#wretched-aurora

[murdleandmarot]

Gets bored. Posts old tugger design. You know how it is

[yinyuedijun]

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

[seattlesellie]

knight!ellie x princess!reader drabble. ♡🗡️🕯️

an: since i’m thinking of writing a full fic of knight ellie x princess reader i wanted to know what you guys think ! let me know if i should turn this into something way longer. just a lil peak of the themes of a longer fic 💗

cw: mature themes, reader is a little lonely, tension.

the moon is so bright, so big, so white, luminous, it reflects in her emerald eyes and renders them almost mystical, bordering on the verge of the unreal. one couldn't help but wonder if she herself was not entirely real, a specter of dreams made flesh. do you recall those distant days of childhood? just eight years old, insisting that your imaginary friend — aurora, was right by your side? you clung to her like a lifeline. you'd shed tears as your mother, the reigning queen, denied the request for an extra place setting, an empty plate reserved for aurora alone. how you fell asleep bawling, tasting salt on your tongue, bitter and sickening, feeling as if you were drowning in your sleep, the specter of aurora growing gaunt and wretched, as though starved for existence.

how you woke up plagued by guilt, tormented by a high fever and a stubborn eye infection, crying and screaming for your imaginary best friend. and how from that day on, the castle fell empty. you wandered around, through those regal halls like a specter, floating like a brittle ghost, nodding politely when a maid curtsied in reverence, offering a feeble smile to the steward as he addressed you as his cherished princess.

you filled your duties, all your royal obligations, attended to your classes, spoke only when spoken to by your parents, ignored when another royal called you a “loony” when catching you in the midst of a conversation with several alabaster rabbits.

you formed a connection with the world around you, a bond that ran far deeper than what met the eye, and now one knew.

you rub on your eyelids with the back of your hand, and blink in dismay — oh, you’ve been mistaken, she is real, and her abdomen rises and falls with each breath, the clang of her armor a testament to her existence, to your sanity. her eyelids flutter, and her throat subtly moves as she swallows. a strand of her auburn hair sways in the wind too, but sweet aurora’s hair also danced in the breeze, so who knows.

sometimes it all is simply too blurry.

for now, you choose to believe.

the grass tickles your bare toes, you don’t laugh.

“hate being a princess” you mutter with a sigh, tilting your head to the side — her side, to see if perhaps she vanished like the rest of them, yet finding her there.

her role as a knight is dictated with silence in your presence, a mere executor of commands from your father with a duty to bow in submission, so she doesn’t respond. all she has to do is be your protector, keep you safe and guarded, make sure you won’t try and run once more.

she’s also not supposed to help you with your clandestine escapades from the castle, she’s not supposed to lay in the tall royal gardens ridiculously green grass with the princess, to allow the opulent and delicate fabric of her dress to gently brush against the barest portion of her knee. yet — she allows it.

she’s not supposed to help you pick flowers and greet you good morning, she was supposed to be unyielding as stone, almost ephemeral yet ever-present.

and now your ankle shifted to rest gently against hers, and she didn’t even nudge you.

“i despise it” you repeat. you try and voice your frustration but it comes off as too soft. ellie typically abhorred anything soft. she’d rather sleep on a hard mattress than a plush one, favored stomping over floating.

and yet you seem to be an exception.

you seem to be an exception for lots of things.

and ellie doesn’t respond. she blinks at the full moon and it blinks back at her.

“do you like being a knight?”

you think you may have heard a breathy chuckle. you’re unsure, you sigh.

“ellie?”

and she never told you her name. you figured it out by yourself.

then she begins, pink tongue folding and moistening her lower lip. “i like being your knight”, she blinks thrice, in a hurry — like she said something wrong, as though she feared she might have offended anyone else whose knight she was not. she takes a deep breath, for some reason it's shaky.

“i like, i- need, to protect the kingdom. it’s my duty. for the sake of your father, the people, you — you know that, my princess”

and usually you’d cringe when addressed with that title. you voiced it already — that title isn’t you, you don’t want it, it felt like a burdensome label imposed or cursed upon your birth, but for some reason, when she says it ; “my princess” it feels like her “my”, is the one that holds the power to cloud your mind. and that’s why you don’t argue that it isn’t your name, because she calls you as hers, and oh how bad you want to be hers.

you overheard the conversations among the other young royals, who spoke in hushed tones about "crushes." you eves dropped and furrowed your brows intently when they talked about the charming sable boy, a dark haired prince from a faraway land, an adviser. they described the feeling of having a crush as if they were “falling”, “giddy”, “thrilled”, “like riding a horse, really really fast”

and it never really happened to you, albeit you really did try. you just accepted it, you’d be crush-less forever, forced to marry a crush-less prince, forced to live a crush-less life.

then you met knight ellie.

it happened when she removed her bascinet, when she casually tossed her tousled auburn locks from side to side, when she smiled that sly smirk then immediately wiped it off and glued her gaze to the stone wall. it was in the way her eyes met yours, her all but graceful bow, and the sound of her armored knee meeting the ground, when she chuckled after winning the battle of who would be the princesses knight. how cocky she looked as her arm was raised in triumph, only to transform into humble grace when officially declared the winner.

but it wasn't a feeling akin to falling; it was more like crashing down. you also didn’t feel giddy, you felt nauseous and tight everywhere, you weren’t thrilled you were petrified, and you didn’t ride a horse really fast — it was more like being thrown off the horse and crashing onto the ground, nose-first.

so it didn’t feel like crushing, it felt like something else. and you really had to go to the washroom.

“you don’t… owe anything to the kingdom, or to my father” you murmur.

she really doesn’t. it got her family starved, killed. “i do” she lies, swallowing thickly. “also, i really don’t need protection” then you lie, rolling your eyes with a huff.

she'd call you a brat if she wasn't your knight, and if she knew for certain that you wouldn't go running to your father after being offended.

“i should run away” you muse, idly toying with the hem of your dress. ellie sees the bare flesh of your thigh and she feels like maybe she shall run away as well. then her breath hitches down her throat, and she really hates it because this isn't the first time. perhaps she's sick, a throat infection. it's getting very hard to breathe.

t'must be the armor, the decides.

then she decided it's not.

it's simply the cold night air. definitely not your naked thigh, or your hunger to be free, or the way your dress flows with the wind, or the way your eyelashes flutter and your fingertips tap tap tap on your plushy lips.

“should i fetch the horse then, my princess? which one d'ya want, charlie... or buster, maybe. he's a strong one” ellie croons then swallows a chuckle.

she’s also not supposed to joke with you. or to stare at your thigh, or to let you place your head on her armored chest.

“yes” you reply like she’s serious.

then a cloud veils the once-bright moon, and your knight clears her throat.

“i should take you to your room, freedom warrior, s’getting late”

“you shall take me to the forest to pick some blackberries, knight”

ellie chuckles and argues back. “i shall not”

“disobeying a royal?” you say with a wink.

you might actually be the death of her.

[ratsummer]

Lads I do not remember if I read about this from one of you on Tumblr or if I was talking to my bestie or if perhaps I was just daydreaming all along BUT I have not been able to stop thinking about the ghouls needing to have their claws trimmed on tour and their different reactions 😭 like fully I am imagining Copia sitting on the bus with fucking dog nail clippers because they've been touring long enough that their claws have grown back out and it's time to knock them back before they get to their next hotel. Please if someone has made a post about this send it to me I feel that I'm losing my mind!!! Anyway, here's how I think each of the ghouls behave!!!

Aurora: The goodest girl. Perfect princess. Only whines a little until Papa gives her a little piece of candy to suck on for her trim. She gets a little kiss on her head after each snip, so by the end she's purring and happy swishing her tail. She's a treasure.

Rain: A bit fussy, but overall just about as perfect a princess as Aurora. He'll try to yank out of Copia’s grip here and there if he thinks he has the clipper up too high on his claw. He doesn't mind trimming them a bit but Papa can you PLEASE leave them a LITTLE long??? Also gets lots of kisses, a nice pat on the butt when he's sent away to get the next in line.

Cirrus: She's very good and still, but SUPER tense because she hate hate hates the sound and the feeling of the nail trimmers snapping her claws off. It makes her skin absolutely crawl. She wears headphones and listens to music and it helps, but she does have a low growl going the whole time, tail lashing a bit. Copia goes very quickly for her, and then she gets a nice shoulder massage and kisses.

Mountain: A bit like Cirrus, the feeling bugs him a lot. His ears flick with each snip, and he will whine about it. He's gotten MUCH better at not flinching though, which Copia's once-bruised ribs are very grateful for. But Copia is very good at what he does and it's over quickly. He always makes a nice cup of tea before he trims Mounty's claws so he can send him off to relax right after.

Cumulus: This girlie does not appreciate a nail trim. She tries very hard to wheedle out of it. Oh, Papa, I have to go to the bathroom, my stomach is bugging me. Oh, Papa, I need a snack first. Oh, Papa... could we spend some alone time together first~ I need you~ Copia does have to get stern with her sometimes. It's just a few moments, my love. Come now, be a good ghoul for your Papa. And she will... but her tail is twitchy and she's pouting and whining the whole time.

Swiss: Truly a good boy! Doesn't mind a trim. It's a bit annoying, but he likes the attention from Copia. Copia also is a bit more fussy with Swiss' claws, as they tend to be a bit dryer and more brittle than the others (tour kinda dries him out), so he's grateful Swiss is good. He's always sure to rub in some good cream and file and shape them a bit so they don't snag and snap on anything. Swiss is purring the entire time, leaning in for an affectionate nuzzle or head bump here and there. Papa showers him with affection the whole time, praising his sweet ghoul, let's take care of you, my beloved.

Phantom: Pathetic. The saddest, wettest eyes. Acts like Papa is mad at him and this is his horrible, wretched punishment. He slinks in, tail wrapped tight around his leg. He kind of ragdolls too, making it hard to maneuver him for a good trim. Copia is patient with him though, believes he'll be fine with it someday as long as his experiences are always calm and gentle. Phantom gets to sit in Papa's lap for his nail trims, held close and cuddled the entire time. Like Rory, he gets a kiss between each snip, but also back rubs, soft reassurances, lots of praise. Eventually he discovers Phantom is perfectly happy and content to sit still and purr in Papa's lap during his trim if they get to listen to music together or if Copia turns on a video for Phantom to watch during his trim.

