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lorelune · 6 months ago

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O4O: part iii // PART 1

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

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

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

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

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

🩷 extended author's note

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

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

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

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns and sees you.

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

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

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

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

Jing Yuan smiles.

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

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

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

He links his arm with your own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jing Yuan doesn’t like your answer.

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

“Are you certain?” Jing Yuan implores you.

“More than.”

Your smile is transparently pathetic.

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

It is the first way you linger with him.

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have not yet let him enter your home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver with it and nod.

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

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

“Of course.”

“And how was I?”

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

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

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

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

Jing Yuan lets you finish before kissing you.

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

He pulls away with a heavy breath.

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

“... What if you get overwhelmed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am your first?”

“... Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘My omega’.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow, slow and audible.

“Only if you’re mine too.”

Oh, by Lan, he wants to be.

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

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

And yet—

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

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

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

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

And Jing Yuan is excited.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

His fixation is on you.

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

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

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

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

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

It helps him too, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would be very happy to.”

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

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

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

“Dear?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“P-Please—”

And so, he does.

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

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

Jing Yuan relishes it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He squeezes yours back. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your nest itself is resplendent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I join you?” he asks.

You tense. Jing Yuan does not move.

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

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

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

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

“You may.”

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

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

“Thank you,” says Jing Yuan.

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

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

...

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

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

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

“Can I show you my t-toys?”

“Of course, I’d like that very much.”

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

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

Jing Yuan shuffles along with you to examine them.

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

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

It isn’t knotted.

None of your toys are.

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

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

Heats without knots are incredibly difficult to bear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... It’s not necessary—”

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

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

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

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

You let Jing Yuan pick out your outfit.

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

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

You keen below him, as to remind him.

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

“Fucking me with your—”

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

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

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

You stare at him.

“You... want to fuck me?”

“Badly, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That won’t be an issue.”

“Can you tell me more?”

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

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

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

You look at him warily.

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

“You’re— you’re so good at that.”

“At what?”

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

“It’s easy to be kind to you.”

You whine and grab one of his hands, squeezing.

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

It makes something in him ache.

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

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

“You are very diligent.”

“I have to be.”

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

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

“O-of course.”

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh. P-please.”

Good.

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

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

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

“I do.” You say without hesitation.

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

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

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

“I promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him. “O-Oh?”

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

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

Your scent glands and their relatively consistent inflammation concern him.

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

However—

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

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

You still and frown.

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

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

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

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

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

“Has anyone ever massaged your scent glands before?”

”N-No.”

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

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

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

Jing Yuan hums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hands curl into fists, simmering.

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

“B-But it will hurt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Please.)

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

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

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

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

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

Jing Yuan examines your right wrist first.

“Do you know how this works, dear?”

“... The massage?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-You may.”

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

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

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

“More than.”

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re doing well.”

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

“I know.”

He kisses below your ear.

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

You shake out your wrist with a sniffle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Water?” You ask.

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

“I know that this is difficult.”

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

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

He is not weak, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

Your legs kick out as he pushes harder.

“Jing Yuan—”

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

You push at his hand, shaking your head.

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

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

You barely hold back tears as he circles the gland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dear, it’s alright—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him.

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

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

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

“O-Okay.”

You tense and brace yourself.

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

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

“Be good now.”

“S-Stop—!”

The word cracks with a sob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You relax.

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

You peer up at him.

“... Water?”

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

You sniffle. “That was a-a lot.

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

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

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

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

You buried your face in his chest once more.

“How did that feel?” He asks.

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

“Good.”

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

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

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

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

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

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

(Forgive him for guarding his heart.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It warms something in him.

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

...

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

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

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

You’re a curious thing.

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

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

It’s a low-burning thing.

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

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

It is all surface level.

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

Something shifts, one early morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As you fully come into view, his breath catches.

You’re crying.

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

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

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

(An awakening really.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—”

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

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

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

“Goodbye, General. T-Thank you.”

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

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

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

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

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

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

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

He gives himself time.

Perhaps he can obtain your phone number.

