to bitch if you fall off and get road rash.”

“I won’t fall off.”

“Every time Mav teaches you how to come to a stop you fall over,” Bee said. She pushed past out of the room. Bradley could only trail behind, caught somewhere between lost puppy and guardian angel.

Each step raised the tension between them. It pissed him off how blunt Bee could be. She left him no room to cover embarrassment and then got mad if she received the same treatment in return. Worse yet, she felt the need to pile on the hundreds of mistakes he’d been making each time Maverick took them out riding.

At a certain point Bradley couldn’t take the nitpicking anymore. Bee went to push through the door but he caught her by the arm before she could. “Did you memorize the damn manual for his bike, too? Or do you like puffing your chest so you seem better than someone for once?”

Hurt flashed in her eyes. He knew as soon as he said ‘for once’ the wrong words had left his lips. Bradley’s knack for thinking before he spoke abandoned him whenever Bee showed up by his elbow.

“Shit. Bee…” She flinched away from his hand, which had released her to reach for her face instead. “That came out wrong.”

In her usual fashion, Masters squared her shoulders, set her mouth in a thin line, and shrugged. “It’s fine. Shouldn’t have pushed you to that point.”

They stared. Could she see the regret in his eyes? Bradley studied her face for any ounce of emotion but she had already shut down. Later tonight he could ask her about it, really find a chance to apologize for exploiting a weakness. A stolen beer or two would smooth over any awkwardness.

“Can you stop overthinking my apology?”

“I don’t remember you saying ‘sorry,’” he teased. There were a few girls in his class who would play into this vague flirting. If they were the ones squished between Bradley and a door, they would lean into his touch. Some might even find a way to bring some pink to his cheeks. None were Bee, who rolled her eyes and pushed out into the warm summer afternoon.

Why did he even bother trying?

Maverick’s red Kawasaki Ninja came into view. At the same time they both said: “I’ll drive.”

Bradley brandished the keys with a cheeky grin. Bee frowned, her brow furrowed into a series of wrinkles. The pouting tugged on him for a second until the desire to impress won out. He wanted what his parents had - high school sweethearts and a loving family - for however short a time. Senior years loomed around the corner. Bradley had no high school sweetheart and, despite every bone he threw her way, Bee never seemed to bite.

Maybe if he kept them close to his chest she would finally see what she was missing.

“You can ride on the back,” Bradley instructed as he swung a leg over the bike. Subtly changing the posture to fit the lecture from Bee earlier.

If she noticed, which she surely had to because that girl missed nothing, she didn’t say anything. Instead, Bee crossed her arms. “You should really be wearing a helmet.”

“Maverick doesn’t wear one when he’s riding.”

“Maverick doesn’t risk serious brain damage every time he goes for a ride. He knows what he’s doing.”

Bradley rolled his eyes and slipped on his aviators. A man rode like Maverick, or he didn’t ride at all. That’s what he’d been telling himself lately, that is. “You wear the helmet,” he told her.

Bee had the arrogant confidence Pete Mitchell did. Bradley needed to simultaneously humble her while bringing up his reckless behavior. Something to bring them to an even playing field. He might have a year or so on her but Bee always brought out an insecure side of Bradley.

This gaping feeling of usefulness hung over him like a blade. The second Bee’s dependency on him subsided, the executioner would release his hold, and Bradley would lose his head.

She slipped on behind him. Arms coming to wrap around his middle, helmet on only because holding it would be too awkward. He felt like he composed himself rather well. Bradley’s breath only caught for a second. The fierce beating of his heart only thundered in apprehension of riding a motorcycle with a passenger for the first time. Who that passenger held no influence.

If he didn’t find some way to sever this hold on his own, he was screwed.

—

Pete Mitchell taught two kids without any clearance to learn to ride on an abandoned runway at the far end of base. Long forgotten to fliers in the name of expansion. Bradley didn’t know what TOPGUN used it for now, but today this would be his stage.