Dew: Oh, the problem ghoul. He has come a looooooong way. This poor ghoul used to not be able to get through a nail trim without a sedative and a muzzle and an extra set of hands to help hold him still. He would beg and plead to not have to do it, I'll be good Papa I promise I promise I will be so careful not to scratch up the hotel bedding or the towels or the floors! He hates the sound, he hates the feeling, but most of all he hates disappointing Papa. So now, Dew gets to wait until they make it to their hotel, and he can take a long, hot shower to relax and soften his claws a bit beforehand. Papa just holds him for a while and takes deep breaths with him. Waits for his tail to go still, or just a single thump here and there. Sometimes they have to wait a few minutes between each clip for Dew to calm back down. When he's all done Papa absolutely spoils him. They cuddle up and turn on a calm movie, Dew gets back rubs and praise and smooches.

(Aether, who trims Dew's claws at home, HAS accused him of faking it for attention. Dew vehemently denies it, of course.)

[ponder-the-orb]

Stay

Inspired by this fanart by the wonderful @abneyart

Pairing: Fem Tav/Gale, (unnamed tav)

Tags: 18+, smut and angst, post/during Act 2 romance scene

Word count: 3.3K

Read on AO3 or below

***

She isn’t a stranger to the feeling of new love. The fervent glances, the unschooled or unintentional touches, her stomach tightening to the pleasurable edge of an ache at the realisation that someone could want her just as much as she wants them. It may be a slightly different flutter each time but the joy always has that same sunny taste -something easy and new, a precious thing to be savoured. 

Not this time though. 

Because there was love. And then there was Gale. Feverishly erudite and a new kind of infuriating and who somehow slipped under her skin to tear up and remake her definition of want into something so strong it almost hurts. She should be satiated, excited even as she holds him in her arms, but she can’t. Every time she tries, the warmth is darkened by an encroaching bitterness, the same thought turning over and over in her mind until the words wear flat like a stone against the tide. 

How can she truly love a man so ready to let himself burn?

She almost doesn’t want to. She had a plan, or at least part of one. Earlier she’d murmured it to herself over and over again as that scarily accurate magical replica of him led her from camp to where he was sitting. She was going to push her feelings down, fold them away into the darkest part of her mind and let him down until she knew she could scrub Elminster’s message from both their minds. And then there he was, with an aurora painted in the sky and an almost painfully earnest confession, “I’m in love with you.”  There was never going to be any going back after that. 

The lightest scratch against under her collarbone pulls her from her thoughts. He’s shifted slightly, his chin nuzzling against her skin until a warm pink blooms in its wake. There must be a dozen pillows summoned around them and yet he seems perfectly content with his head on her chest, his hand curled under her shoulder. They’re both lying in the most comfortable bed she’s seen in what feels like months and she’s still not entirely sure where he summoned that from. The poster curtains are mostly drawn, but the light still creeps in a soft caress over both their bare forms, enough to forget the cursed land beyond even if just for one night. For once, the permanent pinch between his brows has softened, his mouth half open in what looks to be the most relaxed sleep he’s had since they began travelling together.

Sleep won’t come for her yet, perhaps not at all. Not if she’s expected to be content with the fact she can count the hours they have left tangled up like this on her fingers. 

She tightens her arms around him, breathing shakily.

She wants more time, the time stolen from them by this wretched journey. Time to discover each other properly- more than just their bodies, more than what she’d been able to glean from slightly flowery anecdotes whilst walking. She wants the mortal details most don’t know, the smallest threads of the tapestry that made him: when he started going grey, how dark he likes his toast and why one man can own so much damn purple. There’s purple bitten and sucked across his shoulders in a messy constellation now too. She presses each one gently, making a memory of how his face shifts as she does. She’d been deliberate with her mouth before, leaving bites of her passion that would shine and ache for days afterwards so he can still feel the intention whenever his fingers graze those same spots. You are wanted. Here. Now.

Even if he won’t believe it.

She presses slightly harder until his own grip tightens against her, a sigh warming her skin. She’s not sure if that’s what hurts the most right now- that it isn’t enough. For either of them. She could love him black and blue, take him to the crest of ecstasy over and over but it doesn’t take away the truth. 

They’d seen first hand the armies the Absolute commanded, the powers these tadpoles can give, how easily the most powerful minds can bend. Even if she knew what this heart of the Absolute was or had a plan to end it, what are her words against the command of a Goddess? A command that she was evidently too busy to deliver herself.

She knows it’s pointless to try and unpick divine reasoning but it’s still hard to swallow. She can’t understand how it could be so easy to sentence a person you once cared for to die with the same unfeeling cruelty as a child pulling the legs off of a spider. But Mystra’s wants and whims are just that… ineffable. Godly reasoning can never be boiled down to good or bad, selfish or wanting. Apologies and explanations won’t come. That’s something she’d been told multiple times when trying to wrap her head around the existence of the pantheon as a child. You might as well berate the sea for the vessels it swallows every day. 

She chuckles quietly to herself. A fool's errand perhaps, but she knows all too well that if it took the person she loved, then she’d try. Try and try and try until the salt dried her skin to shards and withered the magic from her soul. 

She’d never liked that metaphor anyway. The ocean can’t think about consequences or see the havoc it wreaks. Gods can. They can see and hear and touch anything they wish whenever their mood swings a certain way, somehow both omnipresent and ignorant.

It’s the reason she asked him to dismiss such a beautiful illusion of Waterdeep and bed her as far away from the cup of Mystra’s hand as possible. Her mind would have wandered, angrily. That if she turned away from Gale and bit down into the beating strands of the weave itself it might just be enough to make a Goddess bleed.

She has precious little other than the clothes on her back and equipment stained by corpses, yet when he kissed her for the first time she finally finally felt like she had something she could call her own. Would it really be such a selfish thing to fight to keep it? 

She laughs again. It’s colder this time.

She knows the answer is yes and she has no problem with that. There’s no fear of damnation- what punishment is it to be locked out of a paradise she’ll never want? She’ll wear the title of sinner like a crown if it’s cast on by a Goddess she’ll never have love for. 

The simple truth is she’ll damn the world itself if it means she can keep the man she loves whole. 

She traces the curve of his back and exhales softly towards the canopy, her words caught somewhere between a prayer and a plea.

“Please don’t do it.”

She doesn’t expect his half open eyes to meet hers as she looks back down. She stiffens slightly, unsure if he heard. He doesn’t say anything, just watches her in the dim light for a few seconds before resting his head back against her chest. She assumes he’s going back to sleep until she feels him kissing across her skin in a lazy pattern. The scratch from his beard is already strangely familiar and the tension wracking her body relaxes a little as he continues his unhurried exploration. 

Her fingers tighten in his hair as the swell of his bottom lip brushes her nipple. He smiles against her as he does it again, his tongue dipping out to lightly trace the same spot until her hips start to jerk underneath him of their own accord. She holds his head there, groaning as his hand joins in, brushing over her other nipple in a slow tease.

He stays there for a few more tortuous moments, a louder cry pulled from her as he gently nips at the skin. He lifts his head again, eyes bright and intention clear. 

“Yes?” 

She catches his jaw, dragging his face back to hers so she can press her answer into his mouth. “Please.”

She weaves one hand back into his hair, the other cupping the side of his face as he settles properly on top of her. She’s not quite sure exactly what she’s asking for, but she knows she needs him close. Close enough to keep safe, to push away all those bullshit expectations she can almost physically see weighing with crushing might on his shoulders.

Their kisses are messier than before. There’s still the lingering taste of herself on his tongue, a stark reminder of him burying his face for what felt like hours between her thighs. It hadn’t taken long to discover that he makes love with the same devastating precision as when he casts - pushing her to the heights of the heavens like it was the sole thing he’d been put on this plane to do.

She chases the heat of that feeling, grinding down against his knee in an urgent rhythm as he presses it between her legs. He swallows her harsher breath when she presses harder, letting her follow those blunt sparks of pleasure before pulling his leg away. Her frustrated cry dies as the hand brushing over her chest slips down to replace his knee.

She throws her head back, baring the column of her throat and his lips meander down to kiss that gentle curve. He caresses the length of her folds a few times, each pass becoming firmer. She bites his lip at the maddening touch, already keenly aware of how wet she is- desperate for him. Thankfully he doesn’t leave her in limbo for long as his fingers finally sweep against her clit, once, twice, three times.

For one of the first times since their journey began, there aren’t any words between them. All of them are lost somewhere between her heart and his lips on her neck. Any other time she’d be thrilled to explore the no doubt exhaustive list of other uses for his mouth, but not in this moment. Right now she needs to hear him say it, that he’s taking back his steadfast choice to die, or at least find her own way to convince him. If she can’t find her own voice then she’ll do it with her body: kissing, fucking, loving it into him until any thoughts of Mystra’s command are eclipsed by her own.

You deserve to live. 

She tugs his hair as he massages her clit more firmly, a familiar pressure he’d discovered with a smirk right before the first time he’d made her come. She rides that pleasure for a while, steady and hot as a candle’s flame. It sears right down to her toes as he slips one then two fingers inside her, curling and rubbing until she’s seeing messy stars behind her eyelids. Part of her wants to melt into the feeling and enjoy his fingers into her own end, but another part won’t let her. Not until he does.

She grabs his waist and rolls over, pressing him into the mattress. She leaves a deliberate kiss over the orb, then again like she can dive through that vile magic to his beating heart. She lingers there as she reaches down to stroke his cock, making another memory of the way his throat bobs and his eyes flutter- a sight just for her right now. 

His hand moves from between her legs to cup her hips and lightly brush the skin there. It’s a moment of sweetness in a haze of want, a reminder of exactly who she’s here with- someone who’s been looking at her for days like he’d pull the stars from the sky if she asked.

She holds his gaze as she eases herself down onto him, a rosier warmth spreading under each of his fingers as they grip her harder. 

She doesn’t need the stars. She needs to know he’ll still be there to watch them with her when this is finally all over.

She arches her back, crying out some strangled version of his name as he thrusts up under her. She follows that feeling, shifting up and down to find her rhythm. There’s no finesse here, just an almost primal need for him to find his own pleasure with her, in her. Whatever he needs, whatever she can give. 

He sits up, hands moving from her hips to lock round her back and pull them close. The orb pulses with an increasing brightness between them, bathing their skin in swathes of blue light. It had been quite the shock the first time that had happened, a sizable panic snatching away all her bliss until he’d reassured her it was the excitement and not an incoming explosion. 

She brushes those bright strands from his eye down over this neck until her thumb rests over his rabbiting pulse. It’s a small caress and her own reminder that he’s still here. That at least in this slick, desperate moment, he’s hers and hers alone.

She holds him harder and kisses any skin she can find, his neck, his forehead, the top of his head. She pauses there, inhaling deeply. Underneath the sweat and the sex there’s something else, earthy and rich like some freshly cracked tome. It almost makes her laugh because of course inbetween life, death and sleeping in the dirt he’d take the time to do that.