— 💦. ݁₊⋆❀˖°🎀°˖❀⋆ ݁₊.💦 —

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

“Oh yeah. I did.”

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

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

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

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

“What did you want to ask?”

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

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

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

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

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

He hums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not.”

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

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

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

“‘They’?”

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

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

“... And they’re... gone?”

“Something like that.”

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

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

“It’s alright.”

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

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

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

“They were your firsts?”

“First everything.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

His heart aches in the best way.

“Of course.”

Then, he kisses you. How could he not?

🎀💦 CONTINUED IN PART 2!! →

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

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kyeomniscient · 9 months ago

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seventeen ao3 fic recs (pt. 2)

creating a new post for the mid-length fics bc the original post was getting too long - enjoy!

pt. 1 (completed fics, >50k words)

pt. 3 (completed shorter fics, <10k words)

pt. 4 (incomplete fics)

in order of descending word count, last updated 13/12/2024

Cherry Tree Inn (jicheol, 45k, completed)

obsessed with the plot twist in this one! the damsel in distress!hoon x hero!cheol dynamic never fails

The Times We Fell (minwon, 46k, completed)

this one definitely did things to my heart :"") loved the visuals of hockeyplayer!mingyu x figureskater!wonwoo, the development of their enemies(?)-to-friends-to-lovers arc, how their relationship remained strong and steady throughout despite being met with various obstacles and external pressures along the way, how Mingyu rekindled Wonwoo's love for skating not once but twice, just them being a healthy and supportive couple - a beautiful read!

Access Granted (jicheol, 45k, completed)

the jicheol banter was golden in this one

divine pain, pain divine (gyucheol, 44k, completed)

the enemies-to-lovers-to-exes-to-lovers pipeline i never knew i needed

cut to the feeling (soonwoo, 44k, completed)

this was a character study on emotional self-torture and every chapter was an absolute sucker punch to the gut - loved the sadness and pining for the drama but i also felt like plot-wise the events didn't really justify the intensity of it all as much as the author's other piece :"/ writing was still amazing though!!

gold fever (seokgyu, 43k words, completed)

archer!seokmin x weightlifter!mingyu in a college au - really liked the vibes and writing in this fic :) seokgyu fics are rare and i feel like it's bc their dynamics on-camera mostly revolve around teasing/bickering it's hard to picture anything else, but the slow-burn element brought smth fresh and new to their dynamics and it was such an enjoyable read!

I'm not afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens (jicheol, 40k words, completed)

after reading this i think it's safe to say we all need a cheol during an apocalypse

In The Eye of the Beholder (verkwan, 34k words, completed)

half-demon!vernon x blind!seungkwan - verkwan is the softest ship and no one can say otherwise

Get busy living, or get busy dying. (cheolhoon, 31k words, completed)

absolutely living for the dialogue and banter between these two during the counseling sessions - such a unique setting, a v good fic!

secondhand smoke (gyucheol, 30k words, completed)

this was the start of my spiral down the gyucheol rabbit hole: collegiate sport aus will always be superior

just let me know (i'll be on the floor) (verkwan, 30k words, completed)

soft and sweet friends-to-lovers fic that made my heart so warm!! really loved how their relationship unfolded over time, how they took care of each other as roommates, with seungkwan's obliviousness and denial and vernon being so patient with him throughout - 'twas a lovely slice-of-life read that brought comfort and joy :)

A (Revised Guide to Lab Safety) (soonwoo, 25k words, completed)

askjfsds this was an amazing mix of soonwoo peer dynamics in a college au + science!! their lab partners-to-friends-to-lovers arc was really too cute so i'd highly recommend this to soonwoo enthusiasts

tu me manques (minwon, 26k words, completed)

this really captured the feeling of watching 90s & early 2000s romcoms (think before sunrise, chasing liberty, serendipity etc) and was written so beautifully i might cry :"") really loved the travelling aspect of it, the scenic descriptions of each city made the fic so immersive, like i was there along w them sigh

also wonwoo has slight manic pixie dream boy vibes and mingyu is just there lolol