For a few hours he and Bee switched off riding around the tarmac. Bradley attempted to focus on technique while Bee tore around like a bat out of hell. Every time she gave up the bike she’d tease him about letting her get to him.

“Just ride.”

When he turned the bike over to her that next time, she had a newfound respect in her smile. Bradley would always meet her where she needed him to. Same as she wouldn’t ask something of him he couldn’t deliver.

“I’m gonna do a wheelie,” he announced.

Bradley surveyed the world around him through his aviators with his hands on his hips. Maverick stood this way sometimes when manning the grill or assessing why Bradley’s car had broken down for the tenth time. He thought of it as Mav’s confidence pose. Tainted only by a dash of ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I can figure shit out.’

Bee leaned back on her elbows, head tilted up towards the sun, and laughed. Out here, with her face illuminated and her eyes on the sky, Bradley reminded himself why this stupid affection for Bee even existed. Her eyes would widen ever so slightly when a plane passed by overhead. She would spew out obscure facts like common knowledge.

Sometimes the mere sight of an open sky made her comfortable enough to tell Bradley anything he wanted to know. About the jets or her. Down at the other end of the runway, tucked away by the fence, Bee broke down about some kid at school kicking her down a flight of stairs.

He had to remind himself that day being let in wasn’t always a good thing. Bradley would forever be cursed with the knowledge of his best friend wandering the same halls as him in Hell. All while he sat in class, head in the clouds, daydreaming about her delighted shriek at the two of them presenting cosmic brownies just hours before at lunch. Both eager to surprise the other. Just for the memory of the day to be tainted.

When her laughter subsided, Bee managed to glance in Bradley’s direction. “Talk me through the movements then, Mr. Know-It-All.”

“I’ll just show you.”

Roaring to life, Bradley pushed off and circled so he had the entire tarmac at his disposal. Maverick chose his bike for speed, eager to be the fastest on Earth and in the sky. Bradley knew the importance of balance. The sweet spot of speed and weight distribution to show off. If Mav caught them in the middle of this trick, he’d have no choice but to be proud.

“You forgot the helmet!” Bee yelled out to him.

He revved the engine just enough to have a credible excuse about not hearing her later. Any more focus on Bee right now would pull him away from the budding confidence.

Beneath him, Maverick’s motorcycle rumbled. Nothing between him and the world around him. Bradley could feel the vibrations leaking from the seat and pegs through his legs and hands. Very real danger lurked just five inches or so below his feet. When he started going, truly going, the sense of presence had every opportunity to overwhelm him.

So he went before he could overthink it. Moving like Mav, like Bee.

Wind whipped Bradley’s clothes and hair around. Loud rumbling drowned out every sound beside the racing of his blood through his head. His second best class - after English where he got to debate - was physics. Every action having an equal opposite reaction made sense.

Carole Bradshaw had been preparing him for that lesson since the very beginning. The fabric of Bradley’s mind wove a tapestry of Fate. Depictions of each action and the consequences branching out from a single moment.

He slid his ass back in the seat. The world raced past him. Bradley moved off intuition, not bothering to check his RPM. This woven pattern in his mind told him when, and he lifted the front wheel with ease.

For a moment everything confusion about every action ever taken in Bradley’s life made sense. Leading up to this moment of utter exhilaration and freedom. He wanted nothing more than to experience this speed at a super sonic level. Fly into unknown horizons forever.

Unfortunately, actions have consequences. Every action had that equal, opposite reaction. Deciding to pop a wheelie before learning how to stop efficiently certainly does.

Lost in the moment of euphoria, Bradley leaned forward and brought the bike back down. Maverick’s voice in the back of his head told him something, but the command was usually muffled by the thrill of being on a motorcycle and, now, the rush of having effectively done a wheelie with nothing more than intuition guiding him in front of the girl he may or may not have an increasingly complex feelings for essentially silenced them completely. All he could remember was that the brake meant stop. So that’s what he pulled. Hard.

The front wheel slammed to the pavement. Right in a dip. Skidding and swearing, he hit the pavement with barely enough time to bring an arm up to catch himself.