She leans back, taking in the sight of him even more. His hair is a mess in her hands and every inch of visible skin blooms with a deeper flush under the light. It breathes a strange sense of pride in her. To the world he’d been nothing but prim and proper since she’d first pulled him from that portal, but only she gets to see him like this: perfectly wrecked and wanting. 

He brushes her bottom lip with his thumb as she closes her eyes, pulling her focus back to his gaze. It’s more intense this time, like the look of a dying man finally seeing the oasis in the desert. It’s almost heartbreakingly beautiful but it pierces like an arrow through her chest. She pushes his face into her neck, her eyes burning.

Any other time she’d want to drown in that rum-dark want but for now she just can’t. She knows all too well what it means- how he’s clinging to this as some final comfort in his oblivion. She isn’t strong enough for that. Even the ghost of that feeling is almost enough to shatter her like delicate shells underfoot. She doesn’t want to be a bright spot in his final days, nor some happy face to think on when he finally unleashes it all. How is she supposed to hold herself together after that happens? To live with the fact that she gave herself so irrevocably to a man content to confess his love and his suicide in the same breath. 

Even with the wall she’d erected around her feelings, he has to know that she needs comfort too. Comfort from the parasite, from the pain of her own expectations, from the fact that the role of leader to a group of broken misfits was thrust upon her whether she’d wanted it or not. 

She blinks back her tears, a louder gasp leaving her as he moves faster. His fingers slip between them to find her clit and he rubs her in a circle until the hot spring coil of pleasure inside her feels ready to snap.

It isn’t fair, not even remotely and she isn’t even sure if she wants to curse or thank the winds of fate for giving her this. Or for making him so fucking easy to fall for.

He bites down on her shoulder as he comes, his movements messy and erratic while he rides out his orgasm. She roughly pulls his head back, muffling her own climax into his mouth as she finishes against his fingers.

He caresses the back of her neck as they catch their breath before gently pushing their foreheads together. It’s such a tender thing that it makes her want to cry all over again.

Don’t go.

“It’s been quite some time since I’ve been woken up that way,” he murmurs, his hands coming up to rub her shoulders. 

She brushes her nose against his as her voice finally finds its way back to her. “If you’re very lucky, it won’t be the last.”

Please. Don’t go.

He chuckles at the soft tease, dropping his face back against her neck. “Here’s hoping then.”

Please.

“Don’t go.” The words leave her mouth in a damp whisper before she can swallow them back.

His smile wavers against her skin. She winds a lock of his hair between her fingers, so tempted to hold his face there and stop him from seeing the cracks finally breaking across her expression. He shifts back, eyebrows knitting together as he softly touches the corner of her eye. She almost chokes when she sees the wetness shining on his thumb.

“What-”

“This isn’t your final night, you know. It’s… it’s not,” she blurts out, cutting him off. She sucks in a shaky breath, gripping onto his fingers like some desperate lifeline. He regards her carefully but keeps quiet, almost as if he can see the mess of words stuck in her throat like a shard of glass.

She sits for a second, grounding herself with the feel of his hands, his breaths. She hadn’t exactly planned on saying this with him inside her but she knows she can’t let it go now. She presses her forehead more firmly to his as if she could spill her intent right into him, no parasite needed. “There are going to be so many more. I’m going to make sure of that, I promise.” There’s more she wants to say, but it’s all she has right now. Something barely coherent, but as painful and honest as she can be- her heart split right open for him.

She tilts back and waits for the inevitable brush off. 

“Better to meet it on my own terms,” he’d said before. A heartbreak gift-wrapped as comfort as if that could possibly make it hurt any less.

It doesn’t come. Instead, a gentler smile settles on his face and he twists his head to kiss the palm of her hand. “Well, who am I to argue with that?”

It’s a warm touch, like magic itself spreading through her hand and into her belly. It’s not a confirmation nor a promise, but it’s something. It’s enough for the sourness resting at the edge of this night to melt away a little.

She lets him brush the tears from her face, his lips following the path of his thumb until they land back on hers. He eases her onto her back, squeezing her shoulder as he pulls out. She hears him murmur something against her skin and the stickiness between them is gone in an instant. 

Perks of a wizard lover she thinks, cupping his chin to kiss him again. 

“I mean it Gale,” she mumbles as they eventually pull apart, her words a feather’s caress against his mouth, “you’re not going anywhere.”

He settles back against her chest, lazily brushing his fingers over her stomach. “And so did I.”

His voice is soft and easy enough that it almost feels like reassurance. Just enough for her limbs to finally give into their exhaustion as he stills against her again. She knows come morning this calm will probably disappear back into the curse along with the bed, but for now she’ll take it. And perhaps in this brief moment somewhere between magic and martyrdom, she’ll even believe he isn’t a liar.

***

It only took 200+ hours of playing and three glasses of wine to finally write something BG3 related.

Again please give @abneyart a follow!

[bardic-tales]

Tumblr Games: FF Edition: OC Interview

Thanks so much for the tag, @aalinaaaaaa. I love all of your answers to this.

Rules: Answer the following questions in your character's voice.

Soft tagging: @megandaisy9 @watermeezer @chickensarentcheap @seastarblue @projecthypocrisy

@sapphirothcrescent @tolliver-j-mortaelwyver (for your ocs), @mrsmungus @dream-beyond-the-fantasy @residentdormouse

@serenofroses and OPEN Tag.

Are you named after anyone? My name is Bianca. It wasn't given in honor of anyone in particular. Mom and dad just liked how it sounded.

When was the last time you cried? I don't often let my tears show, but there have been moments of quiet sorrow, recently. Especially after remembering a loss that still hurts me. Even a goddess like me has moments of vulnerability.

Do you have kids? Yes, I have two beautiful children, Aurora and Lucien. They are my heart and my hope for a better future, even in the midst of chaos.

Do you use sarcasm a lot? Absolutely. Sarcasm is my armor and my wit. It keeps conversations interesting and lets me express truth in a way that's both biting and playful.

What’s the first thing you notice about people? I always notice the eyes. They reveal so much about a person's soul, whether it's hidden beneath layers of pretense or lit with passion.

What’s your eye colour? My eyes are a deep purple. They reflect the complexities within me, a blend of celestial beauty and demonic mystery. As well as a bit of cosmic horror that was thrown into my dna. Thanks, Hojo.

Scary movies or happy endings? I lean toward happy endings. Life is too precious and painful already to dwell only in darkness.

Any special talents? I possess abilities that bend reality itself. Besides my talent for writing, I can manipulate space and time, and even converse with departed souls. Not many can say that.

Do you have any pets? I have two dark dragons that patrol the Northern Crater with me. They are as fierce and loyal as I am, and they remind me daily of the wild magic within.

What sort of sports do you play? I don't play sports in the traditional sense, but I love soaring through the skies. Flying is my ultimate adrenaline rush and a reminder of my celestial heritage. It has taken me some time to accept my wings as a part of me and not my horrific past, so this is a new joy I'm experiencing.

How tall are you? I stand at 5 feet tall. My size may be modest, but my presence is anything but.

What was your favorite subject in school? I haven't had a normal childhood. My life was nomadic, so the education I received was from my father found in several dumpsters at high schools. I am self-taught.

What is your dream job? A "dream job"? Bianca scoffs. How quaint. I don’t dream of something as pedestrian as a career—I dream of destiny. I am the Harbinger of Death and Rebirth, the one who will bring about the kilonova that ends this wretched Creation and paves the way for something far greater. I don’t care for titles, fame, or wealth. What use are such trivial things when Creation is a rotting carcass begging to be reduced to ash? No, my purpose, my highest calling, is to stand beside Sephiroth as we burn it all down and sculpt something worthy from the ruins. That isn’t a job. That is meaning. That is the only thing that makes existence bearable after everything I’ve endured.

Blank Template

Are you named after anyone?

When was the last time you cried?

Do you have kids?

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

What’s the first thing you notice about people?

What’s your eye colour?

Scary movies or happy endings?

Any special talents?

Where were you born?

Do you have any pets?

What sort of sports do you play?

How tall are you?

What was your favourite subject in school?

What is your dream job?

[snowbellewells]

CSSNS24 fic" For All Life and For All Time" {the final chapter, fic complete!}

Yes, it has taken me longer than I hoped, but I have finally finished my three-part Dracula-themed Victorian CS AU for the @cssns!!! I'm really pleased with how it's come together, and I'm excited to share this last part with you. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. (And I hope the mostly happy ending will allow you to forgive the bit of pain we'll have to endure in getting there...

Summary: Having lost her dearest friend and with her own life on the line, Emma Swan joins a noble band to face an ancient evil. Three of them stand by her in honor of the one they loved and lost. The other might be the first man she could love. He might love her as well - even more than life itself. Time will tell... if they both survive the fight against their immortal enemy.

Also available from the start here on Tumblr or on AO3

(See just a couple more author's notes at chapter's end)

Part Three

by: @snowbellewells

Unable to help himself, a roar of outrage and horror tore from Killian’s chest, ringing across the wide, high-ceilinged space at the sight of the monster draining Emma’s life flow from her veins. Forgetting their plan, forgetting the compatriots around him, seeing only another woman he loved ravaged and dead and himself unable to save her, violent red rage coursed through his body as he charged forward.

Either the prick of the vampire’s fangs into her neck, the pain that immediately followed, or the wild howl of a man unmoored and the sound of oncoming feet, seemed to snap Emma into awareness. A startled cry escaped her lips, eyelids fluttering rapidly as she struggled to regain her bearings before they snapped open in shocked realization of her position in Dracula’s clutches and what was happening to her and around her. She recoiled with a visible shudder, and what strength she had saw her struggling once again to free herself. 

Somewhere in the haze that nearly consumed him, Killian drew some morsel of comfort from the sight. Though her slim build and weakened state made her attempts akin to those of a songbird beating its wings against the firm, steel bars of a gilded cage against von Stiltskin’s implacable, inhuman strength, she didn’t stop for even a moment. Emma was still herself, not lost to them yet.

Killian mastered himself somewhat as he drew near to the vampire and his struggling victim. He must find his clarity, follow through on the plan they had laid out if they were to give Emma her best chance, and to survive themselves. Thankfully, his brothers-in-arms had only recently weathered the horrifying loss he feared, the image of Aurora’s pale and terrifying beauty as the vampiress the Count had made her, and the lengths to which they had gone to restore her humanity, if only in death, must still haunt them now, but it had served them well. The other three had fanned out over the space, insuring that whichever way the monster turned he must needs face one of them in an attempt to fly.