here kitty kitty (minwon, 26k words, completed)

the ultimate cosy fall read - this fic felt like a sip of warm tea by the fire on a chilly autumn evening :)

snowflake, i'll catch you tonight (minwon, 25k words, completed)

this was really cute!! just soft and fluffy vibes in general and characterisation was super on point bc wonwoo is literally winter personified lmao

i thought that space was mine (jeongcheol, 25k words, completed)

jealous jeonghan sad fics are everything

a mix of sun and clouds (soonwoo, 24k words, completed)

lovelovelove aus with interesting professions, and this time they're both working at a weather station! soonyoung being a weather nerd is such a delight to read, and wonwoo's emotional constipation + little acts of service never gets old hehe geguri is amazing

Paradise Lost (minwon, 24k, completed)

sad fics have a chokehold on me and this one definitely takes the cake... was left in tears and i would risk it all to experience it for the first time again

despite this being a post-apocalyptic au, the development of the romance arc was treated softly and gently, that the moments of tenderness between the mcs shone through the violence and ruin that surrounded them. it was a really refreshing take on domesticity, one that took me by surprise, and it's a pity that the author only has 2 works!! i need MORE

Bend (and Break) (seoksoon, 23k words, completed)

fwb-to-friends-to-lovers seoksoon?? another wholesome fic and i loved the build up in this fic, where the mcs are basically doing all but admitting their feelings for each other UGH so cute

175°C for 60 minutes (seokgyu, 23k words, completed)

vv cute baking rivals au!! love how little clues were sprinkled throughout the story and came together at the end to tie things up nicely hehe

Lie Again (gyuhan, 22k words, completed)

the best gyuhan fic (that i've read so far) !! aka the chronicles of one (1) emotionally-unavailable yoon jeonghan where he learns to embrace the notion of Having Feelings ™ ft some of my other fave ships seoksoo and soonwoo

Jack of all trades... (jicheol, 21k words, completed)

absolutely went down a jicheol rabbit hole after this... their dynamics are one of a kind and i love it so much

stillness and motion (seokhao, 21k words, completed)

give me a fic about emotionally-repressed characters that yearn and do everything but communicate and i'll eat it up!! the tension built up between (former) teammates in sport aus are a different breed and i'm absolutely here for it

For Want of Glory (woncheol, 21k words, completed)

secret agent au! loved woncheol's dynamics here, and it's really endearing to read from coups' pov because i love the way he just PINES

you make me feel good (i like it) (soonwoo, 18k words, completed)

no spoilers but this was an absolute beast of a fic that DESTROYED me the best way possible :"") each chapter was succinct yet packed a punch, loveloveloved how the element of time travel was weaved into the storyline!! op you are a genius for conceiving and writing this

Storm Warning (wonhui, 18k words, completed)

jun as a manic pixie dream type here is everything!! ww's feelings are so valid bc if jun was my neighbour, i too, would fall in love right away HAHA

Cold Hands, Warm Heart (jicheol, 17k words, completed)

apocalypse aus always hit so hard and this fic was no exception - i was expecting a much darker arc based on the blurb, but the author managed to transform such a dire situation into one full of love, warmth and hope :") definitely check this one out!! there's also a (slightly) heart-wrenching (tiny) minwon arc on the side

now i'm covered in you (soonwoo, 16k words, completed)

it's the art of dealing with grief and moving on in a sweet and tender fic - highly recommend!

say you want me (cause I need it, all of the time) (soonwoo, 15k words, completed)

this is wonwoo as everyone's dream high school boyfriend lol

choosing the right place to put it (woncheol, 15k words, completed)

15k words of pure domestic fluff :") wonwoo and cheol are so soft with each other in this fic and cheol being so oblivious throughout really takes the cake HAHA

burning the wick at both ends (jeongcheol, 14k words, completed)

getting back with an ex is never a good idea... unless it's jeongcheol

in the dream where I am an island (jeongcheol, 14k words, completed)

rare jeongcheol fic from cheol's pov

full ten (minwon, 14k words, completed)

super adorable strangers-to-roommates-to-lovers fic!! i really loved that they each had their own lives (preferences, habits, jobs and interests) before they met each other, and coming to live together only made their lives better - there's just something about the intimacy of co-existing in the same space with someone, bonding over simple weeknight dinners, developing a shared routine over time :"")

favorite (minwon, 14k, completed)

this was a v lovely friends-to-lovers fic - really loved the timelapse of small moments between them from both perspectives!