His sunglasses were sprawled a few feet away. One of the lenses popped out. The only thing that could make this moment worse would be a motorcycle smashed to smithereens. Oh shit, thought the second unluckiest kid in the world.

Bradley shot to his feet. “Is the bike okay!?”

If he and Bee were not attached at the hip, embarrassment for the desperation in his exclamation might have time to creep in. Fear took up any spare room in his body. Stretching around the pain steadily mounting in his wrist.

Something broken could be explained away - Bee alone could likely come up with thousands of, more than likely stupid, ways for Bradley to have snapped a bone - a scratch couldn’t be. Maverick took pride in pointing out each dent, ding, and mark. They served as an excuse to talk about the dumb stunts he survived.

The man would know. He wasn’t exactly built to be a father, but Mav had that weird sixth sense all parents possessed to know when their kid touched something they shouldn’t have. Booze, weed, and cigarettes. Maverick had called Rooster out on all of them. Never maliciously, they both knew he would forever be the last person to throw stones about delinquent behavior. Each conversation fit the fatherly role he’d come to fill since his father’s passing, but Bradley knew Maverick would be far less comforting to vehicular destruction. It didn’t matter how small.

“Lucky for you,” Bee groaned, straining against the weight of the bike in comparison to her small frame, “you weren’t going that fast. So, I doubt there’s any real damage.”

He moved around to help her lift. “Shut up-”

The slightest ounce of pressure to his right wrist had Rooster howling. Red hot pain radiated up his arm. “Oh fuck.” The words pressed out through clenched teeth and he pushed the bike up just enough to secure the kickstand.

Bee waved him off to hop around the tarmac. “I got it,” she said. “I got it.”

“Fuck,” he repeated once more with vehemence. “I think it’s broken. It’s gotta be broken. I’ve never broken anything before. Oh god, is the bike scratched? If the bike is scratched and my shit’s broken Mav is going to kill me. Bee? Bee? Is the bike broken?”

Rambling kept the bile from rising in the back of his throat. Bradley couldn’t attribute his looming lunch to shock or sheer anxiety at being grounded for the rest of his natural life. Everything sounded muddled still. Bee had cut the engine, but he felt like he was still on the bike.

Her eyes widened behind her glasses, and Rooster realized how much he would miss the funny way those thick-lenses magnified her expressions. Mrs. Metcalf promised to take Bee to get contacts next week in preparation for flight school.

Granted, they would only be taking ground lessons for the time being - Mr. Metcalf had been extremely specific over the guidelines of two hooligans being granted such a fine opportunity - Bee confided that she didn’t want kids giving her shit for a myriad of reasons. Being a teenage girl was hard enough. Being a teenage girl with a shitty personal life, nerdy glasses, and a not so great track record had to be even harder.

Not that Bradley would know. Chances were being a teenage boy with a shitty personal life, unbelievably bad acne, and a somewhat damaged track record, thanks to his present company, could be pretty bad, too. Like right now, where he stood on this old, abandoned runway cradling his yet-to-be-determined wrist. Bee, and those bug eyes of hers, stared at a single spot on his arm. Bradley followed, then immediately looked away.

“How’s it looking?” Bradley’s voice strained upwards as he tilted his head back.

He was pretty sure that one of his bones was trying to push out of his arm. Skin wasn’t broken. Rocks and gravel were lodged pretty deep in his arm, and maybe he had a scrape or too, but nothing that would suggest a compound fracture.

“Dude.”

The tone of her voice pulled Bradley from his thoughts. He faced her once again.

“Your shit’s fucked,” Bee said. She snapped her gaze from the lump at the base of his wrist to his face. He burst out laughing.

Bradley couldn’t help it. The shock on her face and the very not-Bee sentence that just fell from her lips, paired with the dull pain that almost made him believe his wrist was merely sprained, sent Bradley right over the edge. What the hell had they gotten themselves into?