To see the feral gleam in the creature’s eye though, Killian did not believe retreat would be his action this time. As much as on her blood, Dracula was feeding on Emma’s wretched noises and her futile attempts to escape, writhing and bucking in his grasp to no avail. A malevolent glee seemed to seep from every pore under the dead, white skin, causing the vampire to glisten with it, an oozing sheen of evil that seemed almost a protective layer cloaking their foe.

It was now or never; Emma could not afford their hesitation, the element of surprise had been lost even before their arrival, and they were all in place now, as prepared as ever they could be. Raising his voice with a commanding authority he hardly felt, Killian drew from his cloak for the vampire to see, the dagger he had sought halfway across the continent, brandishing it as he would a shining shield. “Von Stiltskin,” he bellowed, staring down the nightmare who had stalked his dreams for years, “let her go!”

At first glimpse of the dagger in his adversary’s grip, the vampire fell back with a hiss, momentarily struck enough to ease his grip on Emma slightly and to remove his fangs from her neck as his displeasure was made known. The unsettling, glowing eyes were murderous, unhinged, but also showed fear in spite of the creature’s anger. Killian moved forward again that much more confident the weapon must indeed wield the powers purported. Why else would the Count hesitate to attack him now, as he drew within striking distance? Particularly with the speed he knew Dracula to possess. He had set himself as the bait for that very reason; to draw focus while the others attacked from all sides. It took almost more restraint than he possessed not to dart forward and pull Emma from the suddenly lax grip the vampire held upon her, to get between them and shield her with his own body from further harm. In truth, the way she slumped as the hold grew less nearly made his panic soar beyond his control, until she managed to catch his eye, raising her head just a moment, but the flicker in the snapping jade orbs told him she was ready the moment she had an opportunity, not quite as limp or defeated as she meant to appear.

The relief that flooded him was almost certainly premature, a distraction he could not afford, and yet it also suffused his being with new strength and will. Only a few steps more, and he would be close enough to land a damaging blow. From the corners of his vision, Killian could see that Jefferson, Graham, and Philip were all in position, each man poised and alert, ready to do just as they had planned. Wordlessly, Killian gave the signal, and even as he pushed forward, the dagger raised to drive through Dracula’s heart if he were to have the chance, the others moved in with him, matching him stride for stride.

If not for their stalwart presence, he might have lost himself, Killian realized, shaking the reddened haze of anger from his vision. But as they tightened their circle, his aim sharpened, and their monstrous foe’s attention was split between the oncoming assailants, just as they had hoped.

Even as Killian readied his arm, steeling himself to sink the dagger home, he saw the rapid movement to his left of Graham Morris driven forward by fighting instinct and chivalric nature past any further hesitation, despite their previous agreement that Killian must strike first with the fated blade. Graham’s slice went deep, and with a roar of pain the monster dropped its clawed grip on Emma completely. She fell to the floor in a heap, and that taloned grasp swiped outward, catching Morris in the gut and dragging across his torso viciously. Graham stumbled back with a gasp, clutching his middle where red already leaked through his fingers.

Killian could not falter; for just one moment, Dracula was stunned, injured - vulnerable - and so he drove the dagger into the monster’s chest, right where its heart would be, if that organ could still exist in one such as he, and followed through with all his might. 

The vampire howled and snapped its terrible jaws, resembling even the guise of humanity less and less with every second. Mere breaths after the deathblow struck home, the vampire sunk to its knees. Yet, even with strength waning, lashed out and gripped Killian about the neck, too firmly to be shaken off and inexorably squeezing, closing off the air from his lungs. It was as though the fiend knew he had finally been bested, but would not sink into the fires below without taking his conqueror with him.

Killian Jones had long since readied himself for such an eventuality. In the long, solitary years he had spent tracking Dracula von Stiltskin’s whereabouts and seeking out any possible weaknesses which might bring about his defeat, he had accepted that his quest’s end would almost surely mean his own as well. And he had been at peace with that. There had been little but bitterness and pain for him in the world at any rate. But now, he found he could not let go just yet; he had reason to stay on this Earth, to live again, beyond Dracula’s downfall, thanks to the band of brothers who surrounded him, and especially the woman who was now rising from where she had fallen.

Scrabbling frantically at the hands which closed off his windpipe, desperate to see this battle finished once and for all, and that Emma was alright, he fought to free himself of the iron hold and the darkening edges encroaching on his sight.

Though it could not have been more than moments, time seemed to have stretched and lengthened oddly, so that Killian had almost forgotten Seward and Thornswood, until both made their own strikes at the monster almost simultaneously. Thornswood came from the right, hacking the creature’s arm with such force it was nearly detached at the shoulder, finally loosening the death grip on Killian and allowing him the air to stay conscious. Seward had attacked from behind, wisely intending to sever the vampire’s neck and remove the head, the only sure way to finish him off. The creature’s fall to its knees had thrown his aim off, however, and his blade was now sunk so deep in the fiend’s back that he struggled to pull it out to try again.

Pulling in great, gasping breaths, Killian searched for the dagger to remove the head himself. No matter how badly they had wounded Dracula, he would regenerate if they did not make certain he was ash. Yet all he could find was the intricate jeweled hilt. It would seem to have disintegrated within the beast upon finding its mark.

Before he could think what to do, Killian saw Emma rise, wavering unsteadily on her feet, but with the hair-raising war cry of a Valkyrie. She had pulled the knife he had sent with her from its sheath at her thigh and she struck the monster’s neck swiftly and certainly - as well as he could have done it himself - before falling to the floor again with a wail and turning her head into his chest.

Though Killian was honored and truly touched to have Emma turn to him for strength in that moment, he pulled back slightly, lifting her chin and urging her to turn so she could also see what was happening before his very eyes. He felt he knew and understood Emma Swan almost as well as he knew himself, and he was unwaveringly sure that - just as he did - she would need to witness what was unfolding, for her own future peace of mind.

And what a sight it was at that - one he had nearly despaired of ever witnessing. With a last bellow that seemed to shake the rafters and the floor beneath their feet, the immortal monster met his end. An otherworldly wind whirled around the vampire as it was buffeted and torn, with bits of him being stripped away piece by piece. Chinks of light began to show through his form to the the far wall, and then it was as though he began to crystallize and dissolve, blown away like sand on the wind.

The howl of the dying creature as it was pulled apart, combined with the pressure and whipping of the blinding wind nearly stole their breath. It was all Killian could do to stand his ground and cling to Emma with all his might to steady her as well. When the small whirlwind finally eased, seeming to vanish back from wherever it had come, all of their company stood still as stone for several long moments. They were silent; frozen in shock and hardly daring to believe that Dracula von Stiltskin was now the mere pile of ash at their feet; the dust barely settled, but the long reign of terror at last at its end.

A wheezing gasp, low and ragged, from off to their left was what finally broke them from their frozen state. “I-Is he f-finished?” the voice asked desperately.

Where Emma had been leaning on him heavily, her reserves of strength and adrenaline nearly drained away, she suddenly jerked forward, her eyes meeting his in alarm, seeming to ask, ‘How could we have forgotten?’

They hurried toward the pained voice, now clearly accompanied by labored breathing, once the tumult had died down. Philip Thornswood had beated them there, already dropping to his knees beside their fallen comrade with a tense exclamation of “Morris!” that made his dismay all too clear. He reached beneath the other man’s shoulders, elevating his head and torso slightly and looking with worried brow to Jefferson for direction.

The doctor had also knelt beside the brave adventurer, pulling back the remnants of ruined shirt and vest to examine Graham Morris’ wound. But his grim expression only told them what they had already feared. There was so much blood - beneath him, around him, still leaking from the open wound - gaping appallingly no matter how much they wished to see otherwise.

Graham’s large, expressive brown eyes had gone a bit glassy, but they still flicked from one to another of his friends earnestly. “Tell me, please… whatever it is. Is the monster gone?”

There was nothing to be done for him, not that could be accomplished in a dank, drafty castle with no surgical equipment and so much blood loss. Clearly even the cowboy already knew it, and so none forced Seward to put the bleak reality into words. Instead, he reached out and took Morris’ hand in his, clasping tightly as Thornswood did the same at his shoulder. “Dracula’s reign of terror is over. We did it, my Friend. Rest easy on that.”

A rattling breath escaped the Irishman’s lungs at those words, as his eyes fluttered closed for a moment in deeply felt relief. They almost wondered if he was already fading when they flickered open once more and he asked, “A-and Emma? Miss Swan? Is she…?”

With a pained cry, Emma stumbled to his other side and dropped next to him on the cold cement floor, anxious to ease his mind and offer him her thanks if that were all that she could do. Reaching out a trembling hand, she smoothed a sweaty curl from his clammy forehead, squeezing his fingers - heedless of how they were tacky with dried blood - tightly in her own and then pressing their joined hands to her chest with emotion.

“I’m here,” she murmured, “We all are.” She didn’t know what else to do, but she didn’t want this brave man who had fought against evil and helped to save her life to feel alone for even one second in this horrible passing.

Morris managed a faint press of Emma’s fingers in return, almost smiling tremulously as he added with a ragged gasp, “M-Miss Swan? It is g-good to see you, milady.  Are you truly alright?”

Tears still rimmed Emma’s green eyes, glittering in the strange half-light like jewels on her lashes as she nodded fervently. “Yes, I am. Please do not fret on that anymore. I will be fine. Thanks in no small part to you, Mr. Morris.” Her voice trembled with emotion at feeling the strength in his hand that she clasped in her own lessening with each moment that passed. The roving hero’s journey was inescapably nearing its end, and though he had fought well and seen their battle won, he would not have the chance to savor the victory they had wrought, nor to enjoy the newfound peace he had helped to secure.

“Thank the Lord and all His saints for that,” he exhaled, the words barely more than a whisper of breath. When his eyes fell closed that time, his lashes did not flutter open again; the struggling rise and fall of his chest went still, and Graham Morris breathed his last.

Strong, formidable men all, his allies were, and still in that frigid, ruined throne room Emma’s tears were not the only ones shed over the body of the impetuous wanderer who had given his last to the cause. Somehow the hours had hurried on; the sun was rising once more over the eastern peaks, and they had to leave the forbidding outpost of their vanquished foe. Though it was hard to believe they would leave that castle to tread on the same earth after the waking nightmare they had just survived, there was little else to be done but to press onward as best they could.