helios (minwon, 13k, completed)

a literal masterpiece - great execution of a cool concept, and wonwoo's persona as an artist was really well-crafted!!

runaway (verkwan, 13k, completed)

this fic highlights an inseparable quality about verkwan, that there'll always be invisible string tugging at both of them, keeping them by side by side - amazing!

day ones all i keep around me (minwon, 12k words, completed)

established (secret) relationship where minwon tries to soft-launch their marriage but their fans are too dense to realise LMAO this was really cute, and i loved the dynamics between streamer!wonwoo x soccerplayer!mingyu hehe

Flowers In My Path, My Love (seokwoo, 12k words, completed)

this was the cutest college meet-cute aka hotpoetryclassguy!wonwoo x cutepoetryclassguy!dk - it really captured the moments of fumbling, awkward shyness when interacting with crushes so well and bonus points for describing dk as sunshine bc he really is the brightest boy!!

put me on a feeling i never had (woncheol, 10k words, completed)

on the inherent romance in tending to the wounds of a lover

i want us both to eat well (gyucheol, 10k words, completed)

light the way home (and i'll follow) (minwon, 10k words, completed)

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my-my-my · 9 months ago

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KINKTOBER DAY 1 - Grooming: Shunsui Kyoraku x Reader

Summary: Paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. A surefire way for Shunsui's headache to appear. But before it grabs a hold of him, maybe visiting you, a hair stylist in the World of the Living, would give him a much needed reprieve. Also, his hair was in need of a trim anyways.

TW: MDNI! NSFW. Shinigami Shunsui Kyoraku (Post TYBW) with human Reader. I tried to make Reader a bit of a tsundere. Oral sex (fem receiving).

Word count: 2030

Read on AO3 here.

This is a two-parter, with the second part falling under Face Sitting.

Head Captain Kyoraku hung his head and sighed. Paperwork was so cumbersome, there was too many on his desk, too many to read and too many to sign. Damn… how does Nanao do all of this, he thought to himself, slightly regretting giving her time off.

Another sigh echoed the room as he tried to concentrate at the task at hand. Paper after paper, sighs followed by grumbles and muttering from reading strange contracts and requests. Shunsui recognized the familiar pain that was flaring in his skull.

He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes to try and minimize the approaching headache. It was then, it hit him like a strike of lightning, a brilliant idea on how to get this headache to go away.

Not one to be too irresponsible, he left a message with Lieutenant Okikiba that he’d back shortly.

To see Mr. Kyoraku at your salon was certainly a surprise. You didn’t quite know the man, but he enjoyed your company after you first gave his curly brown hair a simple trim. He came in one day, as you were closing, then would randomly visit you. Sometimes this was when you were already busy with a client, waiting around until you were free, other times it was right when you were closing. The relationship you had was… interesting. You couldn’t deny the immediate attraction to him as he was so handsome, but he also came across as silly that you couldn’t help but laugh at some of his antics and comments.

At the same time, the randomness annoyed you to a degree, so you gave him your number. What shocked you was that it was almost as if he had never heard of a cellphone number before. He stared at the slip of paper with confusion across his face. You remembered that night as you had burst into laughter, and he followed up with, “you have a beautiful laugh” and a dashing smile.

And now, here he was again, showing up when you had just finished with a client, making his way to a seat.

“Mr. Kyoraku! It’s nice to see you, but you need to remember to book an appointment with me.” You laughed as you brushed any remaining cut pieces of hair off your client, paying no mind to him. You attended to your client, as Mr. Kyoraku sat in his seat, his head down.

