#so many typos ugh

[muqingfx]

Heyyyy

Idk why I'm sharing this with you specifically but...

Can you imagine a scenario where mu qing gets cursed where he gets like super cold and after a certain amount of time will turn to ice (think of frozen) but he'll survive if he warms up. Aka fengqing cuddles ♥️♥️

gonna write a short drabble

Metal meets rotten flesh as Mu Qing flings his zhanmadao at the infernal ghost.

"Got you," Mu Qing whispers under his breath. He's fatigued after endless pursuits and perpetual clashes; the ribbon that usually holds his dark hair in place has fallen off, resulting in messy strands carpeting his head and obscuring his line of vision. His breathing is rough and robes tattered, but finally, finally, he has the damn ghost beneath him, shuddering and seething under his blade.

Mu Qing's eyes widen as he's propelled meters back by a gush of frigid wind that chills his godly skin. Ah, nevermind. He spoke too soon. When has it ever been easy?

His precious zhanmadao is pulled away from his grip, flying off and plummeting to the ground with a loud thud. Although Mu Qing had tried to keep his eyes on the ghost, the pest had somehow evaded his vigilance. From behind him, Mu Qing hears footsteps of not one, but at least a hundred creatures closing in on him. His head rivots to look behind and there's a whole damn army of ghosts.

"Shit," Mu Qing curses. He takes in his wearied state and distant saber. "Shit, shit," he curses some more. The little nuisances jump around, squealing and yelling as they make their way to Mu Qing.

Mu Qing, a martial god. What the hell? He's a martial god, dammit. Who do these little shits think they are?

He lifts his arm and creates a swirl of spiritual energy on his palm, the golden orb illuminating the dark sky. He thrusts his hand forward, watching gleefully as the little shits scream in agony. To finish it off, Mu Qing scurries to retrieve his zhanmadao and slices through multiple ghosts at once. The rest is suspiciously uncomplicated, considering the hassle he had to go through to get here, and the ghosts are all eliminated in moments.

The silence is deafening after Mu Qing stamps out the last one, excluding the soft hoots of an owl. But then Mu Qing realizes something fairly unusual: he's really fucking cold.

"What the fuck are you wearing, nutcase?" Feng Xin snorts out a laughter as soon as Mu Qing walks into his work chambers. Through the spritual array, they had decided on a meeting regarding the Southern region's welfare.

"Shut up," Mu Qing hisses, "I'm cold."

"Yeah? It's the middle of summer."

"Get to business, Ju Yang. Where are the reports?" He fixes the cloth around his neck. It's been two days since his encounter with the army of ghosts, and each hour since then felt like his body heat was being sucked out of him. "And get me some hot tea."

Feng Xin glares at him but says nothing, reaching for the unorganized scrolls on his worktop. He hands them over to Mu Qing, who accepts it with shaking hands. When Feng Xin's gaze lingers a second too long, Mu Qing swats at his face with the scrolls.

"Motherfucker," Feng Xin mutters, but still has decency to invite Mu Qing to sit down on his divan. "It's tranquil. For now."

Mu Qing nods. "Villages are undisturbed. Temples aren't being messed with. Ghosts are out of sight. Prayers are not too bothersome." He shuffles the scrolls. "Is that all?”

Offering a hum of confirmation, Feng Xin lays out the teapot and cups on the table. The warm steam from the served tea has Mu Qing resisting the urge to hover his hands over the spout. He doesn’t. Obviously.

“Have you been on any missions recently?” Feng Xin asks around a mouthful of wafers.

“What? That’s none of your concern. Yes. A few days ago. Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Feng Xin swallows down his food quickly. “You did? How did it go?”

“Stop prying. It went fine.” He closes his eyes and sips his tea, indulging in it’s heat.

A stupid pout forms on Feng Xin’s face. “I haven’t been on a mission in ages—”

“I do not care.”

“—so I’ve been cooped up in here, answering prayers.”

Mu Qing sets his half-empty teacup down and glares at the oaf sitting in front of him. “Why is it so cold in here?”

Said oaf’s eyebrows scrunch into a frown. “Cold? Mu Qing, it’s fucking sweltering. Are you sick?”

“I don’t get sick.”

“Stubborn prick. You’re wearing like, four robes.”

Instantly, Mu Qing’s hands raised up to clutch at his layers of clothing. “Judging bitch.”

But Feng Xin doesn’t get riled up and start yelling and cursing like he usually would. His brows draw in together as if he were concerned, and his eyes rake over the length of Mu Qing’s figure. “Are you cursed? Just what type of ghost did you fight?”

“I’m not cursed.” He’s not. Yes, his symptoms started, strangely, after his confrontation with the ghost. So what? Coincidences happen. And he’s just cold. That's literally it.

“Mu Qing.” Feng Xin’s own tone leaves no room for argument. Both official are no less obstinate than the other.

“I’m not cursed! The ghost I fought with used the element of snow. There. Happy? Cretin.”