—

Walking the stolen - correction: borrowed (they were returning it, after all) bike back to Maverick’s semi-questionable parking spot felt like the appropriate punishment. The nausea from any movement jostling his arm kept a constant taste of bile in his mouth. Bee wasn’t helpful either. Possibly another consequence from his stupid actions.

“I bet you wish you wore the leather jacket.”

Leave it to Mr. Metcalf’s kid to say ‘I told you so.’ Bradley stopped in his tracks. After one big, calming breath to keep himself from using his good arm to suckerpunch her, he said, “The jacket wouldn’t have stopped me from breaking my wrist, Masters.”

She studied him. Her head tilted from side to side before she pushed the bike along past him. “No, but you wouldn’t be taking half the runway home with you.” Then, when he hurried to catch up, she added, “If you stopped jerking your arm around like that it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“If you stopped micromanaging me, you might survive long enough to make it to the beach tonight.”

Bee grinned at him. “If you listened to me, we’d be on time.”

Instead, they had to make a pitstop. Somehow Bee had managed to make friends with the medic on duty. When and how someone as unruly as her stopped to make friends with anyone - present company excluded - Bradley had no clue. As far as he knew, she talked to no one else.

Bee Masters was known at school for three things. Being bad at being good, being freaky smart despite all that, and being alone when not attached to Bradley. When he was at school for baseball practice, she sat in the stands alone. When he was meeting with one of the clubs she couldn’t sneak into, she would wander around town until he finished. She had no one but him.

Until now.

“You’re a lifesaver!” Bee threw her arms around one of the Hospital Corpsmen, who laughed and hugged her back.

He patted her head. “I don’t know if fixing a broken wrist counts as lifesaving.”

“Viper would lose his marbles if he found out about this,” Bee laughed. “Believe me, you’re saving two lives today.”

“Your old man’s all bark and no bite.” The HM waved Rooster into the back.

Clearly he didn’t know much about Mr. Metcalf. The old man barked and bit. Bradley still refused to do anything with less than military precision around the man.

“We’ll get an X-ray, clean up some of those scrapes, and get you in a cast. How’s that sound?”

Bradley couldn’t help himself. “Why aren’t you calling my da- Maverick?”

The slip-up brought welling tears, which served as a devilish respite to the welling need to vomit that had plagued him the past hour or so. He needed to get a hold of himself.

“I’ve got a deal with Bee. Her old man helped me out during a tough time.”

He fought the urge to correct him. Bee’s ‘old man’ was off somewhere thousands of miles away without a clue or care what his daughter was doing right now.

The HM led him to a room. “Figured I could pay it forward and help out the young lady during a tough time, too. I’ll be right back.”

Bradley was left with his thoughts. Enough time passed for him to spin wild tales on how Bee knew anyone in the medical wing. How had she spent enough time here to befriend someone? Especially someone old enough to be her father, which skeeved him out as much as it made him jealous.

Not that she had done anything more than ask for a favor and smile. A favor on Bradley’s behalf.

He could blame the shock for these far-reaching conclusions. Maybe later, when the fish-eye effect of the surrounding world wore off, Bradley would lay in bed turning over the way the medic’s eyes widened as he said, “You’re cashing in your only ‘Viper doesn’t hear about this incident card’ right now?” and think about how quickly Bee agreed to use her one get out of jail free moment on Bradley. Zero hesitation behind the action. No thought for the consequences.

She thought of him, and only him. His safety.

As it turns out, later wasn’t much later at all. Thinking about Bee brought far more positive fluttering to the mess of Rooster’s nervous system. He would rather stew in the implications of Bee’s sacrifice than wonder what this X-ray showed. Neither conclusions were great.

Bee more than likely wanted to save her own ass. Mr. Metcalf would yank the promise of ground lessons right out from under her for pulling such a stunt.

Bradley’s wrist, more accurately, his arm had snapped in the fall. Distal radius fracture. Bee’s medic could fix it easy, or so he said.

I want my mom.

The thought surprised him. Bee sat out in the waiting room at his request. Bradley expected himself to be wishing for her hand to hold while he sat in a state of agitation. Then again, doctor’s had always made Bradley nervous. His mother would hold him in her lip, hands clasped together, and remind him that waiting was the worst part.