Once the client left, you were alone in your shop. You had been visited by Mr. Kyoraku several times now, and he would pay a hefty amount for being alone. It startled you the first time, but he said he wanted your complete and undivided attention, and he would pay extra for that.

Which was why he was here, again. How many years has it been since this came to be? But this visit was a bit different, the air was a bit tense. You proceeded to close up shop as Mr. Kyoraku asked you about your day. You focused on sweeping the floor, then looked at him from the mirror in front of you.

“Mr. Kyoraku! What happened?” You gasped, turning around to face him. He wore an eye patch, and an evident scar ran behind it to his ear.

“Oh this? You should have seen the other guy.” He laughed, trying to ease your worry, but without thinking, you held his face as you lightly traced the scar. The worry never faded from your face.

“You’ve always been so sweet to me, my dear.” Mr. Kyoraku said, cupping your hand to his face. He looked at you with his one eye and gave you a tender smile. “I’m alright, you really shouldn’t worry about an old man like me.” You frowned and knew he wouldn’t say much about himself, so you clicked your tongue and pulled him out of his seat.

“So can I assume you’re here for the usual?” You asked, preparing your tools to cut his hair.

He hummed in appreciation, as you draped the hair cutting cape over him. He undid his ponytail, and you began to lightly tussle his locks, “well your hair is super healthy! I hope it wasn’t a hassle to take care of as you recovered from your eye injury, sir.” You asked, politely.

“My dear, you can call me Shunsui.” He smiled at you through the mirror. You blushed at the lack of formality but nodded along. You could sense he was a bit self-conscious, but he had no reason to be. For some reason though, you felt that even if you said that to him, it wouldn’t detract from his insecurity.

You proceeded to trim the ends of his hairs to the shape he preferred. You were no nonsense in your approach, which he had told you before was what he preferred. He could sense your methodical approach, and as he had to move his head up and down, saw how focused you were on him and his hair.

It was… nice being cared for this way.

Then you quickly brushed him and led him to the sinks to wash his hair. “Could you… give me a longer massage today?” Shunsui asked, with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Oh of course, let me just clean your hair first, and I promise to give you the best scalp massage ever!” You exclaimed, wanting to make him feel better.

You carefully lathered and rinsed his hair. The long, brown tresses flowed softly along the sink, your nimble fingers gently detangling his hair. Your fingers made his way to his scalp, and you softly massaged his scalp. Shunsui sank deeper into his chair and let out a content sigh, “that’s great, just what I needed.” He murmured, a large smile gracing his face.

“If you want Mr. Kyo- I mean Shunsui, after I dry your hair, I can give you a back massage. I can see your back muscles are quite tense too.” You asked, noticing the way he was still tense in his chair. He gave you a sincere smile, “I’d love that.”

Once Shunsui’s hair had dried, and he placed his hair in a ponytail again, you led him to one of your spare esthetician rooms where you would give skincare treatments to a few of your clients. The bed doubled as a massage bed, so you instructed him to lay down on it.

Shunsui proceeded to take off his dress shirt, earning a flustered noise from you, “hold on! Let me leave the room.” Shunsui laughed, “it’s alright. We don’t have to be so modest with each other.” Giving you a wink.

“You just like teasing me.” You pouted, as you pushed him on to the bed. It did startle you to see how muscular he was, with mattering of chest hair, but you tried to be professional.

Tried being the operative word.

You placed the cover on top of him and began to feel out his back, noticing where tension was placed across his muscles. You also noticed the faint, timeworn scars across his back.

“You know, Shunsui, we’ve known each other for years… but you never told me what you do.”

“Is that so?” Shunsui replied, with a slight air of indifference, “why don’t you take a guess as to what I do?”

You hummed to yourself, trying to piece together what you knew about him coupled with the scars across his body and eye injury.

“An archery teacher?” You asked, thinking it was a bit of an odd job, but one you could see him do.

Shunsui gave a low chuckle, “no, bows aren’t my weapon of choice.”

Interesting you thought to yourself.

“A kendo teacher perhaps?” As you kneaded a particularly tense muscle of his. Shunsui inhaled sharply from the instant pain, but then relaxed.