Feng Xin’s jaw clenches, an impatient glint in his eyes. “Snow? You’re not usually this fucking stupid, Mu Qing.”

Mu Qing jumps to his feet, already grabbing his zhanmadao from his side. “What did you just say?”

“Fucking hell, Mu Qing!” Feng Xin holds his hand up and effectively stops Mu Qing from swinging his saber. “Where the fuck was your head when Ling Wen was explaining this shit?”

“What…”

“She clearly described a savage ghost who could fucking freeze a heavenly official to death.”

Mu Qing pauses. In the back of his head, he indistinctly remembers a warning from Ling Wen.

“Fuck,” Feng Xin cusses, seemingly more stressed than Mu Qing’s himself. “Fucking fuck.”

He grasps Mu Qing’s hand—and then flinches back. “You’re a fucking icicle! Come here.” Carefully, Feng Xin pulls Mu Qing closer to his body, coercing him into a hug. Brawny arms wrap around Mu Qing’s torso and a palm pushes Mu Qing’s face into a warm shoulder,

He sighs in relief when he feels the temperature shoot up.

“Still cold?” Feng Xin mutters right into his ear and Mu Qing fucking shivers.

“What do you think? Moron.”

“Don’t be a bitch or I’ll just let you fucking die.”

“Then let me.”

“I need to shut that mouth of yours.”

Mu Qing tears himself away, face flaming. “I’m fine now.” He turns and stomps away, determined to go elsewhere.

Feng Xin doesn’t let him though, snatching his arm and tugging him hard so Mu Qing’s back slams against a firm chest.

"Like fuck you are."

"Let me go." Mu Qing struggles against Feng Xin's vice grip, though his efforts as futile as the bigger man deftly hauls him around the Nan Yang Palace and into his bedchambers.

Feng Xin's bedchambers.

He--considerably gently--tosses Mu Qing onto the soft duvet and throws a sizeable quilt at him. "Get comfy, general."

Mu Qing glowers, though it's half-hearted. But his fury fades into alarm as Feng Xin joins him on the bed.

"What the--what the fuck are you doing?!" he yelps, horrified. He scrambles away, making space between the two bodies.

And once again, Feng Xin effortlessly pulls him back under the quilt. "Shut up and stay still."

Mu Qing freezes, letting Feng Xin maneuver him around as if he were a doll.

"Warm up, fucker." Feng Xin pats both of Mu Qing's cheeks, trying to give it some colour.

"Stop it," Mu Qing hisses. Feng Xin encircles his limbs around Mu Qing's middle, and Mu Qing can only exhale as he lets him.

He lets Feng Xin nuzzle his face into the curve of Mu Qing's neck.

He lets Feng Xin's fingers draw slow, soothing circles on his palm.

He let's Feng Xin warm him until he's a ball of fire, melting away his frosty fraud exterior.

[stonerzelda]

I run a ytp sanctuary...yea a lot of them that once flourished 15 years ago tread close to endangerment now, so we do what we can to keep them happy and active here...oh look, that ones firin his lazar!! Haha he loves to "blahhhgh". It's a sign of contentment. We used to house them with the Kings but we found it was safer to seperate their enclosures on account of the threat of getting dinner blasted. Hm? Oh yeah thats Shaggys cage, he needs to be kept seperate to thrive since he keeps realizing we're the sherrif cuz we're out here and hes in there

[unriding]

hi evie !! how have you been ? :33 i hope you dont mind me borrowing you and moze for something ehehe <3

[rainintheevening]

It's alright, just wait and see

Your string of lights is still bright to me

Oh, who you are is not where you've been

You're still an innocent

*

He happens to glance over at Grant at the exact moment the lights come on, and he sees the kid's jaw drop, hears the sharp intake of breath.

Phil glances up at the big tree, suddenly glowing like a fire in the swirling flakes, all warm white lights and oversized decorations, and he knows his smile is as wide and goofy as everyone else's, but then he looks back at Grant. They are standing close in the crowd, coat sleeves almost brushing, but he has gone still, barely breathing.

Grant's cheeks are rosy with the cold, and snowflakes melt on his nose, settle on his knitted cap. He stares up at the town Christmas tree, mouth still open, but even as he watches, Phil sees the boy's lips begin to curve up at the corners. In December snowfall, Phil sees Grant... melting.

The band has struck up a Christmas carol, and people are singing, but it's muffled somehow, fading into the background, as light reflects in Grant's eyes, golden glints in the dark, edged by lacy white catching in his black lashes. His face has gone all soft and shining, like Phil has never seen before; this is no quick laugh, no flash of a smile, this is different.

Phil looks back at the lights, at the little boy in front of them atop his father's shoulders, waving his hands and laughing as he pretends to fall, only to be caught by big mittened hands, set steady again.

A child, yes, that is what he sees in Grant's face! For the first time he sees the child, and he thinks suddenly of the child Grant had been, the little boy hiding and hoping and nursing his bruises, the fists pounding on the door, begging to be let in out of the cold.

