#ur tags made me giggle

[yinyuedijun]

thank you so much for reading yue ♥️♥️♥️ I appreciate it a lot and I'm so glad you found it so moving 🥺💞💞 I'm also glad I subverted the omegaverse expectations - a lot of fics in the genre are actually like this (wholesome yet angsty) and I'm glad I landed into that category 😎

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

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[<==PREV PAGES] [NEXT PAGE==>(not out yet.wait a year.or maybe more.imagine.]

saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.

[gyokuken]

[prettyboykatsuki]

: ̗̀➛ MY HEART, YOUR SONG by @aimfor-theheart

“Kaeya,” you say his name like a melody, “are you the jealous type?”  For a heartbeat, he almost feels harpooned, caught, suddenly struck in place. It’s frightening to be picked apart so effortlessly, with that smile on your face. Earnest. Horribly lovely.  What a strange creature you are, he marvels.  But then he laughs and lies, “not particularly.” 

hello hello!! thank you to the beloved cielo for giving me permission and creative liberty to make a poster for one of their fics. if you are a kaeya fucker with any interest in the arts (or just a kaeya fucker in general. hes so sexy here) u will enjoy it immensely!!! i definitely did!!!

mutuals if u follow my side and r interested in these please let me know, i would like to do more of them if possible.

[fujii-draws]

Dusknoir reassuring Aimilios that it’s okay and it was an honest mistake vs Dusknoir putting a padlock on his food and holding Ribbons by the scruff

Duality

[james-spooky]

this is a test

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

Do you think depressed teen!sugu would allow me to wrap him up in a blanket and give him a lot of kisses,, I will regardless if he allows me to or not but aughhhh. Ive been rewatching his emo era and my silly sad baby…. My little sprinkle spronkle skrinklee..:.. my little meep meep,..,, I want to hug him and tell him he’s gonna be okay it so bad it physically pains me that I’m not currently stroking his hair and kissing his face 💔💔💔 ok but like with the jokes (sorta) aside it makes me so sad when he’s talking to yuki like. He looks so obviously tired and his hair is down and and and and he looks so sad… distant crying I would abandon my plushies for sad sugu…… I’m not a responsible parent anyway… trust me believe me I am currently kissing his tears away and reading him to sleep it’s what must be done. This was my rant on my love for sugu even when he is sad I hope you enjoyed 🗣️🗣️🗣️ — stsg anon (still crying) :3

HE WOULD HE WOULDDDD…….. ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ohhh stsg anon…..

i think. a big warm hug could have fixed him. a good ol embrace. he’s stiff at first and maybe gets a bit defensive bc he wants you to think that he’s fine but he needs this… just melts into your arms and starts sniffling into your neck :((((( baby boy. baby….. if someone had been there to drag him into a warm shower and slather in him in shampoo and wash his hair and wrap him up in a big fluffy towel and kiss him all over his pretty face then he would’ve been alright…………..

tbh i feel like sugu would probably have his bouts of depression even outside of a canon-aligned au? or even just the occasional bad day where he can’t get out of bed and doesn’t have the energy to take care of you the way he wants to…. so you take care of him!! and i think he appreciates it more than he could ever describe :(((( being treated so delicately and tenderly, like he’s made of glass. not having to constantly keep his guard up or force a smile… READING HIM TO SLEEP PLSSS i think he’d get kinda shy if you were to tuck him into bed…. card through his hair and read a little bedtime story to him…… but it also makes him feel so so safe. he craves it so badly but can’t ask for it so i think having an s/o who just. Knows what he needs and gives it to him would soothe him sooo immensely.

sighhhh …. ☹️☹️ stsg anon he makes me so sad. our little meowmeow… our eepy meepy little guy…. our little baby……,,,, i need to pamper him so bad

[wonustars]

blonde soobin gone but not forgotten 😞

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘓𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦

Summary: You find Soobin alone at a cafe after he's been stood up. You can't help but comfort him, leaving you both crushing on each other after. Days later you ask him to study with you, but how much studying did you two actually end up doing?