“Your mind fills in the blanks, and sometimes your mind forgets to be nice to yourself.” He could hear her whispering in his ear. Her vanilla perfume wafting over him. “That’s why I’m here. Everything is okay. Mom’s here to fill in the blanks.”

Only she wasn’t.

No one held his hand when the shot of local anesthesia entered his arm. No one calmed him down when the panic set in about physical therapy and playing baseball his senior year and the vague memories of Maverick and his uncle’s complaining about the Navy’s medics. No one saw him cry, which was a blessing. No one filled in the blanks.

Bradley ended up with a blue cast and a bottle of painkillers.

“Matches your eyes.” Bee smiled at him, eyes searching his face in a way that broke his heart. She was trying her best to figure out a way to comfort Bradley. Something Bee was not, and probably never would be, good at. “You doing okay?”

He fished the keys to his junker out of his pocket. Fumbling because he had to use his left hand, he threw them her way. “You’re driving. We’re late.”

—

Bradley stared out the passenger window of his car. The last time Bee drove his car, they got pulled over. Her lead foot and lack of license proved to be a nail-biting combo during the waiting game of wondering if the officer would be dealing out a ticket or bestowing them a warning. Luckily Bradley’s people skills pulled through, and he pulled away from the curb ticket free.

He used looking for cops as his excuse to stare out the window. Bee sensed the lie. Her tone of voice told Bradley everything he needed to know about how well he lied. Eventually they stopped talking all together.

His radio crapped out on him last week. Maverick promised to look at it. He hadn’t yet, so Bee and Rooster drove around Fightertown in silence. Neither seemed particularly ready to face their guardians just yet.

“What did you mean earlier?” Bradley’s voice stuck in his throat, and he cleared it a few times before continuing. “That I wasn’t going fast?”

The weight of Bee’s gaze fell on him. He hated that he knew when she was looking at him. He hated that he could picture the way her brown eyes squinted in a weird blend of worry and puzzlement. He hated that she wasn’t Carole.

“Eyes on the road.”

“I’d say you maxed out at about like 25 miles per hour.”

Bradley’s head swiveled towards her.

“No way,” he said, incredulous. Nothing in the way Bee spoke gave him any reason to doubt her. The words came out steadfast, the same way she drove straight. Steadily gaining on the stopped cars in front of them.

“Brake! Bee!” He pressed his right foot against the imaginary break in front of him. “Hit the brake already!”

She slammed on the brakes and they both rocked violently with the car. If he had to guess, Bradley would put mere centimeters at the distance between his front bumper and the car in front of them. They both ignored the middle finger directed their way.

“Bradley, why would I lie to you?”

A hundred answers filled the blank in his mind. He went with the one that wouldn’t lead to an argument, awkward confession, or moment of vulnerability: “It felt like I was going way faster.”

“Probably because you never go more than, like, 10 when Maverick is coaching you.”

The light changed. She rode the ass of the bird waver for two whole blocks, then turned without signaling. It wasn’t that Bee didn’t know the rules of the road, she just didn’t care to follow them. Bradley saw the car as a way to get from Point A to Point B. She saw the 140mph on the dashboard and let anger at not being able to ever reach that speed reflect in every second she spent in the driver’s seat.

“At least I don’t book it down the tarmac just to wobble the whole way.”

“The wind messes with my glasses.” She let the sounds of cars passing play for a few moments before adding, “Plus, I don’t know if we can constitute this as a wheelie, anyway. You barely got a few inches off the ground.”

Bradley glared daggers at her. He silently vowed to himself to master every trick on the bike - should Mav decide they were still allowed lessons - as well as in the air when flight school started. And he wouldn’t just perform the tricks. Bradley would wait to do them at the right moment, so they were perfect the very first time he attempted them. Wipe the smug look right off his best friend’s face.

Before he could go back to his safe place, looking out the window in pensive thought, Bee grabbed his hand. “What’s really bothering you?”