An ache in Phil's chest, a wrenching behind his ribs, and he looks over at the teenager whom he cannot hoist onto his shoulders, he cannot carry home asleep in his arms, he cannot save from the demons that dog his steps, but he thinks I would. I would have. I would have saved you, I would have carried you home.

Grant does not seem to see Phil, he is spellbound by wonder, all pretence evaporated in the glow of Christmas lights through snow. And his eyes are wide as a three-year-old's, nothing but light, as if... as if that was all there ever had been.

Grant jumps slightly when Phil's arm comes around his shoulders, but he stills at Phil's husky whisper, "It's beautiful."

A nod, but Phil does not look down, not wanting to see the shadow back on the boy's face. Besides his vision has gone a little blurry. It takes a moment for him to notice how Grant has relaxed, leaning back into him. When he looks down, he can only see part of Grant's face, since the kid's head has come to rest on Phil's shoulder.

I'm here, he thinks of saying. You'll be alright. We can do this. I'll protect you, I'll fight for you. But he doesn’t want words to ruin this, he doesn't think any of that is the right thing to say. So he tucks it away inside, perhaps for another time.

They stand in the crowd, staring at the light shining through the snow, listening to each other breathe through the sound of the people singing.

*

Today is never too late to

Be brand new...

[kromaticglass]

I've been sitting on this for a while because I'm not usually one for writing out my thoughts on characters in media that I like but honestly I need to yell about just how much I love Wriothesley as a character and how his story is written.

Don't get me wrong, I love Scaramouche, and I love his story arc, but there's something about this absolutely horrific past that Wriothesley grew up in and despite everything that should have made him a bitter person, he's so selfless. Selfless to the point of completely overturning a system that had been working in it's own horrific manner for hundreds of years as a teenager/young adult in order to make it better and actively work on fixing people, not just let them fall between the cracks of a society that sent them away to be forgotten.

Putting this under a read more because I'm going to yell about this a lot.

When we're first learning about Wriothesley we're introduced to the fact that he was an orphan. This brings up questions to start with; how was he first orphaned? By the sounds of things he wasn't willingly given away to the foster family that he ended up living with, he was on the streets or at the very least was on his own for a time before he ended up there. The first thing that my mind goes to is that this means either his parents abandoned him or they died/were killed, which may also be the reason he seemingly was desensitized to death as a kid - I'll get to that point later, it's important.

Just how long he was on the streets before he was taken in by his foster family isn't mentioned, but I'd expect it was at least a year or so, just from some context clues we got from both his story quest and his character stories that you unlock with friendship. When in his foster home, things were supposedly a picture perfect family, a dollhouse where people looking in would only see the perfect picture but as soon as curtains closed it was something very different.

Households like that are traumatising, it's no wonder that Wriothesley's ability to trust in people is shot. The people who were supposed to care for him after promising a good life were nothing but a front and in his eyes he once more was on his own. For a child to decide to willingly orphan themselves a second time is so taxing on the mind, I could only imagine the stress he would've been under.

But what really gets me is the fact that he eventually came to the conclusion that in order to stop the cycle of picking up kids and selling them off to the highest bidder and killing the ones that didn't sell, Wriothesley didn't think about contacting gardes, didn't go to anyone else about it, he took matters into his own hands.

Not just that, but that he had to kill them.

It takes a lot for someone to work themselves up into killing another person. If you've never taken a life before, most people will hesitate, they'll be sick, or they'll completely shut down and remove themselves mentally from the situation, there's a very visceral reaction that happens in the human brain when you're pushed so far into stress responses that you'll take another life, and this was a teenager. This is why I feel like he would've been desensitized to death or at the very least gruesome scenes like this from a much younger age.

One can only wonder just what was going through his mind during the time he was away, taking the odd jobs to create that first prototype of his gauntlets that he used to shoot nails at his parents. It may not be as personal as taking a knife to someone, but using a nailgun is a bloody affair, the wounds needed to make that fatal are grievous if done by an inexperienced hand. And from what we're told in the character story, it sounds like his parents fought back, hard enough that it very nearly killed Wriothesley as well.

It makes me wonder just what he was thinking, or feeling in that moment, was it fear? Anger? A mix of many things? Or was he simply numb to it until he woke up in the hospital bed later? From what we hear in his tone during the story quest, he sounds apathetic about retelling the story, but that could be a result of trying to compartmentalize the renewed trauma that was rekindled thanks to the gem he touched.

And the trial, lets not forget that. On the day he wakes up from his injuries, he's served papers to face in court, and given a timeline for his recovery. The character story says the trial went with little fanfare and that he accepted the charges with little to no protest, it makes me think about just what could've gone through his head during the time he was recovering.

Wriothesley states that he knew he was guilty in the eyes of the law, and that his methods were extreme and he knows that. Because he survived his injuries when he expected to die from them, it makes me think that he knew he would be going to the Fortress of Meropide once he got to the trial. Given how much of a lawless land the Fortress was back then, I wonder if this was Wriothesley's own way of putting himself back into the hands of fate again, or maybe in some way, taking it back into his own hands.