Reposts are always appreciated/encouraged!! Tumblr works on reblogs not likes, Thank you for your support :)

Tags: friends? to lovers, kinda more like aquaintances, the reader is kinda obsessed w soobin, soobin is also kinda obssesed with the reader, a little fluffy? yeonjun cameo (hint hint)

Warning: SMUTTY AF!! PLZ 18+ ONLY! MDNI!!! soft dom/dom!soobin, sub!reader, afab!reader, cum eating, mutual masterbastion (?), dacryphilia, public sex, they have sex in the library..., pet names, cream pie, unprotected piv sex, they also have sex on top of a desk lmao, multiple positons, oral (m. receiving), throat fucking, breast play (lmk if i missed any!)

Wordcount: 4215

Note: you all voted for Soobin so i'm here to deliver! I hope you all like this one as much as the Beomgyu one! comment or send me an ask if you want to be apart of the taglist!! Yeonjun will be next if this one does well :)

happy reading~

Soobin sits at a table with two cups of coffee, except there is no one there but him, and the worker behind the counter. Unfortunately, his date had stood him up for Choi Beomgyu. He feels a little embarrassed and sad, he thought this date was going to go well. This was when you walked in, the bell on the door signalling your arrival. You look around and see that no one else is in here, it was too late to have a cup of coffee but you didn’t care. You’ve been craving that iced matcha latte all day. 

After grabbing what you needed, you’re about to leave until you see Soobin sitting alone. You recognized him from your biology class and you two had mutual friends but didn’t talk much. The window he was leaning against was fogging up from his breath, he looked upset and deep in thought. Your eyes immediately turned to the two cups left on the table, but there was no one else there. Putting two and two together you can’t help but feel guilt stir at the bottom of your stomach. He looks like he needs a bit of cheering up, you thought. 

“Hey, Soobin!” You call out, waving your hand. Walking towards him with a joyful bounce, you reach his table and take a seat across from him. Soobin moves so that his head isn’t leaning across the window anymore. He gives you a half-hearted smile looking down into his lap. 

“Hey y/n, what are you doing here?” He asks you, but he doesn’t sound so interested. Understandably, his mind is wandering to his date who went home with another man. The music of the cafe is gleefully ringing through the speakers, a stark comparison to Soobin’s gloomy attitude. 

“Oh you know, just wanted to get in my daily matcha fix,” you answer with a bright smile, trying to help offset his negative mood. Giving you that same sad smile, your heart aches. Soobin looks like a kicked bunny and you just want to see his cute smile again. His blond hair reflects the fluorescent light and it mimics a halo over the top of his head. You find him so endearing that you want to curse out whoever decided to stand him up like this. There was only one way to go about it, you’ll just have to tell him you know why he's so upset.

“I know you got stood up, it’s a little obvious Soob, but whoever they are, they’re stupid. I would kill to go on a date with a guy as kind as you,” you reassure him. 

Looking up at you, his eyebrows are raised, he looks like you just told him he won a million dollars. He was so handsome, especially with the way his heart-shaped lips curled into the most adorable smile.  

“Really?” he asks, sounding hopeful.

“Of course Soobin, you’re a great guy and not to mention tall and attractive. Don’t let this one date let you get down,” giving him another soft smile, you stand up from your seat and leave the cafe. 

Walking back to your place your mind can’t help but drift back to Soobin. This was probably the first time the two of you spent a good chunk of time alone. You’ve never taken an honest good look at him until now, but you found him to be so attractive. The way his dimples would appear when he would smile, and oh god, his lips. His lips looked so soft and they were the perfect shade of pink too. You’re smiling like a madman walking back to your apartment but you can’t help it. Soobin seemed like such a nice guy, and from what you’ve heard around campus he wasn’t terrible in bed either.

*·῾ ᵎ⌇So kiss me, kiss me, kiss me and tell me that I'll see you again 

It’s been a few days since you last saw Soobin, but he still plagues your mind. A once acquaintance has become a stupid little school girl crush.

 Currently you’re studying in the library for another biology test. With that you suddenly remember who is also in your biology class. A small smirk dances along your lips as you pull out your phone. 

me: hey what's soobin’s number again? 

yj <3: y? dont tell me you’re tryna fuck him too y/n.. 