Emma Swan raised her eyes, her gaze seeking the only imaginable solace to be found - the answering blue stare of Killian Joens, mourning too, but still resolute and offering the hope of comfort to which she could cling. She focused on him and drew from his strength as the new day’s sun bathed the tragic scene in yet more red and gold with its returning glow. For the moment she must beyond the loss to the future - one they would have with certainty, now that the vampire was no more.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Two Years Later…

A cool, gentle breeze drifts in through the open window as Killian Jones, once the driven and coolly implacable vampire hunter Van Helsing, stands looking out over the fields and grounds of the country estate he now shares with the two lights of his life: Emma, his beautiful bride of more than a year, the savior of his heart and soul, and their new son, who gurgles happily in his arms. Looking down at the baby’s playful noisemaking, Killian grins, utterly enchanted by the gummy smile the little lad gives him, kicking his chubby feet energetically and latching onto his papa’s finger with an impressively tight grip of his small fist. For a babe just days old, Killian feels he must be especially brilliant to already show such personality and expression, though he knows he is more than biased and does not care one bit.

Emma is still recovering from the delivery in their suite just down the hall, so he happily took the wee one for a bit of a walk about the place after his last feeding, and now finds himself standing in the nursery enjoying both the peaceful meadows outside the window view and the tiny miracle in his arms, still rather stunned that he ever managed to find such contentment after so much struggle and pain.

Just then he hears lightly shuffling footsteps behind him, mere moments before his wife’s slender arms wrap around him from behind. He smiles warmly, feeling the same satisfaction she seems to as she burrows her face between his shoulderblades and hums delightedly while breathing him in.

Making sure their son is cradled securely against his body and within the crook of his arm, Killian brings his other hand down to cover Emma’s own and squeeze gently, gladly returning the affectionate touch, even as he chides lightly, “You, my darling, are meant to be resting, not up and roaming about the manor.”

Her soft laughter seems to brighten the very air with its light notes of joy, carefree and open as both of them are only now learning to allow their emotions to be - on the surface and able to be shared. Laying her cool, soft hand to rest over his heart, even as she returns the loving press of his fingers around her own, she cannot help the playfully tart response that escapes her lips. “You know better than to coddle me like some china doll, Mr. Jones.”

He can practically see the challenging quirk to her brow, the way she tilts her head in expectation when when she baits him, just waiting for his reply, and the knowing curve upwards at one corner of her mouth, even though he cannot actually look her in the face with her cuddled against his back.

Taking the hand he holds and using it to pull her in a wide circle, Killian brings his wife around to face him and gather her close again. His arms are wrapped around his whole world in their small family, and their little one is cradled between them as he gazes down into Emma’s eyes. “Forgive me, Mrs. Jones, but I believe it is my duty and right to care for the well-being of my lady wife.”

Shaking her head at his overly formal repartee, she huffs out an affectionate breath of exasperated acquiescence. 

Their back and forth is interrupted when their son begins to fuss, nosing doggedly at the front of Emma’s gown and letting her know without question that he is again ready for his meal. “He’s your child, that much is certain,” Emma adds tartly, a sardonic tone to her voice as she eyes her husband. “Insatiable.”

But even as she takes the child more fully into her own arms, moves aside her robe, and brings him closer to her breast, she lets one hand trail along Killian’s flank and playfully squeeze his rear in a moment’s tease, before moving away to carry their little boy to the rocking chair by the bassinet and settling in to feed him properly.

Killian’s body cannot help but jerk slightly in surprised response to her amorous caress, several parts of his anatomy coming to life. It is true that he always wants her, but he is not about to risk Emma’s health or comfort before her body is fully healed and restored from the birth of their son. “It would seem your roving hands prove I’m not the only insatiable one,” he murmurs lowly, a feral grin lighting his features as he follows her across the room and bends to take her lips with his own. The kiss is deep and leaves them both breathless. If all he can have at the moment, he will certainly make his kisses count.

She hums in agreement; relaxed, at ease, and happy as the little one settles again and she brushes tender fingers over the soft tufts of dark hair atop the boy’s hair. Quincey Morris Jones blinks eyes as blue as his father’s up at them sleepily once he has begun to get his fill. They had decided almost immediately to pass the surname of the lost member of their band of brothers on to their first child; it seemed the only tribute fitting enough to truly honor his sacrifice, and a worthy namesake to give their boy who would surely grow up to be as honorable and true as the man of whom they would tell him proudly.

As Killian takes the newborn, who is once more dozing, from his mother’s arms and lowers him carefully into his crib, he looks back at his wife. Her eyes practically glow with love for him, and a small, secret smile plays upon her perfect mouth. Beckoning Killian to her, Emma accepts his hand to rise, and lets him guide her back to their bedroom, where he curls around her protectively, staying dutifully at her side to insure her rest. Watching over her as she drifts back to sleep, and he hovers on the brink of it himself, Killian thinks of the day when he will tell young Quincey tales that prove just how marvelous a woman his mother is. So beautiful, daring, and brilliant that men would dare to risk all for her sake.

THE END~

Author's Note: I truly cannot believe that I've completed this story - and my work for the last @cssns but I won't be too sad as I still have ones from past years to finish, and I can always come back to read the many other amazing entries to the event's collection. @cssns was such a wonderful thing to be part of, and I will always be grateful to have been a small part of it!

As to this story's last chapter, I hope you will fondly remember a similar final line to the novel by Bram Stoker. When it struck me that I could use a similar closely line for this story, I was so excited!!! (Still, I thought I should give credit where credit was due, even if I have put it in my own words and context.)

And secondly, please PLEASE forgive me for Graham Morris! You truly can't be hurting much more than I hurt myself in trying to write it. (That's part of what has taken so long to complete this final chapter.) I knew when I made him the likeness of the American cowboy Quincey Morris (my adored fave character in the original novel) that this part of the story would come, I still wasn't prepared for how hard it was to actually follow through and do it.

I hope you've enjoyed this one - I've really loved working in this universe!!

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615

@searchingwardrobes @xarandomdreamx @myfearless-love @xsajx @bluewildcatfanatic

@apiratewhopines @anmylica @laschatzi @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight

@tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @revanmeetra87

@lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @motherkatereloyshipper @stahlop @hollyethecurious

@gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @belovedcreation @jonesfandomfanatic @kday426

@resident-of-storybrooke @drowned-dreamer @booksteaandtoomuchtv @everything-person @winterbaby90

@undercaffinatednightmare @caught-in-the-filter @darkcolinodonorgasm @goforlaunchcee @laianely

@elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @the-darkdragonfly @grimmswan

[cocogum]

The Great Wave - Chapter 6 Review

‼️SPOILERS FOR THE CHAPTER‼️

Warning(s): extreme use of foul language, aurora slander, mentions of racism, i’m cyber bullying an osamodas

So chapter 6 came out…

And I’m not happy.

Not one bit.

Blue cow: “You sadidas are so impressionable…”

Sadidas are impressionable?? Tf are you even talking about?? What are they impressionable about?? This sad excuse that you call a companion screeched and it scared the shit out of that woman. What did you think was gonna happen??? “YoU PeOPLe ARe So ImPrESsIOnAbLE” I’m gonna eat animals right in front of your face and feed them to you like a bird. You know what they’re not, Aurora? They’re people who aren’t scared of facing death more than once you fucking sad excuse of a pro-animal blue-skinned wretch.

She looks way too cocky in this shot. You wanna go back to the war, little bitch? Let’s see if you’ll keep smiling like that.

Did I mention I fucking hate Aurora?

This actual cunt is more worried about some ugly crusty bat bird than an actual human being are you fucking kidding me.

Blue cow: “Give that to me, you’ll scare him!”

Sadida servant: “I’m sorry, mistress…”

This is the very same woman who fled the people she was supposed to “lead” who called a servant, that did not belong to her, an idiot.

Are you fucking kidding me.

Blue cow: “Go fetch some water, idiot, the little one is dying of thirst…”

Sadida servant: “Alright, mistress…”

Yeah, your ugly bat is probably thirsty CUZ YOU SHOVED HIM IN A CHEST BEFORE YOU CAME HERE YOU FUCKING DUMBA-

She had also mentioned how her future son would inherit this monstrosity of a bat.

Sorry folks, but I was wrong, she actually is pregnant. Before chapter 6 had been released, I went on this full rant about how Aurora had actually lied to Amalia and the others and wasn’t expecting a child. But now that we’ve seen the Osamodas king talking privately to Aurora and claiming to be worried for her because she was pregnant, I unfortunately have to accept the fact that she is carrying a child.

This chapter made sure that we got a better shot at her belly which has a slight rounder edge to it.

Like I would genuinely rather have a raging chihuahua ready to gnaw my flesh than whatever the fuck this is.

Blue cow: “You will make a wonderful companion for my child!”

But to think about the positives, we at least have no idea if this blue-skinned dumbass thinks that she’s carrying an osamodas or a sadida.

For those who don’t know, the beast she’s holding is called a “skrot” (or “kougnard” in French). These beats originally came from Ecaflipus, the Ecaflip God’s dimension. Their main use is transportation but they can also be used as your companion. That means that anyone can just use them, you don’t necessarily have to be an osamodas to get one.

The skrot Aurora has at hand is a newborn so she was prepared to give her future child a companion. I think Aurora clearly meant that even if her child ends up being a Sadida, she will still give the beast to them since a skrot can be pretty useful every now and then.

So there is no evidence that she is expecting the child to be an osamodas. I think either way, she’ll be indifferent if the child ends up being a sadida or an osamodas. If they end up being a sadida, I bet it’ll just make her reminisce about Armand and love them even more (cuz omg this bitch can’t stop making everything about the Sadida kingdom about Armand).

Cow king: “Your priority now, is for you to be liked…”

Aurora just insulted a servant. She couldn’t even hold her tongue. How the fuck do you expect her to hear the daily sadida complaints??? Omg this “family” should go back to their circus they’re making me physically gag.

Blue cow: “If they think I’m just going to stand there and do nothing…”

Gurl shut the fuck up and sit your ass down no one is angry that you’re not there with them. Bitch is over here turning into McFry chicken as if she’s an actual menace. Literally go get yourself eradicated.

Stop breathing, you skank. Echo did the wing transformation far better than you.

But yeah, go ahead and ruin this interracial marriage with your stupid reasoning. Go ahead and get your ass kicked by the god-king and the experienced adventurous princess. Go ahead and try to fight them with your inexperienced fighting self. Go ahead and make every sadida realize that you didn’t fight in the war because of your pregnancy but you’re perfectly capable of fighting two rulers while pregnant. Go ahead and fight in a dress and an ugly crusty bat, yeah, I’M SURE you’ll win and won’t make yourself look like a demented moron.

Her dad should’ve honestly let her go “fight” (cuz let's be honest Yugo and Amalia would have ANNIHILATED her without even batting an eye) them instead of telling her common sense so we could get rid of her much more quickly.