“No, but you’re getting slightly warmer.”

Slightly warmer? You questioned. “Have you been working this job for long time?”

Shunsui let out another deep, muffled laugh, “you have no idea.”

“Something to do with the military?” You stopped, peering down at him. Shunsui looked up at you and gave you a lazy smile.

“Close enough.”

Confusion ran through your face, but you were done with his massage. Shunsui sat up on the table, rolling his shoulders and flexing his neck. He let out a loud groan of satisfaction from the relief he felt, “you had no idea how much I needed that.”

But you stared at him with a puzzled look on his face, trying to still figure out his career. Shunsui couldn’t help but laugh at your expression. “You look cute with that look on your face” he chuckled, poking your face.

This earned him another pout from you, “I’m not cute! I’m a grown woman.” This earned another laugh from him.

“You’re both cute and beautiful, how about that?” Shunsui explained, calling your name.

You crossed your arms, pretending to be hurt and mad at what he said, “you have to apologize, you know.” You huffed. Shunsui stared and then gave you a sly smile, cupping your face in his large hand.

“I think I know what to do so you can accept my apology.” Shunsui said, his face hovering close to yours. You closed your eyes as you felt his lips on yours, his hand holding your chin. You could feel the familiar tingles flowing through your body, as the kiss deepened.

He pulled away from you, a lazy, yet satisfied smile crossing his lips. Without a word, he lifted you with ease, putting you back on to the massage table.

“I think you need to take somethings off, if I’m supposed to give you a proper massage.” Shunsui said, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. You quickly shimmied off your bottoms and underwear, then spread your legs wide for him.

“See what I mean, you truly are both cute and beautiful.” Shunsui said in his teasing tone. Your pussy was bare for him to see, not quite wet enough to his liking, but it was a start. He kissed you again, as one of his hands traveled down, cupping your pussy. His large thumb gently rubbed against your clit, earning a gasp from you.

“That’s it,” Shunsui said, pulling his face away from you. He felt the growing slickness from you and kissed his way down your body, giving your nipples some quick bites and sucks. Soon he was hunched over the table, with your legs on his shoulders, as he was face-to-face with your wet pussy.

Shunsui let a long swipe against your wet folds. He groaned at your taste, suckling on your clit as one of his fingers entered you.

You were seeing stars, loudly moaning at how intense Shunsui was with your pussy. His thick finger was already so full for you, then he added two more, earning a deep groan from you. Your orgasm was approaching, as you threaded your fingers in Shunsui’s curls. His large nose rubbed along your slick pussy as he lapped away, savouring your taste.

You shrieked as your orgasm came, your pussy drenching his face with your wetness. Your face was flushed as you laid on the massage bed, watching Shunsui sit up and straighten himself out. A lazy, smug smile appeared on Shunsui face as he watched you in satisfaction, trying to ride out the remnants of your orgasm.

Shunsui pulled you up, kissing your forehead as your body began to calm down. Your pussy throbbed from what had just happened, but you wanted more of it, and more of him.

“If you’re free the rest of the evening, why don’t you come back to my place, Shunsui?” You asked, spreading your bare legs again as if to entice him.

Another lazy grin graced Shunsui’s face, “I thought you’d never ask.”

As he helped you finish the remaining tasks to close your salon, the headache he had and the boring paperwork, were a distant memory to him. A memory soon to be replaced by the sounds of your moans, the feel of your pussy and mouth around his cock, and your flushed body next to his.

TBC in face sitting.

Thanks for reading!!

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no-phrogs-in-hats · 5 months ago

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Death and the Fool

Chapter 2: The Ace of Pentacles--Upright

Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Summary: Where the personification of Life believes she has no chance with Agatha Harkness after Death gets to her first

Spotify playlist here

Read on Ao3 here

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 |

Taglist: @hannah-0730 @loveshineslikethesky

“The Ace of Pentacles–Upright: Opportunity, prosperity, new adventures.”

__________

October 2026

The first thought that comes to your mind is not good.