You scoff at Yeonjun’s comment. Yeonjun being the one to say it is even more offensive, especially knowing his history. Being comfortable with having an active sex life did not mean you wanted to fuck everyone you found attractive. You’re a hot and young university student, sleeping around was not a bad thing. Even though you can’t seem to stop thinking about Soobin in that way, that doesn’t mean you’re lying about needing help with biology. Rolling your eyes, you answer Yeonjun’s question. 

me: no.. just need help studying lol 

yj <3: fine. here. 

*yj <3 shared a contact with you*

Once you had Soobins number you couldn’t help but smile in triumph. Having an excuse to spend time with him seemed to be the best way to get to know him. And maybe lead to something more…

me: hey soobin it’s y/n! i was wondering if u wanted to study in the library with me for the bio test this fri? 

soob: hi! sure i’d love to actually, see u in ten. 

Looking down at your screen; your smile reached your eyes. You turn off your phone and place it screen side down, anticipating his arrival.  After all those days of thinking about Soobin, you’re finally able to spend some alone time with him. 

*·῾ ᵎ⌇so sweet when your lips touch mine

Students have left for their next class and it seems to only be you in your secluded section right now, maybe you’ll even be able to have a conversation in between studying. This would be the perfect time to get to know him better. While anxiously waiting for him you start to organize all your things mindlessly. Your highlighters all in a straight line and your laptop in front of you already on the first page of the lecture slide. This is probably the first time you catch yourself getting nervous about a man’s presence. You weren’t sure what type of student Soobin was but you knew he was smarter than average, so you wanted to look equally as studious.

From the corner of your eye, you see a fluffy blond head of hair heading your way. He was dressed exactly like you, a hoodie and baggy jeans complimenting his frame, making him look so good despite the casual attire. Sitting up straighter you pretend to write down notes. While doing so you hear the chair beside you scrape its legs along the floor. You turn your head beaming up at the blond boy beside you. He gives you that same dimpled smile that you’ve come to love, and your legs can’t help but feel like jelly. 

“Hey Soobin, it's been awhile,” your body is now turning to face him, a shy smile finds its way across your lips. He’s already looking at you and you feel your knees weaken even more. Taking out his own laptop and notebook, he responds. 

“Yeah it has, I'm sorry I never reached out to you after the cafe. I’ve been wanting to say thank you for that day though. You really helped me lift my spirits after a shitty situation.” 

Soobin places a hand on your shoulder, and you can’t help but notice how large his hands are. Your mind starts to drift; now you can’t help but think about what they would look like on your body. The way they could easily wrap around your neck, or how big of a handprint it would leave on your ass. Mentally you’re shaking yourself trying not to let your thoughts get ahead of you. A part of you would be lying if you said you weren’t secretly turned on by him right now. He’s just larger than you in so many ways, feeding into your size kink even more. 

“Anytime Soob, I have a feeling you would have done the same thing for me anyways,” shrugging it off like it's no big deal.

 It was hard to focus on the conversation without wanting to glance at his hands every other second. As he turns back to his work, he lets you know that if you have a hard time with the material you could just ask him about it. Reciprocating his smile you turn back to your work as well. 

After an hour or two of studying you end up getting stuck on a practice question. You peer over to Soobin who’s scribbling down some notes from the lecture recording diligently. If you knew this is what he looked like while studying you wouldn’t have told Yeonjun that you’re not trying to sleep with him. The way he scrunches his eyebrows in concentration while biting his bottom lip was driving you insane. Subconsciously you’re rubbing your legs together, you just couldn’t help but think about what his lips feel like on yours. 

“Do you think you could help me with this question? I’ve been trying to do it for the past thirty minutes now,” you ask him and his eyes leave his notes. 

“Yeah of course I can,” Soobin leans closer to you to take a look at your paper. He's so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. Trying to inhale steadily you end up getting a whiff of his cologne. If you weren’t wet already, you’re basically a river down there now. The smell of his cologne was like soft laundry and a hint of musk and vanilla, it was so refreshing. If you could, you would want to spend the whole day just breathing in his scent. 