Blue cow: “But I am perfectly capable of controlling my emotions!”

A second earlier: *insulted a servant for being scared of a screeching bat*

A second later: *almost attempted to crash a wedding just because she saw a sadida with an eliatrope*

I would rather hang out with freaking Julith, a known terrorist, than to even be near this sad excuse of a royal. Actually, I’ve got something better: I would rather spend a full week in the necrome world than be around her.

If you care about being the queen of this land, then why the fuck are you insulting the servants??? Yeah, that’ll make them show you respect! They’ll definitely like you for sure! They will definitely not go to Amalia, the very same person who they’ve known for their whole lives.

Stop yapping on your own you cow, your existence is already sad as fuck.

And now she’s over here having a problem with a sadida and an eliatrope marrying.

Great, we just found out she’s an actual racist now too. What’s next?

Blue cow: “A sadida and an eliatrope?!”

Armand was racist towards Eliatropes, sure, but he was at least hating because he can make options of his own (even though his opinions were shit-). While Aurora over here just hates them cuz her late husband hated them??? Wtf??? Is she that empty-headed that she’ll just follow whatever other people are hating? She doesn’t even have the intelligence to hate things for her own reasons??? Is she that much of a trophy wife???

Blue cow: “My Armand would have never permitted this!”

Blue cow: “He hated the eliatropes!”

Omg this bitch is actually clinically dumb there is no way. At what point are you so mentally constipated that your likes and dislikes depend on what other people like and dislike???

She was saying how Armand would have never accepted the eliatropes so therefore she hates the idea of them being here as well.

Blue cow: “This little pest is not wasting time!”

Blue cow: “In only a few months, she had given some funny ideas to my subjects…”

If Armand told you he hates Osamodas, would you also hate your own kind???

I literally don’t get it.

Blue cow: “She spends her time showing off the traditions of the sadidas though…”

Uh yeah, so what?

Amalia is into the Sadida traditions as she should because she’s a sadida.

But just because she practices her culture, that doesn’t mean she cuts off other races????

Like what???

Aurora talks as if the sadidas have never brought other races inside their kingdom before. RACES LIKE HER.

Did she never know how King Oakheart used to be??? The sadidas, have more than once, accepted people that weren’t their own kind. They have taken in two cras from an infamous assassin. They sculpted a statue of a iop and gave him the title of “Savior of the Sadidas”. They welcomed an eliatrope and his twin dragon into the kingdom by giving him a guest room, told him that they would welcome his family, and even let him marry their princess.

How…are you this constipated to not have known this before?

Wait it has only been a few months since Season 4 so wouldn’t these two newlyweds technically be considered the second recorded interracial couple in history to have a twelvian and non-twlevian together?

“Long live the bride and groom!!!”

Omg this would also mean this was Amalia’s first time marrying a couple!!

I just want to highlight that @onyichii was the one who initially suggested that the marriage could have been between a sadida and an eliatrope, and it turns out they were correct. I had previously believed that the eliatropes aged slowly like the primordial ones, which is why they couldn't have been able to get married with someone who already looks like an adult, so I didn't think one of them could have been getting married. However, it turns out that only the Council of Six ages as slowly as dragons. The female Eliatrope in question is clearly a grown woman, and the Great Wave is set to occur right after Season 4, just a couple of months later.

In Season 4, it's possible that the elite eliatropes all looked the same due to budget constraints at Ankama. This could explain why they all wore identical clothes, colors, and were the same height.

Now let’s talk about Amalia again and how she killed it!!

Our queen CARRIED the ceremony so perfectly and elegantly!!

Look at her, she’s so experienced already!

Yugo is looking at her as she’s doing her thing. He’s so proud to have her 💕💕 omg I can’t 😭😭 LOOK AT HIM SMILING AT HIS WIFEY‼️‼️😩😩💖💖💖💖❤️❤️❤️❤️

I'm glad to see that there's no drama between the sadidas and eliatropes at the celebration, as Amalia and Yugo have enough on their plate. Amalia had to resolve a conflict between them this morning, so it's good to see the two races getting along here.

If we take a closer look at them, a good majority of the sadidas look young so maybe the new generation has a much faster and easier time accepting the eliatropes than the older generation.

And here is the part that immediately cuts off the fun entirely.

The poisoning.

During the lively event, a female Sadida was seen carrying a platter with two drinks, which she handed to Yugo and Amalia before leaving. Her sudden appearance and departure raised questions about her identity and origin. Despite this, no one seemed to pay much attention to her, possibly assuming she was a servant due to her role in serving the king and queen.

Unlike Aurora and her father, however, I actually would like to know what her deal is. Like I’m genuinely curious to know what could have been the reason to want to poison the king and queen.

Because yes, she didn’t just want to poison Yugo. She also wanted to poison Amalia.

The Osamodas king informed Aurora that he had been aware for weeks of the upcoming interracial marriage between a sadida and an eliatrope in the Sadida kingdom.

Blue cow: “A marriage?! And no one told us?!”

Cow king: “We’ve known for weeks, my daughter.”

But Aurora had no idea about it.

If Aurora, the wife of the late Sadida king, did not receive an invitation or any notification about the Sadida kingdom's upcoming marriage celebration, it raises questions about how the Osamoda king became aware of the event. Aurora's absence during the war could be the reason why they did not invite her but it remains unclear how her father came to know about the wedding.

This can only mean one thing.

The Sadida kingdom may have multiple spies who could have warned the Osamodas king. It is possible that the female Sadida who poisoned Yugo was not the only one willing to go to such lengths to get rid of the king. If she holds such a strong grudge, it is strongly possible that there could be other Sadidas who share the same sentiment.

By the way, it still surprises me that Amalia could have been poisoned too. How else would she have known that her cup had poison in it before trying to warn Yugo? The whole reason why Yugo had been targeted was because he wasn’t like them. So to have a sadida try to also poison the last member of the royal Sheran Sharm family is very off-putting.

Amalia knows her plants and remedies so the reason as to why she immediately thought something was up was probably because she either smelled something very deadly about the cup she was holding or she had a very strong gut feeling.

Either way, she dodged a bullet from not drinking it. Unlike Yugo who could survive this, Amalia would have likely died from the drink (the results would have made her look like how she did in Yugo’s nightmare, choking to death).

This is what I mean when I say I want to know more about this sadida servant.

We know she’ll make a reappearance because we can see her on the cover of the 10th chapter of volume 1.

I just don’t see why poisoning Amalia would have been a great idea. Because if she did die, who would replace her? Like I said, she’s the last member of the royal sadida family so was the female servant prepared to see Aurora replace her?? Why?? Is it because the sadida doesn’t like Amalia’s beliefs? To a point where she’d be fine seeing an osamodas replace her???

Man, Amalia has it rough. She knew that some of her people wouldn’t be pleased with having the eliatropes here but I bet she never imagined she would have almost gotten poisoned by one of her subjects.

Also what the fuck is the Osamodas king’s deal here?

If the sadida servant does work for him (for some reason), then he expected Yugo to have gotten poisoned. Okay, I get that part. So he wants Yugo to die because he’s too powerful to have him around.

So why did he tell Aurora that they were going to have to wait until they make sure the sadidas don’t trust Yugo anymore??

Cow king: “This pretentious little Yugo has powers beyond imagination…”

Cow king: “He is the one who we must succeed in getting rid of.”

Cow king: “And the only way to do that is to turn the sadidas against him.”

By doing what?? Poison him??? What???? How will that make the sadidas not trust Yugo anymore?? They just witnessed him coughing and bleeding like crazy. And they just heard Amalia scream that he’d gotten poisoned. The only thing they’d wanna do right now is help him, not run away from him. In fact, after Yugo gets healed, they’d be very understanding if the Eliatrope king tries to distance himself from them because he had just been fucking poisoned by one of them.

This is some deep clown behavior right here.

Anyways, these blue-skinned clowns are giving me too much of a migraine to keep up with their bullshit. That sadida servant looks more entertaining than them because she at least did the work and expected Yugo to instantly die instead of whatever the fuck the Osamodas king is expecting to happen.

After the incident at the wedding, it's possible to claim that the Osamodas king has spies within the kingdom. It's likely that he convinced some sadidas to join him in his disdain for Yugo, gaining their support. The sadida woman in question may be one of these spies, potentially acting on her own agenda as well. Although she doesn't appear to harbor the same malice towards Yugo as the royal Osamodas family, her anger is evident, as seen in her expression on the cover of the last chapter.

Either way, I hope we get to know more about her later on. Also, I’m pretty sure Amalia didn’t focus too much on the unnamed Sadida’s face when she handed them the drinks so it’s possible she wouldn’t be able to identify who the assassin was in the next chapter.

In the meantime, while we’re waiting for the continuation, let’s just enjoy Yugo’s suffering ✨✨

I swear there’s nothing personal about me wanting to see him like this it’s just that ever since I’ve seen him tied up on the ground shirtless and screaming in pain, I’ve been wanting to see more 😤😭

I can’t wait to see more in the next chapters 😍🥰🥰

But seriously no joke, this is not looking good for Amalia. The poor girl had recently experienced the loss of her father and her brother. On top of that, her husband Yugo, whom she had shared so much with ever since they were both little, was now coughing up blood from poison, adding to her distress. Even Yugo's wakfu wings appeared to be affected, suggesting a connection between their condition and his overall health.

Just look at the sheer horrified panic in Amalia’s eyes as she could only stare down at him, feeling completely powerless.

I wouldn’t even blame her if she lost it then and there. Yugo is literally her only family left. So to have an unknown enemy (since she still doesn’t know who could have done this) do this to her on a day that is supposed to take the stress of everyday life away must be incredibly traumatic for her.

Amalia: “The king has been poisoned!!!”

Also when you think about it, Yugo and Amalia’s cute kiss in this panel might as well have been their last kiss together if they both drank their drinks. It would’ve been over for them because Amalia would have instantly died. Yugo, on the other hand, will survive this but not without any damage to the body and brain.

I really wanna know what happens now it’s only been 6 days and I’m getting stressed out. I hate how the chapter ended, I NEED MORE.

[evilfloralfoolery]

Please enjoy this little bit of snzfuckery between Indigo's incredibly attractive parents, Astralis and Aurora. It's some gross courtly bullshit and I love it.

___________________________

“My lord, I can assure you that this lapse in judgment shall not happen again.” 

Even from her vantage point behind the hedges, the guard’s fear is palpable.  As it should be.  Her beloved is as stern as he is imposing, seeming to tower over all who cross his path, regardless of their true height.  Clad in crimson silk and fine etched leather, Astralis is both elegant and terrifying.