Character Story 2 and his Vision story tells us more about his time in Meropide before taking it over, and how chaotic it sounded. He arrived in the Fortress and found his Vision in his pockets when being processed, and the first thing he's told is "hide it well". This was the only warning he got from anyone about how life in the Fortress was at that time, and he took that to heart in order to not lose anything precious to him.

Meropide was a place you could pay for someone to die in back then, among other things like drugs and probably far more things that Hoyoverse wouldn't mention for the sake of keeping things PG. It certainly doesn't seem like a place a teenager would be safe in and yet despite all odds, Wriothesley thrived and amassed a massive collection of credit coupons in order to make his name known.

It doesn't say much about what a feat that is, especially the line where it mentions that he amassed more coupons than anyone else in the Fortress combined. He figured out how the place ticked and made it sing to his own tempo instead of simply falling in line, that's such an impressive feat for anyone to do, let alone someone who would've had to fight tooth and nail to even get the respect needed for people to see him with as much power as he seemed to gain by the time he took over.

When he challenged the former administrator to a duel, the story mentions how Wriothesley was saved from having to get another person’s blood on his hands because he fled from the Fortress instead of showing up. And sure we could gloss over this as he was glad about not needing to fight him in the end, but this also implies that if the fight had've gone on instead of what happened, Wriothesley would've either beaten that man within an inch of his life or taken it. He would've taken another life for the sake of other people, once again.

This is something I've noticed is a theme with Wriothesley. He has either little regard for or at the very least places his own safety below others, so long as it's doing what he thinks is right or protects other people. During his story quest when he's being shot at, Wriothesley does little to protect himself aside from some minimal protection with his cryo vision against the bullets shot at him, but the moment that the gun is turned to the Traveler, he spent absolutely no time in very nearly killing Dougier (if the Traveler hadn't been there, I think there would've been a 75%-85% chance that he would've killed Dougier) and putting him in his place.

We see this again with the Archon quest where Wriothesley and Clorinde fight back the Primordial Sea. He spend his own safety and energy icing over the doors in order to save people in the Fortress from the Primordial Sea until Neuvillette could get there, at the risk of his own safety and very nearly getting trapped and dissolved by the waters.

That's not even taking into consideration the work he did on the Wingalet. We saw so little of it in the 4.2 Archon Quest, I was almost disappointed, but the fact that instead of staying idle about the prophecy, he spent so much time and energy making a ship like that and keeping it a secret from most parties until the time came all for the reason of saving as many Fontainians as possible just kills me.

Wriothesley has been through so much, and instead of that horrible backstory and all that trauma turning him into a bitter and hateful person, he instead uses it to give others a better life than he had just crushes me. He took over Meropide and reformed it into a place where not only does it help people now, but is such a nice place to be that inmates want to stay afterwards warms my heart. Like, for sure there's the fact that people staying down there reintegrating into society would be a challenge but I love the fact that there's even the choice to stay down there after the term is over instead of simply turning people lose and risking them returning back down after repeating crimes.

Anyway what I'm trying to get at here is that Wriothesley is such a well written character and I want Hoyoverse to give us more characters like this. I'm rambling way too much and I'm sure like 80% is incoherent bullshit but I needed to get my feelings off my chest about this lol.

If you made it this far thanks for putting up with my rambling LMAO.

[theflyingfeeling]

hi yes it's me writing another Olli/Allu shortie, inspired by the tags in @xgiuliawrites' latest fic (which y'all should go read immediately if you haven't), particularly I was intrigued by the tags sauna, masturbation, and accidental voyeurism 😳

~*~

Aleksi had not meant for it to happen, because of course he hadn't. He hadn't planned to let his imagination run quite so wild, too wild, while sitting next to Olli in the sauna just moments ago, trying to look everywhere else but Olli's happy trail, trying hard not to imagine the salty taste if he was to place a hungry kiss there (he blamed Porko's stupid playlist which had Olli humming a song about pouring tequila in one's belly button in between throwing more water on the stones, pushing Aleksi's agony to the brink of his sanity).

Likewise, he had not intented to grow a semi while washing himself, the knowledge that Olli might have been staring at his bare backside the entire time exciting Aleksi as much as intimidating him (he blamed the wonky reflection on the shower tap the revealed Olli's eyes travelling up and down his body as he showered).

Even less so, his intention being to get out of the changing room and in the cold winter air as fast as he could to kill his budding boner before it would become a problem, he most certainly had not forgotten his toiletry bag on the changing room bench on purpose. Yet, there he was now, mouth hanging open at the sight he was witnessing through the tinted glass door of the sauna, the toiletry bag and his plans of cooling down long forgotten (for which he only had himself to blame, let's face it).