Soobin leans even more closer, dirty thoughts are still running rampant in your mind. The unsure feeling of if he reciprocated your feelings was gnawing your insides, so you haven’t made your move. 

Your faces are practically touching at this point, you can feel the vibration of his voice as he tries to explain the question. If you turned your head the two of you would be kissing, so cautiously you keep your eyes on your paper. His large hands pointing to the words you’ve written down, but you can’t hear a thing. The way his hands are moving and how it’s practically as big as your page is making your heart palpitate.  

A pair of eyes now on you, Soobin awaiting your reply to his little explanation. Craning your neck to look back at him you can’t help but look at his lips. Realzing what you had just done, you look back up at his eyes. To your surprise he’s looking at your lips too. The feeling in your stomach tightens and you know this is your chance. 

“Fuck studying for biology,” Soobin beats you to it, he takes your head in his large hands and pulls you in for a kiss. It's a heated, passionate kiss and you moan at the feeling of how good he feels against you. Especially with the way his large hand is holding onto your face. You feel dizzy, everything happening so fast, and this doesn’t feel the same way it usually does. Soobin kisses you so delicately, making you feel like you’re on cloud nine. But at the same time, there's so much passion in his actions and you can tell he’s kissing you with so much emotion. 

Gripping your waist now he stands up, lifting you and placing you on the edge of the empty part of the desk. Immediately your legs open to let him stand between them, you gasp into the kiss as you feel his bulge brush against your clothed core. Soobin takes this opportunity to deepen the kiss; while he works his tongue into your mouth you let your hands wander into his hair, tugging and grabbing it, causing him to groan. 

“You don’t know how much I’ve been thinking about this,” pulling away, a shocked expression washes over your face. You weren’t expecting him to feel the same way you did, and it makes you feel even more turned on. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that day in the cafe,” you respond as Soobin takes his time planting kisses against your jaw then your neck. Letting out soft sighs of pleasure, Soobin slowly moves back up to your face, smiling into the kiss. His hands find their way to the hem of your hoodie, going under to feel your every curve of bare skin. High on Soobins scent and his touch, you move away from the kiss to pull the hoodie off your body. 

“Please touch me Soob, I want you so bad.” you beg him, giving him an innocent look despite the filth that’s spewing from your mouth. He looks at you with so much lust that you can feel your heat dampen even more. There's a giddy feeling fluttering in your stomach, you were not expecting your study session with him to take such a turn but you’re not complaining. Soobin doesn’t need you to repeat yourself, he’s now back to kissing you with more energy than before. While he’s kissing you he places his hands over your bra cladded chest, feeling you up as much as he can. You’re moaning into his mouth again, not caring about who can hear. 

Moving his hands to your back, he unclasps your bra, swifty removing the material from your body. He takes one of your nipples into your mouth, swirling his tongue and using his teeth to lightly nip at your hardened bud. He doesn’t leave your other breast unattended, giving it the same amount of attention as the other. Hands in his hair again, gripping onto him for stability and out of pleasure. Reluctantly pulling away, he can't help but admire the sight before him. You look so good, your eyes lidded with lust and your lips are swollen from kissing him. He's so hard he could cum just looking at you, then you say something that almost actually made him cum in his pants. 

“Can I suck your dick?” you ask so politely, how could he refuse? Nodding his head his mouth dry with anticipation; while you’re already hopping off the desk and lowering yourself on your knees. Soobin convinced he really could cum untouched, especially with the way you’re looking up at him. This angle of you is just simply so addicting. He’s thinking about whether or not he’ll get to look at you from this angle again. The thought of it making his stomach tighten with excitement.

Cautious with your movements you slowly removed Soobin’s pants. His boxers followed and they pooled to his ankles. When you say he’s big it's almost an understatement, his dick slapping against his stomach as you set it free. The gasp you let out doesn’t go unnoticed and Soobin smiles down at you while gathering your hair into a makeshift ponytail. You take his length into your hands and rub the precum over his tip. A groan comes out of Soobin’s mouth, his head falling back, gripping your hair tighter. You’re smiling to yourself, enjoying the way he looks as you pleasure him. 