Precisely why she had chosen him.  Or rather, why they had chosen each other.

“See to it that you do not disappoint me again.”  The dark propriety of his voice is a resonant purr of sound that does not rely on volume to convey the threat. 

“Y-yes, my lord.”

Astralis waves a hand.  “Away with you, then.” 

The guard bows, retreating with a backward step until he feels it is proper to turn his back and hurry along on his way. 

A wise decision, clearly.

Astralis executes a sharp turn on his heel, his impressive length of ebony hair sliding over one shoulder and spilling down the length of his back like a living thing, obedient to the whims of its master. Although she cannot hear just what her husband is muttering to himself, it is certainly not pleasant.  

Fire flashes in his palm, brilliant and stark against the green of the hedges, and he incinerates a hapless, wayward branch into nothingness, his booted foot dispersing the ashen embers with a fluid step. It is, however, the rosebush that receives the withering, contemptuous sneer.

“Wretched and treacherous beauty,” he grumbles. “I would destroy you all, if I were able.” 

He stiffens to a halt beside the gate, his posture rigid but for a moment.

Surely he cannot see her, not with the hedges in unpruned proliferation around her. It matters not, for all she cares to witness is his most certain downfall.

And he does not disappoint.

His austere demeanor falters, the immovable facade cracking into a flash of annoyance and a sharp, singular hitch of breath. 

“--AHESSSCHuh! EHSHHHuh! ESSHH! ESSCH! EKSSSH!!”

He doesn't not bother with the handkerchief, perhaps because the urgency of the matter is greater than he anticipated. Instead, he barely manages to steeple his hands over his mouth and nose, each sneeze a greater shoulder-shuddering, body-curling event, as if his capacity to release it is somehow inadequate.

Astralis straightens with a pointed, indecent sniffle and brushes a length of displaced hair aside.  “If you do not believe yourself to be visible to me, Aurora, you are mistaken.” 

She huffs a short sigh and resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

Infuriating man.

“Perhaps,” she says as she emerges from the hedge canopy, “I was allowing you privacy for your struggles.”

A smirk curves one side of his mouth. “Is that so?”

His smug expression wavers and this time, he conjures the aforementioned handkerchief with a snap of his fingers.

“AESSSHuh! EHSSH! EKSSH!! Gods.”

Her hand lights upon his arm, smile gentling. “Bless you, love.” 

“Thank you,” he says with a sharp sniffle. “Blasted topiary maintenance. I should install an iron fence instea-hhh…!” His breath heaves and he leans away from her.”--hhuhEKSSSCHU!!” 

“Bless you!” She repeats a bit more emphatically than necessary. Her hands slide to cup his face, threads of his silken hair cool and smooth against her fingers. “Nature is so cruel to you.” 

He chuckles. “I believe it was my wife who ordered the planting of this entire fiasco.” 

“Well,” she says. “She must be quite insensitive to your suffering.” 

“Hmm, indeed.” His hands close up on her upper arms and he jerks her against his chest, “Were she not so stunning amongst the greenery, I would burn it to ash.” 

Aurora runs her finger along the straight slope of his nose, pausing to tap the tip. “Flattery is a wise man’s tool.” 

He summons an obligatory flinch at the intrusion of her touch, gathering her into his embrace.  “Sincerity is a tool far greater.”

It is only with Aurora that the sharpness of his gaze softens to warm, copper honey, his fortress of impenetrable emotional detachment conquered.

“Depart with me now before I am defeated by the whims of my own traitorous body.”  A smirk curves one side of his mouth. “Unless that is your plan, my love.” 

Aurora feigns aghast indignation. “I would never dream of such a thing.”

[kit-williams]

Masterlist

Hi decided to actually make a masterlist because it's probably for the best.

Things to know: I will write from a mainly female pov/perspective and it will for the most part be monogamous hetro relationships (in the terms of genitals) I won't do fxf or mxm or trans because that's not how I grew up and I'm god awful at writing homosexual sex (genderbend I can do) Another no: Adultry/cheating/spouse(or partner) thievery

Asks are open

Come buy me a coffee

Number of asks waiting to be answered: 15

My Ao3 (I havent updated a story on there since like 2016 I'm scared to even let ya'll see it but I might post the AU on there)

So I mainly write Halo, Runescape, and Warhammer 40k but here I've only been posting my Warhammer 40k and D&D au

So expect a lot of polls because it helps focus my ADHD ass

Also Fanart is ALWAYS allowed! Just Tag me!

PLACE WHERE YOU CAN ASK TO BE PUT ON TAG LIST

Poll Storage Pheromone Spray part 2 Husbandry lewdness poll First Kiss part 3 How to tag the lewd poll probably going with carnal bond Should momrad include skin tone WIP poll Help momrad focus on what to write Ones ready to be typed Adhd helper poll

WIPs

Warhammer 40k

The D&D AU

The Yandere Black Templar and Flesh Tearer

The Yandere Space Marine Masterlist

Story Vault until I know where to put these stories/how to categorize them

The boys and their darlings

This is not Canon mini masterlist

Primarchs masterlist

Pheromone Spray 1 2

Bonus Zul Spray

Song Inspiration

First Kiss 1 2 3

Typhus fleas 1 2

Baseline hitting on the darlings

Varial the insatiable

Lamenters devouring

Raven in the belfry

Child in the Eyrie

First Words Can Damn You

The black rut

Lucius the Eternal plus art

A little bit of life

Ovulation fic: Gadriel

Warhammer Fantasy

Dangerous Druchii pending

Warhammer 40k & COD

The COD Integration mini-masterlist

Demon Prince/Bloodthirster Graves

The 40k au

How does Horangi spend the thrones? Horangi focused

Lieblings König focused

Spirit Halloween Ghost focused

Hey Kiddo Price focused

Where do babies come from reply

Hail to the King Black Templar König

Everyone is space elves

COD

The mud pit cope fic

Hot Chocolate cope fic König focused

Missing the Bairn cope fic Soap focused

Zombie cope fic Ghost focused

He scares me Nikto focused happens before the Soap one

It's a wonderful life CODHoliday2023 fic angst-comfort Ghost

Age hcs/boys ages

Random romantic thing I wrote

Tanz mit mir Regency Au songfic

Halo

Most of it is on my Ao3

Random

The eventual bringing over that one non con I wrote pending

I have to edit it

The #I wrote something for my tumblr can help too

Sentience base off of lancer but I really just like the Balor

Baby fluff

barn anon/Tales from the Barn/Space Marine Husbandry Sentience

I will rename this when I can sit and think of better titles for them

Space Marine Husbandry Sentience Plot Beats

Space Marine Husbandry Sentience Mini Master List

51 more Space Marine Husbandry Sentience & Tales from the Barn

Hey Look another Space Marine Husbandry Mini Masterlist

Golden Apotheosis

Birthdays

avoiding bonds and eye contact

Favorite Wretch

Dischorus and Caracuss

Sentience Lore: Warp Fuckery

Weight of the Worlds

Insanity seems to follow...

Party

Anrir Husbandry

Home for the Holiday

Reverse Husbandry AU

Reverse Husbandry Gabriel

Reverse Husbandry Headcanon

Reverse Husbandry Emperor

Sanguinius and Glitter

Gabriel and his sick human

Human Husbandry?

Primarchs in the reverse world

Gaius flees

Judgement from the Lord of Iron

Seeing things

Funny stuff/Fan art

Ovaries Stolen meme

Fan art by bispecsual

Blood Angel Gabriel meme

ZUL by moodymisty

Angron Post Surgery expression

Fan art by c-u-c-koo anon of Plague Witch

Apollo and Dodgeball

Plague Witch part 2 by c-u-c-koo anon

Apollo by greenarsonist

Aurora by greenarsonist

Marine Meat Monday Zul by moodymisty

Penelope and Peterbunbun by Egrets-not-regrets

Fluffuary

Fluffuary master list

Fluffuary rules

MerMay

Story list

[ms-scarletwings]

Every Dredge Aberration (2024), part 14

Over sea and sky raced their hideous, cacophonous sound.

Industrial din, siren’s wail, and earth’s quake,

at once was joined by a dragon’s wake.

Lo! they call, see it winding their false island around.

Hear it threaten to punish their folly if found.

Over waves rang a crescendo warning for the final chain’s break. ₊˚.༄

Crawling Instar ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #181

Aberrant form of Opabinia

Description:

Folds of flesh contract in rhythmic waves, roving ceaselessly towards its target

Comment: Do you understand what an “instar” is? It’s a term to describe an insect or other arthropod still on a path of multiple molts to achieve its mature form. This above, like itself before the ooze’s touch, is still a larval stage of something greater.

How to catch: For this specimen you will have to be switching back to shallows-appropriate advanced gear. Return to the mangroves and surrounding jungle graveyard. You can easily guess where you’ll be looking for a harvesting spot by now.

Boreal Shell ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #182

Aberrant form of boreaspis

Description:

A cold wind blows through a skelatal frame, condensed into the light of a ghostly aurora.

Comment: Ironically, it’s construction scratches better an itch for something I previously didn’t know how badly was missing in the Stellar Basin, or the Pale reach- The signature beauty of their nights wrapped into a cruelly clever play on the boreaspis’s name. Nonetheless, it is still so wrong and unbelonging to the warm and vibrant swamps. A treasured find for the record.

How to catch: An infused coiling rod is the sole tool to drag through the thickness of sinister ooze and twisted tangles of the bog both.

Broken Arapaima ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #183

Aberrant form of arapaima

Description:

Scales plucked from skin turned leather. Eyes paled from the agony of knotted muscles. Bones unset and set untrue.

Comment: Warped bodies as powerless before the elder presence as any other. The flesh must either embrace the change, bend with the current, or it will be broken so easily. We would be foolish to believe we are any stronger.

How to catch: As above ^^^

Primordial Shadow ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #184

Aberrant form of Xiphactinus

Description:

Whispering purple plates orbit and lock around a shadowy core. Shapes of darkness fill the spaces between.

Comment: Not even before I’m done in my bewitched appreciation of the boreal shell, this other living artwork comes into clutches. Did you plunge too far into that darkness, ancient fish? What I don’t have a clue of is whether this new shell is an organic or salvaged one.

How to catch: ^^^

Effigy Crab

Encyclopedia #185

Aberrant form of horseshoe crab

Description:

Wisps of yellow light flicker within this ghastly shell, a screaming skull with a spinal tail.

Comment: I wish I could just dissect the little mutant to find out exactly what's ticking inside that bone armor. Whether flesh, gem, or fluid, the whole animal will be needed as one of the pigments making up the Golden Treasure paint selection.