With his long lashes resting against his cheekbones, it was clear Olli had not noticed Aleksi's return, otherwise he obviously wouldn't have ended up in this situation. That was why he should've turned back the second he had realised what was happening on the other side of the glass door separating the sauna and the changing room, as that's what a good friend and a decent person would've done, immediately and with no hesitation. However, as the past week had proved, Aleksi was not a good friend; verily, he was a horrible, useless, and immoral friend who had gone and started having sexual fantasies about his hot, funny and super cute bandmate late at night while sleeping next to that very bandmate on their song-writing camp combined with a winter holiday (even if no one could hardly blame Aleksi for it, because who wouldn't start lusting over the divine being that was Olli Matela, especially when one got to lay beside his gorgeous naked body at night).

Indeed, there was no denying Aleksi was no decent person either, not with his eyes nailed to Olli as he pleasured himself in the heat of the sauna.

The soles of Olli's feet were pressed against the foot rail, which was exactly how Aleksi had left him, but while Olli's knees had then been close together with his arms relaxed on them, they were now wide apart to fully expose Olli's cock, pointing towards the ceiling with his hand stroking it at a leisurely pace. The hardness of his erection, standing proudly while Olli's fingers slid up and down the length, was a dead giveaway that Olli had wasted no time since Aleksi had left – either that, or he, too, had felt the strange, steamy tension during their shared sauna moment.

While Olli's right hand was devoted to rubbing his erection, his left one was free to roam all over his sweaty torso, which did nothing to ease the building pressure in Aleksi's pants. Aleksi let out a lustful sigh as he watched Olli's hand caress his own abdomen, fondling the happy trail Aleksi himself had lusted over just a few moments ago. When the hand moved up again to massage Olli's chest and to tease a red, harneded nipple, Aleksi had to sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to stop himself from whining out loud. He craved to replace Olli's hand with his own, to be the one giving Olli such bliss that had his head thump against the sauna panelling and his stomach sinking in a deep, euphoric sigh.

Only then – hearing the thud of Olli's head resting against the wall behind him – Aleksi could bear to leave the sight of Olli's body and look up at his face instead. There, Aleksi found a small smile, only barely visible through the coloured glass door, but it spoke volumes of how much Olli was enjoying himself. Aleksi wished he could've joined Olli in his pleasure, perhaps even be the reason for it, but for now he had to settle for palming himself through his trousers to give his own aching cock some much-needed relief. Shortly after, guilt forced him to remove his hand and dig his nails into his thighs when he felt himself getting close to coming embarrassingly quickly.

He should leave. He should throw himself in the snow and let the blizzard bury him, or whatever it would take to reboot his brain and erase all the images of Olli sitting on the sauna bench with his legs spread and his hand pumping up and down on his long, rock-hard cock, because there was no way he would be able to look his friend in the eye after this, let alone sleep next to him under any circumstances.

Just when Aleksi had convinced himself to make his silent escape and perhaps drown himself in the hole Tommi and Niko had sawed in the ice for some post-sauna ice swimming, as that was the least he deserved for being such a pervert, a low moan from the sauna nailed Aleksi's feet to the floor.

His eyes found Olli's erection again to immediately notice that the earlier calm, almost lazy pace of Olli's hand had now been replaced with a much quicker one, one that was determined to take Olli closer to his release with each long stroke. His left hand had abandoned his nipple and was instead fondling his balls, which seemed to bring Olli a great deal of additional pleasure, if the ecstatic expression on his face was anything to go by.

"Aaahhhh... aaaahhhhhh..." Olli's grunts went straight to Aleksi's cock that was twitching inside his boxers as if to poke at Aleksi for his attention. He didn't dare touch himself again, though, having decided he'd rather freeze his own penis by sticking his hard-on in a bank of snow than walk through the living room with jizz in his pants.

As Olli's moans grew louder and more frequent, Aleksi realised he wouldn't probably even need to grab his cock to come undone in his pants from just looking at Olli, at his hardened bicep, at his hair-covered chest expanding and sinking rapidly, at his glistening cock inside his fist that hastened its movements by the second until streaks of white fell on Olli's stomach with one last moan (more like a whine (more like the sweetest single sound that had ever blessed Aleksi's ears)).

Aleksi ignored the throbbing in his pants as he devoured Olli, who was now relaxing against the wall completely, his fingers but resting on his still hard member instead of gripping it in search for an orgasm.

A satisfied, laid-back smile spread on Olli's lips, and all too late Aleksi understood what for. All too late, Aleksi realised he had missed his cue to cut and run in shame, when Olli opened his eyes to look straight into his.

Olli's smile didn't falter, and there was no sign of shock or embarassement in his dark gaze. If anything, the smile widened, and the already horny look in his eyes grew ever more lewd as it flickered between Aleksi's face and his crotch, Aleksi's hand doing a poor job hiding the tent on the front of this sweatpants.

Olli raised an eyebrow and nodded towards it.

"Need a hand with that?"

[tgmsunmontue]

Editing sex scenes is worse than writing them... (In relation to Chapter 16 of It's More the Movie Magic... which should be finished within an hour.)