“Fuck you’ve barely touched me and I already feel like I’m gonna cum,” his voice straining, another groan leaves his lips as you gather spit to lubricate his cock. Teasingly you pepper kisses onto his tip, his hands raking through your hair, holding onto you tighter. You decide to take your time, relishing in the way his eyes scrunch closed as you give his cock kitten licks. 

“Baby I can’t take this anymore, gonna fuck your mouth okay?” before you could say anything your mouth is filled with his dick. A muffled moan comes out of you, his hold on you like a vice. Soobin moves his hips back and forth, your throat trying to take all of him. The tip of his member is hitting the back of your throat, and his eyes are rolling to the back of his head as he feels you gag on him with each thrust. You could feel every vain on your tongue and the way his length is twitching in your mouth, seconds away from release. 

“I really don’t wanna cum like this,” Soobin says as he removes his still hard cock from your mouth. You get up from your knees, giving him a kiss on the lips before stepping back to take off your jeans. He’s watching you while stroking himself, and you feel your core dripping wetness down your inner thigh. Sitting back on the table, you lock your eyes with his. The look hes giving you makes you want to let him fuck you for everyone to hear. It was a miracle you two didn’t get walked in on yet. You open your legs, your hand travelling to play with your clit. Then you insert two fingers inside your wet cunt, pumping in and out. The sound of your sopping heat is making Soobin go feral, especially with the gaze you’ve set on him while you finger yourself.

“Fuck me Soob, please?” you ask so sweetly almost as if you’re asking for the most mundane request. As if you’re asking for anything but to get fucked by him right now. He groans as he watches you take your fingers out of yourself; you then bring your fingers up to your mouth, sucking on them with your eyes still trained on Soobin’s cute face. Still stroking himself, while making his way to you; he looks at you so mesmerized by how dirty you are, and fuck it’s such a turn on. He never imagined you in this way until the night of the cafe. His seemingly innocent crush turned into something more. 

“Be carful what you ask for love, because I’m gonna fuck you till you’re crying for me to stop.” he says at a volume barely above a whisper, his breath fanning your ear. You can’t help but whisper an equally filthy response, your arms now around his neck. 

“I want your cock inside me, want you to see your cum dripping out of me after,” you moan into his ear and he strokes himself up and down your drenched slit, your legs wrapped around his hips tightly.  Without a second to spare he pushes himself inside, a moan leaving his lips as he slides in inch by inch. The breath is knocked out of your lungs, you feel all of him fill you up, and he's not even in all the way yet. 

“Feels so good Soob,” the words are falling out of your mouth in moans, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming your senses. He starts to thrust into you with merciless speed, the sound of skin slapping echoing within the empty library. At this moment you don’t care about who can hear you, all you can think about is how good Soobin’s cock feels inside you. 

“Y-you’re so tight sweetheart, gripping me so fucking tight,” hes groaning into the dip of your shoulder and your neck, leaving love bites as he continues pumping himself in and out of you. 

The only thing you can do is keep on moaning while you hold onto his shoulders for dear life. You look down to see his cock slide in and out, a creamy white ring covering the base of his cock. It turns you one even more, your cheeks blushing at the sight. Suddenly you feel a loss of contact, Soobin has taken himself out of you, he’s breathing heavily while sweat starts to form on his forehead. Before you could whine about it, he takes you off the desk flipping you over. He forces you to spread your legs before shoving his cock back inside you. 

Even though you yelp at the sudden push into your wet pussy, you relax as the pleasure starts to come over you once again. Soobin loves the sound of your insides squelching from the way his dick is fucking you. Especially loving the feeling of his tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. He doesn’t know how much more he can take but he's on a mission to make you cum before he does. 

Lifting you off the desk again he wraps one hand around your waist, the other one snaking its way down to your clit. The feeling of his fingers rubbing circles into your sensitive bud has you seeing stars. Your bent over slightly still, Soobin able to continue fucking you while he gets you closer to the edge. 

“‘M gonna cum soon, don’t stop Soobin please.” you’re crying now, tears of pleasure running down your cheeks. He really wasn’t lying when he said he was going to fuck you till you were crying. 