How to catch: Simply set crab pots about the Twisted Strand, specifically at water no deeper than 10 meters.

Mire Screecher

Encyclopedia #186

Aberrant form of giant mud crab

Description:

A lashing yellow tongue whips around a mouth of flattened teeth. Two humanlike eyeballs burst between dripping claws.

Comment: When a wise man once remarked that he had fought mud crabs more fearsome than you, perhaps he had been referring to these. Take one of them down to Little Marrow to complete the requirements for a beautiful new paint job.

How to catch: With enough space, these are probable to also turn up in the same pots as your horseshoe crabs, but their full depth range runs between 5 and 25 meters.

Wretched Nipper ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #187

Aberrant form of nipponite

Description:

Blunt teeth and a forked tongue test the flanks of passing creatures. A single loosened scale is enough.

Comment: For just a moment, I mistook this atrocity against natural law for one of those office staple removers. Retaining some of the knotted oddness of the original mollusk, it boasts very openly its poorness as a swimmer, likely preferring to simply wait in ambush.

How to catch: Release your own waiting jaws- being a crab pot trap- into the ink blooms about the Twisted Strand. 0–50 meters is their possible range, so most optimal recommendation is to place at further than 25.

[themidnight-sun]

since pony is light bound in wretched, he can also create auroras that deflect how he’s feeling. he can also use them to let his brothers know where he is.

he can also technically make rainbows (and his antlers/hooves are actually made from prisms) but he will not when other people are around cause he doesn’t think it’s a tuff power

[jotunkhiicha]

Mary and I both dream of silent hill like absolute units.

“𝑀𝑎𝑙𝑛𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑜𝑝ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑎”

Were dreams supposed to be an escape from the vitriol of existence—a balm for the agony of the torment of tomorrow and yesterday, leaving people hanging in the balance and seeking equilibrium?

If they were, perhaps that would give some sense as to why his dreams aren’t so much sweet escapes, little escapades for his consciousness to drift between his states of mind like a little flea, jumping from beast to beast; they are garbled messes of his trauma given form. They sulk towards him, twisting and twitching in unnatural ways that would make a God weep and it all reminds him of that wretched town.

Silent Hill.

In her restless dreams, she saw that town—is that why he sees it too? Is he a restless sailor, drifting along the sea of dreamlike ambition to die to join her?

A catastrophic wave sweeps his hopes aside, drowning them within the sea of nihilism like an all encompassing finality. It spans far and wide, beyond him yet no further than him—a conundrum. It exists within him and sprawls all around him like wishes slipping from their husks and splashing into the water. Its wishes are like pinpricks against his flesh, like goosebumps from a lover’s fingertips as they dance over his flesh in strange patterns.

“James?”

The angels sing, for demons have come to eat his heart and spit out the fatty deposits of gluttony at his feet.

Rejoice! They cry.

“James?” The sweetness of spring that soothed the dull ache brought forth from the longing of union, blossoms within his name.

Is he a bud in spring, or a hollowed tree where the insects burrow their larvae to give his death a purpose? Has he been reborn in this junction between an endless winter and the boundless spring?

To be reborn, he must die—rend the soul from the body and smother it beneath blankets and pillows to suffocate any hope of escape. Just as he did back then.

Familiar hands make familiar instruments of torture, rebirthing dead and buried memories of her.

She’s everywhere, filling in every single gap between atoms, drowning the world in her presence and everything reminds him of her. She’s a burden within his hippocampus, she is a proverbial leviathan in his dreams to swallow all of the waste that comes from the hopeful slumber he pines for. She is both the balm and the burn upon his flesh—a scalding flame and the sweet reprieve that mortal men hunt for.

What has become of him?

“…Mary.” He mumbles in his sleep, restless as always and even the rattling pills inside their sweet little containers don’t help.

She is still there, a humble flame come to burn down his foundations, he has just come to accept seeing her, every night, behind his eyelids and feeling her maleficent intent as she spills over him like toxic waste.

He will never escape.

[chaos-has-theories]

Villeneuve Accurate Beauty and the Beast AU (yes this is a phrase nobody else uses but I make up for it in frequency), but for Miraculous Ladybug.

You might say, yeah yeah Marichat, we've seen it, but AHA! It is only TECHNICALLY Marichat. Yes, Adrien is the Beast. Yes, Marinette is just Marinette. But!!! For Villeneuve reasons, their dynamic comes up much more Ladrien than expected.

Adrien hasn't seen his father for years. He's been touring the world, doing shoots and public appearances, all while glued to Lila Rossi.

He is afraid of her.

She's been getting worse and worse as they've been getting more famous, and sometimes it feels like the entire world is wound around her finger, and of course - well, they're not dating. Half the world thinks they are, but they've never confirmed it one wqy or the other.

Until Lila asks him, out of the blue: "When are you going to ask me to marry you?"

She's already planning the specifics, the most media-friendly location for the proposal, and what time of year should the wedding be? And he can't just - he can't just say no, she'll go to the next reporter and tell them she's pregnant, and then his father was going to kill him.

His father.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You know I need permission from my father for things like that."

It's the perfect solution. Adrien hasn't seen his father in years, not even on a video call. He's always too busy. He won't ever be able to ask for permission, and so he can continue as they are: vaguely miserable, but at least with something like a future.

Lila smiles and says, okay!

Three days later they are in Paris.

There are a million interviews to give. "Paris' darling returns home! Keeping up with the Agrestes - is Gabriel releasing a new fashion line?" He's almost glad to have Lila by his side, throughout it. The sight of the old skyline makes him so homesick that it hurts, but she keeps the conversations running smoothly.

It's been years since he's been in the same city as his father. The same country, maybe. He'll do something wrong to embarrass him, and anyway, Lila is so competent. Gabriel will give his blessing, and he'll be chained to her forever.

Gabriel hears the proposal and scoffs. "Marry Adrien? Certainly not. You should be grateful you've been allowed to be the setting to this Diamond for as long you have.

Lila argues. She's the one who turned him into a diamon, she says. Do you think he'd have gotten this far on his own?

Gabriel looks her over, tells her that she's fired, and turns away.

“So it is the beauty of this precious son of yours that makes you so vain,” she told her, “and this is what exposes me to such a scandalous refusal. You believe me an unworthy spouse. Well, then,” she continued, raising her voice to a furious pitch, “after taking such pains to render him charming, I must now crown my own creation, and give you both a new and visible reminder of what you owe me. Go, wretch,” she told me, “and boast that you refused my heart and hand; go and offer them to the woman you find worthier than me.” (Madame de Villeneuve, 'The Young American Girl and Tales at Sea', translated by Aurora Wolfgang)

[tikitania]

Kokoreva was quite lovely in her Aurora debut! I could definitely sense her nerves in the beginning, and there were a couple bobbles, noticeably at the hellish start of the Wedding PPD. My only quibble, and I think this will come with time, is that she came across a bit too eager to please (read semi-frozen smile) rather than moving with an inherent regal elegance. Hopefully, as she grows into the role, I think we’ll see her approach it with more calm and bravado.

Overchenko was fine as Prince Desire, not particularly expressive, but this is not a psychologically complex character. Polished technique and elegance carry the day. Semyon Chudin is my fave at the Bolshoi.

Alena Kovaleva is technically perfect as the Lilac Fairy, but she also had a frozen smile when I hoped she would express a bit more gravitas. It felt a bit off-tune.

One dancer that really caught my eye is Uliana Moksheva as the Silver Fairy. She had such lovely port de bras and lightness that I thought she must be a Vaganova girl, but I read up and learned that she graduated a couple years ago from Perm and was just promoted to soloist. I think she has star qualities and I’m eager to see more of her.

Seeing Margarita Schrainer as the Diamond Fairy really made me want to see her as Aurora. I think she would be wonderful.

One downer was Princess Florine & Bluebird. Their costumes were….mint green. Just wretched and unflattering. It made Anastasia Staskyevich look like quite old. Klim Efimov just looked tired by the end of the PDD, like he was hanging on for dear life.

And….I recorded my screen only to discover that I didn’t grab sound! 🤦🏽‍♀️So in lieu of what I hoped to share, I’ll leave you with Olga Smirnova, who (other than Obratzsova) is my favorite Bolshoi Aurora.

[whitesilverandmercury]

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞

a cloud/aerith playlist

daughter ‧ be on your way / rafferty ‧ good life / lennon stella ‧ pretty boy / vance joy ‧ from afar / the vaccines ‧ all in white / SYML ‧ mr. sandman (cover) / lauv ‧ lonely eyes / the hoosiers ‧ a sadness runs through him (acoustic in a church) / vance joy ‧ i'm with you / bleachers ‧ wake me / of rust & bone ‧ next to you / somme ‧ broken hearted lovers / ben howard ‧ oats in the water / lily kershaw ‧ darker things / RKCB ‧ naive / JVKE ‧ golden hour / mxmtoon ‧ feelings are fatal / lord huron ‧ the night we met / hozier ‧ to be alone / emily james ‧ i saw your face / disclosure, london grammar ‧ help me lose my mind / leo. ‧ despair / echos ‧ guest room / davey muise ‧ fragile with me / denver pike ‧ a dream / richard walters ‧ the rules for lovers / wild child ‧ meadows / evan barlow ‧ if you care / halsey ‧ ya'aburnee / MOTHICA ‧ sleepwalk / joji ‧ glimpse of us / penny and sparrow, stephanie briggs ‧ duet / jacob lee ‧ artistry / faouzia ‧ bad dreams (stripped) / the platters ‧ the great pretender / gert taberner ‧ in need / the civil wars ‧ pressing flowers / amber run ‧ i found / saint motel ‧ happy accidents / night riots ‧ all for you / alice kristiansen ‧ lost my mind / the brummies ‧ alone with you / trading yesterday ‧ she is the sunlight / art school girlfriend ‧ an uncomfortable month / ghostly kisses ‧ call my name / gia ford ‧ sleeping in your garden / hozier ‧ NFWMB / seafret ‧ remind me to forget you / matt maltese ‧ as the world caves in / dodie, lewis watson ‧ not what i meant / autoheart ‧ wretch / jaymes young ‧ i'll be good / cigarettes after sex ‧ apocalypse / paul anka ‧ put your head on my shoulder / willamette stone ‧ heart like yours / christabelle marbun ‧ salvation / brent walsh ‧ cloud's song / dermot kenney ‧ don't forget me / tom odell ‧ another love / SYML ‧ the dark (sparse) / rob dickinson ‧ the end of the world / AURORA ‧ soft universe / hozier ‧ first light