He gently placed her other hand back on the steering wheel. “Turn signal.”

“Bradley, I know breaking your wrist and your semi-impressive first wheelie would not get you this in your head.” The turn signal dinged. “What is it?”

“I miss my mom.” The broken words came out in a whisper.

Bee reached over to squeeze his good hand for just a second. “Worst feeling ever.”

“Yeah.” Rooster nodded. “I haven’t missed her in a while. It feels…”

“Wrong?” Bee filled in while taking a turn a little too fast. Bradley braced himself with his bad arm, hissing dramatically so she had to utter a small “sorry.”

“Mav started seeing this woman named Penny or some shit, and he’s trying to keep it a secret but he’s horrible at sneaking around his own house. I’ve just been thinking about how one of these days all these women he sees will turn into one.”

The beach came into view. Bee turned down a street she wasn’t supposed to. Before Bradley could correct her she made another right turn. Circling. Giving him time to finish his story.

“I don’t want that one to replace my mom. I don’t want them to even think they can take her place in my life.” Bradley sighed. “Is that crazy to think? I mean, I haven’t even missed her in a while, would it really be so bad to feel what it felt to have a mom again?”

“Not missing her isn’t a crime, Bradley.” Bee made one more turn and put them on the right street again. “You talk about her all the time. You think about her more than that, I know you do. Moving past that constant aching part of you when you think of someone who died isn’t crazy.”

He tilted his head at her. “When did you get so wise?”

“When did I learn to network for emergency situations?”

“I’m sorry you had to stick your neck out for me.”

Bee shrugged. She turned into the parking lot. Cars jammed into every spot, some spilling onto the grass. They’d have to park further away. A blessing. Mr. Metcalf didn’t like Bradley taking Bee driving without permission. He didn’t want to incur the man’s wrath for something so menial after an afternoon of adrenaline.

“You’d do the same for me,” she said. “You ready?”

Bradley popped the door open and stepped out. The breeze carried sea salt and burgers in their direction. Practically every naval aviator Bradley knew conversed on the beach. Clearly Iceman handled invites. He rallied people together far more effectively than Maverick.

“Do you think they’ll know?”

Bee shut her door behind her. “Nah, and even if they do. Deny, deny, deny.”

Bradley echoed her. Their joint rule of handling trouble worked better the older they got. Bee could duck the law and Mr. Metcalf to impressive degrees.

“Plus, I think we’ve got someone looking out for us up there.” She turned her head towards the red sky. “No damage to the bike, Dr. Feelgood on duty, and I got us here without getting pulled over. We’re solid for the rest of the night.”

Not giving him any room to argue, Bee grabbed him by the hand and dragged him down the beach. Bradley let himself believe his mom was there, filling in the blanks, today. He would face Iceman the way she would want him to. Polite smile and firm handshake. Maybe awkward handshake. He would disappoint her slightly by swiping beers for he and Bee to share on a secluded spot away from prying eyes. He would ease her spirit by not being on painkillers while he drank. She would be proud of him.

She had to be.

“We’re solid,” Bee reminded him when Maverick came into view at the grill. Mr. Metcalf stood close by, eyes scanning the crowd while they talked. “We are so solid.”

“You’re making me feel like we’re not solid,” Bradley said out of the corner of his mouth.

Bee grinned. “Shut up, they’re looking this way.”

Bradley, not wanting to drag the apprehension out any longer than necessary, waved to the group. All their eyes immediately zeroed in on the cast.

“Do I even want to know?” Mav tilted his head at the pair. Bee puffed out her chest. The way she kept her face a neutral mask almost pulled a laugh out of Rooster, but he held strong. At the shake of his head, Mav nodded and said, “Yeah, that’s about what I figured.”

Bee’s laugh, followed closely by a gruff smile on Mr. Metcalf’s face, and Mav rolling his eyes with a grin told Bradley all he needed to know.

Maybe life isn’t all that bad, he thought. Maybe we’ll be okay.

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