“Cum for me baby,” is all he says. 

You’re saying his name over and over again, your moans now muffled by his hand. His hand is so large it covers almost all of the bottom half of your face. He’s towering over you making you feel so small. Your eyebrows strewn together tightly and your high is taking over you. Soobin is still fucking you from behind, his own orgasm slowly reaching the horizon. The muffling of your moans and the sound of your wet cunt getting fucked is still bouncing off the library’s bookshelves. 

“Please cum inside me, fill me up please please please.” you beg him, tears still running down your checks. Soobins moves you so you’re bent over the desk, his cock twitching in you. His thrusts begin to get sloppy but his pace is still at an unrelenting speed. Then you finally feel his hot cum spurt inside you, not planning to stop fucking you any time soon. Soobin’s groaning above you, his eyes glued to the sight of him fucking his cum back up into you. Although you're still recovering from your orgasm you can help but meet his hips as he keeps going. 

You’re whining as his balls slap against your clit, it was too much pleasure but it feels so good that you don't want to stop. Soobin is still hard inside you, coaxing another orgasm out of the both of you. 

“You got me so hard baby, gonna have to fuck you again okay?” Soobin’s grip on your hips is even tighter than before. You just keep meeting his hips over and over again, wanting to feel the rush of cumming again. Behind you, Soobin is moaning shamelessly as he continues on fucking you, his thrusts slower and lazier than before. 

You’re a lot more sensitive than now, the feeling of your second orgasm reaching you quickly. Soobin can tell you’re about to cum again because of how tightly you’re gripping his cock. He speeds up slightly wanting to reach his high with you. 

“Mmfph f-fuck,” you whimper as you feel the band in your stomach snapping once again. 

Soobin’s cum is filling you up again, some of it starting to run down your inner thighs. He looks down at your hole again, your pussy spent and swollen from his large cock. Smiling to himself, satisfied, he finally releases his dick from your cunt. 

“That was so good,” you say as you turn around, taking some of the cum running down your legs and putting it in your mouth. Soobin looks at you with shock, his tired dick twitching once more. 

“I would definitely go for one more round but I feel like we’re about to get kicked out soon.” He breathes, a hand running through his hair. You laugh and pull him in for another kiss. He immediately reciprocates even though he’s exhausted. 

“We can always continue this another day, maybe somewhere more private,” you suggest as you pull away from the kiss. He smiles at you with those adorable dimples once again, looking down at you he can’t help but feel warmth fill up his chest. You just looked so good,  hair all dishevelled, pink cheeks and swollen lips. Thinking to himself, he comes to the conclusion that wants to see it more often, and hopefully you feel the same way. 

“Lets clean you up and get out of here,” he replies, kissing your forehead so lovingly, as if he wasn’t fucking you like a whore a few moments ago. 

You both clean up, put on your clothes and pack your things away. Bidding each other good bye with a sweet kiss and a promise to text each other when you both reach home. 

As you watch him walk away you pull out your phone, texting Yeonjun while heading out of the library. 

me: ok maybe I did wanna hook up with him :p 

yj <3: i fucking knew it!! facetime me when u get home

me: okay fine! only cuz ure the one who gave me his number

After all the shameless sex you had, you can’t help but smile shyly thinking about the next time you and Soobin will be able to see each other. 

[brb-on-a-quest]

brb what is thiiiis

you're so sweet, thank you 🥹

Listen you make good stuff, I must like it! (slowly but surely making my way through the entire thing as well as the other list of fanfics people have compiled for me)

[princemick]

I ACCIDENTALLY UNFOLLOWED INSTEAD OF CLICKING THE ASK BOX LMAOOOOOOOOOOO

[tecchous-thicc-buttocks]

what do you like doing in your free time?

why is your name clenched buttocks (I wanna know the reason, pls its so funny lol)

what are things you're good at? (own it babe) (and i don't mean 'babe' in a weird way - just gotta clear that lol)

do you have a best friend?

do you write OG stories and/or fanfics?

one thing you hate about yourself

one thing you love about yourself

do you want a pet? if so, what pet and why

(pls at this rate, its sounding like an interview, so sorry 😂 i'm just...i have a lot of time in my hands and i decided to do this for no particular reason)

fave type of music?

what made you like bsd? and did you always like it? (cause for me, i didnt like it too much at first but it grew on me the second time around)

have you read the bsd light novels and what's your fave light novel if yes?

any pet peeves?

what's your 'ideal' partner (do you have a type like Kunikida or are you fine with anything as long as you're having fun)

Would you rather be single and rich or taken and with a normal salary?

are you happy with where you work/study?

what's your dream career?

what's the app you use the most?

would you rather draw or write?