If you don't like your fluffy story with a side of porn you'll just be able to skip Chapter 16, but it is very soft and sweet and tooth-rottenly tender.

[hashtag-xolo]

.

[atla-adult-au]

The Fierce One

Years after their children grew up, got married, and started families of their own, she paid a visit to a dear friend who was like a sister to her. Accompanied by another friend, who was known for her stubbornness, they traveled to the island where their retired friend and her husband, who was once the ruler of the land, resided.

All three of them took turns caring for her, talking to her, feeding her. But her friend’s husband, the retired lord was mostly there. He would tirelessly carry her to the commode to relieve herself or clean up after her accidents. He would be the one to change her soiled clothes. She, that was always ready to help the people that needed her, didn’t want to be a burden to her family. But the lord felt it was an honor to care for her more than her nurses do.

Unable to fall asleep, she was consumed with the belief that her friend's life was coming to an end. She would gaze out of the guest room's open window where she’s staying. She takes in the warm, humid air and cool breeze in an attempt to soothe her racing mind.

One morning, she witnessed her friend's husband carrying her friend to the shore before sunrise. Confused by this sight, she immediately woke her other friend, the blind master bender who she shares a guest room with. She instructed her to inform the lord's children.

While she followed them and sat behind the bushes curious as to what was going on. She saw the lord put his wife down and propped to sit her up. He sat behind her to steady and hold her. She heard them talk in whispers, and he would rock her and embrace her while they spoke. She was a witness to the last hours of their undying devotion before the sun rose on the horizon beyond the sea. He would mourn her there as he cradles her in his arms until one of his sons approached them. The second of the twin. Telling him that he needs to let go of mama. That its not right for him to hold her long enough for the effects of death to take its gnarly hands on her already lifeless body. At this, she stood from where she sat and approached the lord.

But he wouldn’t let go just yet.

She puts her hands on his shoulders, goving it a bit of a squeeze that she understands and that she’s there, his fanily and friends are there with him at this hour of mourning.

Without words and without looking, he eased his clutch as his son puts their mother on a cot to prepare her for burial.

The blind master came to him as well. His two beloved friends holding him. Making him feel they’re with him in his time of mourning. Them three remaining of the six are left to pick up the pieces of what was once their family.

Remnants of their friendships bound in time.

That afternoon, they paid their last respects to her friend. She was wrapped and placed on a tug boat. Three of the blind master’s airbending children motioned the boat to move far out at sea. The deceased woman’s husband, the retired lord who is also a powerful firebender formed a flame on his hand. His son, now the Lord of the Land used the flame to lit an arrow and aimed the bow at the boat. The arrow swooshed and precisely hit its target and they watched the fire consume her from a far as the sun dips low in the waters.

The wake lasted for a week. Traditions of prayers, lighting incense, eulogies and celebrations of her life ensued till it was time to go home. The children of the retired lord asked the two women to keep him company for awhile. They’re all that’s left of their legacy after all. The blind master has too much on her plate having that many children and grandchildren so had to bow out but promised to visit often.

The other cant go back to her home because the cold gives her too much pain.

One of her daughters rules their snowy kingdom in the south as an heir, and the younger one followed her mother’s career as a warrior. So she decided to stay, after all, her younger daughter the warrior, lives on an island nearby.

She had history with the retired ruler. She used to protect his wife, who happens to be her sister-in-law. So she is family to him.

He more than welcomed her presence there.

All six of them used to spend their days at his family’s summer house. From planning his autocratic father’s defeat, to celebrating their victory. They all would celebrate milestones there together. From her honeymoon to the water tribe warlord, to having their families spend their vacations with their children, and soon enough their grandchildren. The Summer house was big enough to handle their life’s greatest adventures.

And now it has become his hideaway.

But he did not become a recluse thanks to her and their other friend who visits often as promised with her son. All three would go out of town when she notices him in his brooding moments. They would watch a spar, walk on the shores, make him laugh as they talk about the good old days, they’d go to the tea house which is now a large restaurant franchise being managed by the blind master’s youngest son.

And then one day he noticed her lost in her thoughts. He would call out to her but would be oblivious to him. He would ask her how she is or what she was doing. Sometimes she’d answer, and sometimes her answers were not all there.

He knew she’s starting to slip, her mind fading away. She’d tell him of secrets he was not bound to know. She looks at him differently now. Like meeting someone for the first time. She would sometimes forget where she’s at. Why she’s there. She would even forget who she is. And the magnificent warrior that she was. And he was there to remind her.

Always.

At nights he would wake up to her screams so he runs to her room faster than her caretaker. There are times she thought he was her husband long gone but then she would see his scar and would be angry. She would ask him who did it as if she never knew. She would bolt from her bed and look for her fan and tell him she’d avenge him. He would calm her down and tell her that he was ok.

There was a time she saw her put on a thick face coloring that she used to wear. She would tell him things like she’s getting ready for the war, or that she would be looking for his wife to protect.

Then there were moments she insisted he was her husband. And when he gently reminded her of who her real husband was, she’d think he was being silly.