*** (P.S just pick the ones you want to answer) **

i think im going to look like a weirdo asking so much questions but whatever. at least we dont know each other HAHA i hope you have a good day. <3 and also i love your analyses. just keep posting what you like. i find some of your posts funny lol

good day.

(# you asked and i delivered) (# just me looking for an excuse to use this line) (# cause you said you wanted more questions in your other post TT) (# also ik this isn't a real tag but i wanna be ✨creative) (# fan behavior? idk anymore lmao) okay bye mwa <3

KHJDKJKSAJDGKJSFKG I LOVE THIS I LOVE YOU I WILL BEGIN ANSWERING NOW

i have no free time. I either overwork myself or sleep. however, assuming that i've got a sliver of time to do something, I swap from one obsession to the next <3 rn it's going for insanely long bike rides and turn down every road I feel like until I'm lost,, and going to the gym like an absolute maniac bc i want my arms to be the size of a regular adult's legs

my username is what i desire in life. it is was I strive to be worthy of. it is beauty and life itself, it is the culmination of the universe's most wonderous accomplishments all squished into two raging enormous, gargantuan muscular earth shattering sea trembling ass cheeks 😩😩 (BUT in all seriousness I chose this bc I felt like having tecchousthiccthighs wasn't quite as pleasant??? eheheh buttocks is a funny word)

MY TALENT IS SAYING ANYTHING THAT CROSSES MY MIND TO STRANGERS i've been on this spree lately where I just straight up call anyone pretty when I run into them and HOLY MOLY PPL ARE SO CUTE ABT IT this is your sign to compliment someone today ✨✨ but nah baby i'm good at everything it's a curse ngl (U CAN CALL ME WTV HUN IT'S OK KJKDJFKJS UR SO ADORABLE WHAT)

no best friend bc i can't do commitment and bully friends that get too close to me 😍😍 BUT i'm gonna tag @bellyjellyfish for being my one and only and somehow not hating me thru my unironic "uwu" phase <33

I wrote a 700 page story when I was 12 and it remains unfinished bc I kept rambling and there was no plot 🕴️I love writing but abandon a whole lot of works bc I dream up the rest of the plot and go "oh well why write it now i've been there done that" I DO WRITE FANFICS 👁️👁️ I have a wp account where i wrote a bunch of awful stories and it still stands to this day! (no i will not disclose it don't even try me grr)

I hate how sexy I am 😭😭😭😩😩😩🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵

I love how sexy I am 😳😳😳😳🥶🥶🥶🥶😜😜😜😜

I WANT A TARANTULA I WANT A TARANTULA I WAS A CHILEAN RED KNEE TARANTULA AND I WANT ONE SO BADLY OMFG I've always liked spiders but the ppl I live with would absolutely kick me out if I got one??? once i live on my own i'm def buying two cages so that whenever I have guests, I just put out the empty cage, hide the real one, and be like "oh no what happened to billy my tarantula, he escaped again :(" just to wreak havoc

(HAHA NO IT'S OK I USUALLY DO THIS TO OTHER PPL SO I APPRECIATE U SM LOL SLIDE INTO MY DMS BBG)

fav type of music is classical bc i'm edgy and not like other girls 🤩🤩🤩 something about la campanella just hit so hard when I was like 10 that I have taken it and ran, but I do listen to rnb a lot, never in just one language tho bc sometimes english sucks my d