He summoned her children to show them what was happening.

Her children started to notice it too. Her daughters would recall the times she would forget where she placed things or names but they thought it was just part of old age. The youngest apologized that their mother got worse and will take her to avoid inconvenience. But he asked her children if she could stay with him so she gets the best of care. He insists she’s not a burden as he treats her as family.

There were more than a few times he’d run after her as she goes out of her room naked. What a beauty she was even at that age. A man can only take so much but he’d always think of what his wife and his brother in law would say to him once he meets them in the afterlife. To help keep himself in line, he would always have his eunuch with him to ensure nothing out of the ordinary happens betwen them as he covers her with a robe and redirects her to go back in the house. Thankfully his royal lodge in the islands is big enough for her not to be seen in that condition but only by his caretakers and out of the public eye. This is how he could protect her. She is not as safe if she lives with her family. He is privileged to have a huge estate for the two of them, and a staff at his beck and call that can check in on her round the clock if they have to.

Her daughters and her grandchildren would come visit from time to time. Their other friend was informed as well and she would visit with her children to help out. It was like old times again. The summer house was full of life and laughter. But when they’re gone, he’s all that she’s got and so he keeps an eye on her to keep her safe. He would let her tell stories of her glory days. She would often call him after her husband’s name. And sometimes she’d remember who he is.

He’s seen her at different stages of her mind trapped in time. Her mind as a child-he would play with her as she plays with her miniature trinkets that her grandchildren had bought for her. Her mind as a youth-they would talk and tell stories as friends. Her mind as a wife-when she’d think he was her husband and she would look at him lovingly to his discomfort. Her mind as a mother-when she’d ask about her children. And her mind as a crone-when she’s just on her own, lost in her thoughts and would often forget the names of her children and grandchildren. He was there to remind her who they were when they visit.

She never skimped on hugs and would hold his hand. At times he’d feel there’s something more to it because he knew the difference. Her mind keeps looping from him as a friend and then seeing him as her husband long gone. He makes sure they’re not always alone and his staff knew what was going on in her head.

The night terrors were worse and to pacify her he would keep her company till he falls asleep. She would often call out to him as her friend, or call her husband’s name and he’d be there to answer her just to reassure her she’s not alone.

Caring for her was not easy. Her wife at least didn’t lose her mind like she did. And so the rare moments she was resting and asleep, he would often meditate and look at the pictures of his family, his wife looking at him from the photo gives him strength to continue and help their friend out.

Then one day she started to bleed.

He called on healers and her caretaker to clean her and ease her pain but he was there while they do this to make sure she’s alright and cared for. She got worse as days went on. He asked for her children to come and say their goodbyes.

And with that he lost another friend.

The warrior who loves her fan.

[expressionless-fr]

@illwilledomen @mj-iza-writer @misc-obeyme

If you're a creator and you needed to hear this today:

You have no idea how many people lurk on your work. No idea how many times people go back to revisit your work. How big they smile when they simply think about your work. How fast their heart beats, how excited they get when they see that you posted something.

People are shy with their feedback. Sometimes it’s because they’re simply shy. Other times it’s because they assume you already know how great and talented you are. Could be both.

My point is, even if you barely have any likes or reblogs, don’t get discouraged. You have a lot of silent fans, but they are still your fans. Keep on creating. Because there is always someone out there who will love what you have made.

[raccooncityriots]

I swear it kills me everytime we get a new interview of someone saying that Cagalli is gonna wait for the cousin she’s training to be old enough to run Orb then she’s gonna step down to be with Athrun.

Like, I understand why meta-wise we are saying that, but it just feels like such a bad move for her character development. Nil nisi bonum and all that shit, but I ain’t ever gonna understand why she can’t run a country and have a husband.

[guinevereslancelot]

this eye care routine is a lot

[conshirtoe]

I keep having dreams where I can’t type correctly. In these dreams I am always under intense pressure to write something out but I can never type it no matter how hard I try. I think this stems from me being frustrated at how I am out of practice typing on a touch screen and how I always have to fix a lot of mistakes when I write. But those dreams are always so realistic and intense and very stressful. Wish they would stop

[unriding]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NIGHT FLOWER: part i

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

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

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

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

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

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

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

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

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

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re hiring me?”

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

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

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

“Kakavasha—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

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

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

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

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

“You're a shit liar.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

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

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

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

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

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

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

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

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You can't know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

It gutted you.

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

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

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

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hated being an alpha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

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

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

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

“I’ve barely—”

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

“You really need—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

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

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

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

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

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

Both of you inhale sharply.

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

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

Fuck.

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

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

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

Something claws the walls of your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—before he looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...oh.”

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

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

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

You only want him to feel safe.

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

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

He does eventually speak.

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

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

Aventurine breathes in.

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

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

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

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

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

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

“Although?” you prompt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

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

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

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

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

end part i

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

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

additional end notes

[zzxya]

.

[inf3ct3dd]

ellie headcanons pt 4.!

warnings: literally nothing

content: loser!ellie x reader

authors note: brewing a full length fic in my mind rn… this might be the last hc post 😓!!!

pt.3. taglist!

- loves matching with you. keychains, shoes, outfits, literally anything. if you have dyed hair, she’d dye a piece of hers to match you.

- makes up elaborate plots to kiss you bc she’s too cool and nonchalant to ask for a kiss 😕😕

“ugh, my lips are just sooooo dry…”

“didnt you literally just put chapstick on 5 minutes ago?”

“yknow chapstick these days…so…low quality.”

“is this your weird way of asking me to kiss you?”

“noooo what!!! thats craaaaazy i have nooo idea what you’re talking about!!!”

smooch

“you’re so stupid.”

“i feel sooooo moisturized right now”

- always fidgeting with something. probably has a rubix cube keychain 😕🔥🔥

- speaking of, she has an excessive amount of keychains. like so many.

- covers her eyes and peaks through her fingers every time you change infront of her

- definitely audibly said “woah” when she saw ur boobs for the first time

- has so many dumb socks. dinosaurs, minecraft, pickles, literally anything she likes she has a pair of socks for

- scarily good at roblox obbies. you literally can’t play with her because she’ll be done in like 5 minutes 😞

- loves those papas cooking games. her faves are the taco mia one and the sushi-ria

- arizona green tea 🗣️🗣️

- will put on awful accents for hours on end just for fun 😞 esp the italian accent. it’s ridiculous 💔💔 or that frat dude accent

“suhhh dude”

- definitely built her own pc. put a picture of you in it too ☹️☹️

- calls you “dude” or “bro” on accident sometimes

- absolutely constantly argues w ppl on the internet. if she gets bored she just tells them to kts and blocks them 😕

- MAKES THE BEST PASTA EVER!!! it’s literally her favorite food and she’s constantly cooking it. even makes her own sauce 🔥🔥

- tries to do tricks while she’s smoking and just ends up a coughing mess

- her default pose in every picture is just her doing a thumbs up and looking at the camera like this 😐 but whenever she takes a picture with you she is absolutely CHEESING

- randomly takes 0.5 pictures of you constantly. has a whole album in her phone of all the pictures

- barely ever uses instagram, and all her posts are just pictures of you.

- “i could take a bear in a fight.”

- loves balancing things on your head when you fall asleep around her. one time you woke up to like 20 cheerios falling on your lap

- whenever she’s home alone she puts on insanely random outfits and then forgets she’s wearing them. one time you came home to her sleeping on the couch in a full suit

- lets you stand on the cart in the grocery store so she can stand behind you and push it around

- has had the same backpack since the 5th grade. she’s had to sow it back together 20 times and she refuses to throw it away because its “special”

- stalks all your reposts on tiktok when she’s bored

“was this about me???”

- absolutely disgusted by like…any type of canned food. she will not go near it. ESPECIALLY SARDINES

- makes a million typos every time she texts you. her messages are like ancient scrolls you have to decipher to read

“sre tou comungw over todqy ??”

- every time she wears a hat she wears it backwards

- hates sharing her food, but will constantly eat yours

“just a little bite!!!” and she eats like half of it 😒

- has the julien baker rainbow guitar strap

- literally loves apples. so much. apple juice, apple pie, apple cider, literally ANYTHING that has apples in it/ is apple flavored she will DEVOUR IT

- whenever she cooks for herself, she just eats it straight out of the pot/pan.

“whats the point?? ‘s just more dishes to wash 😒”

taglist: if ur name is crossed, i cant tag u :((

@princessguardian444 @mina-281 @leatheredhearts @r3wbeef @dinaissoprettyoml @forelliesposts @lov3lylotus @melissabarrerass @greencacty @as2rid @kingofmylastkiss @dollietes @ellieslilsIvvt @pl9ys @bbygrlshelbs @gayh0rr0r @sawaagyapong @paran0id0blivi0n @bubs-world @mag-mfm @bearieio @slutshies @horror-whoree @calystas-morning-tea @ilovaffles @fr3sh-tragedies @iloveeyousblog @maris-koffin @emonopolyman @elliesgflol @girlwonderchloe @brunettedolls-blog @beestar120 @ddreabea @ibloom4u @elliesmellsbad @thecowardwrites @owmoiralover @yuyans-stuff @minixmel @ellesslutt @swtsuna @saggykneecaps @4rt3m1ss @clouded-whispers @baldph0bic @elleatethat @certifedcrybunny @staxz8 @astridnyx31 @0rb1t-s4turn @amandla111 @kalia31 @spinnyshark @cewcumbers @urnewghostfriend @dinasmoon @teeveegirl @iwantsoda @lunascerebro @matildalee @rach-0000 @er-or101 @our-horse @armins1ut @syrenada @seventeenelliesgf @jellysangelstar @f3r4lfr0gg3r @ilovelyby @people0know @sapphicsstars @hi2647 @mousymaven @echostinn @bratydoll