I liked bsd as soon as I saw ranpo's silhouette in the first episode, I was like "him. I want him 🏃‍♀️" but it was solidified in my head as soon as I saw natsume bc 1) he's hot AF IT'S NOT FAIR I WANT HIM 2) I had been reading his irl works and fell in love, so I started exploring other bsd authors and it introduced me to gogol (i'm so in love with his writing style it's not ok) soooo yeah :)) I started reading bc someone (you know who you are) liked chuuya and I haven't looked back since, tbh it's one of my favs just bc of the characters and their depth

I've read all the light novels I could get my hands on, and I have to say stormbringer FOR THE ONLY, SOLE REASON THAT I AM IN ABSOLUTE LOVE WITH ADAM

pet peeve hmmmm idk??? i'm chill with everything except pickles I hate those mfs, but if I had to chose smth it would be when someone shoves a ship down my throat (it's me i'm bitches go stan satosugu rn)

no ideal partner! I'm aro fyi, but also I feel like I'd be chill with just abt anything?? if u match my energy, we can be partners in chaos and i'll feel understood, and if you don't, I get to learn abt a different kind of lifestyle and get to have someone sane to hold me down (or to corrupt), so either way it's a win. I find culture to be incredibly attractive, speak a language I don't or tell me about a tradition of yours with a wholesome smile and I'd move mountains for you 💖💖 teach me abt something that you're emotionally invested in and an expert, and I'm literally yours <3

haha i don't ever wanna be in a relationship so i'll take being rich,, but honestly it ain't about the money, i'd want to have a normal salary and be taken, but it just ain't my vibe ?? dunno how to explain erm-

dream career is racecar driver YOU TRAVEL ACROSS THE WORLD TO ICONIC DESTINATIONS YOU GET PAID INSANE MONEY AND YOU GO VROOM VROOM VERY FAST WHILE CONSTANTLY ALMOST DYING WHAT ELSE DO I NEED IN LIFE????

app i use most is my local library app bc i'm constantly trying to renew my books that are incredibly close to being overdue 🫡 but nahh i don't use my phone that often it still irks me i'm actually a 60 year old gilf who hates technology and complains abt kids these days

I CAN'T DRAW BUT I ALSO CAN'T WRITE YOU'VE GOT ME AT A DEADLOCK BRO??? if it's which I would rather be GOOD at, i'd say drawing bc imagine thinking abt something and just printing it out on paper??? yall fr got some magical talent omg

WHAT IF WE DO KNOW EACH OTHER THO??? WHAT IF WE'RE ACTUALLY NEIGHBORS??? CHILDHOOD FRIENDS??? YOU NEVER KNOW AND YOU PROBABLY NEVER WILL MUAHAHAHAHA i'm gonna stop now but ty for all your questions and have a wonderful day, darling <33

[pineappical]

hello its the roytrent anon here (im a tedtrent truther behind it all) inspired by your ted jerkin it under the desk art, that same writer who wrote the k/j/r pwp wrote an insane fic where ted jerks it to trents voice and your art just slammed me right back there. idk what your backstory for ted below desk self handy j is but i immediately thought of ted voice kink. pls tell me the backstory ❤️ love your art SO much

OKAY HELLO?!?? i dont know how else to say this so ill just say that. he has something up his ass 👍

[nowoyas]

Græ I just read Boiling Point’s second installment and A) you are such a talented writer, B) your phrasing is so witty sometimes and it lends itself to great comedically-timed moments, and C) please please put me in the taglist for all ur future Miguel fics. Don’t make me beg. I mean I might beg, but it’ll be…begrudgingly. 🥰

hehehe thank you so much!!! <333 I've added you to the taglist! ✨

[zoofles]

It’s innocent, it says. @murderformoverlord

[cannibalismyuri]

junkoandthediamonds the tumblr user that u are.

[hikari-writes]

IM SO USED TO SEEING YOU ON MY DASH THROUGHOUT THE DAY SO MISSED YOU TODAY KARIN 😫🫶

OMWGSHDIWJSJW OMG EMMA STPP U CANT DO THIS TO ME IM GONNA CRY WAIHDIEHDIENE 😭😭😭😭 U JUUST MADE MY DAY FR I CANT BELIEV U MISSED THE INSANITY I SHOW EVERYTIME I APPEAR ON DASH ARGXHUWHDIWJE 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️