The house that stands in front of you looks just shy of completely mangled. The door has been ripped off its hinges, splintered into a thousand pieces. Outside, the flower box holds crushed shrubbery and chrysanthemums and the roof drain pipe is half way from completely falling off.

You take a few measured steps forward and notice the mailbox is overflowing with mail. You sigh, roll your eyes, and continue towards the house.

Stepping through the door, you’re met with piles of splintered wood, and as you try to watch your footing, your eyes lock onto something familiar. Your heart lurches when your fingers touch it. The Triple Goddess pendant was all too familiar. You had known Agatha for over 300 years and she never once went anywhere without it.

You slip your nail beneath the clasp of the pendant. Inside is another familiar sight and you smile bitterly at the piece of dark hair before closing it again and dropping it in your pocket.

You can't see her, but Agatha’s voice is clear and distinct, and your chest warms hearing it for the first time in decades.

“Fine, I’m driving.”

There’s no chance of reacting when she rounds the corner as soon as the words escape her mouth.

You’re both frozen, staring each other down, and the kid behind her looks between yourself and Agatha.

“Hi,” he smiles, attempting to hop towards you. When he makes eye contact, something feels off about him. You recognize every single soul that walks the Earth. You create them from nothing, yet form them into everything. But this one, you don’t recognize.

“I’m–” His mouth is forced shut and it looks almost as if his own skin is stretched over his lips. When a black squiggle paints itself over where his lips would be, you narrow your eyes at him.

Agatha reaches for a pair of scissors and cuts the rope from around the boy’s wrists, handing them to him, “Cut the rest of yourself free,” she sneers, “and go outside, you’re driving.”

He struggles to hop between the two of you, stumbling briefly on the wood chips, but managing to catch himself before he leaves for the grassy front yard.

“He has a sigil,” you point out, watching him carefully.

“Yep. I’ve been calling him ‘Teen’,” she says. “He’s pretty insistent on not being a kid.”

You turn your head to look back at her. “Rio said she ‘stopped by’.” You pause and look around at all the damage in the house–broken glass and china in the kitchen and more concerningly, blood on the floor. “It seems she left out some parts of her story.”

Agatha purses her lips, “Like trying to kill me?”

“Oh, I’m sure you enjoyed that, Aggie,” you sigh, leaning against the wall. “You were never one to shy away from a fight.”

Agatha’s stiff and cold demeanor didn’t falter, even at the nickname. “Why are you here?” she asks.

She’s so different from the Agatha you originally knew. The Agatha that would laugh at the stupidest jokes you’d tell her. The Agatha that would climb up a tree to scare you and Rio and laugh with that mischievous glint in her eye. The Agatha that would sing lullabies.

Oh, how you miss the Sun.

“Just checking in,” you shrug. “Where are you driving to?”

“The last time I saw you–”

“You told me I’m too pure,” you butt in, remembering the memory that you aren’t too fond of. “You told me that I’d be corrupted by your ways if I did not leave. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told you that night, Aggie–Unlike Rio, I can find any soul, anywhere, at any time without her necessary process. No amount of dark magic can hide you from me, Agatha, and you cannot corrupt me. You cannot corrupt Life.”

She’s quiet for some before she glances at Teen, who sits on the grass, clearly distracted by his phone. Agatha leans in closely, lowering her voice, “We’re walking the Road.”

You pull back, searching her eyes for any sign of farce, “You said you would stop with the Road bullshit, Agatha. What is he, sixteen?”

“Well that was before Wanda Maximoff drained me of everything and stole the Darkhold…besides, I’m just having him drive me around collecting witches for the coven,” she shrugs. Agatha grins as she watches you sigh, “Why don’t you join us, hon?”

“Excuse me?”

Agatha takes a pair of sunglasses and cleans them off with her shawl before slipping them over her eyes and smiling at you. “You’ll be here with Rio to collect their souls after I drain them anyway. Why don’t you have a bit of fun?”

You want to say no. You want to say no so badly, but you don’t. Instead, you groan. “Fine, but I’m not having that kid drive me around. I’ll stay here and…clean up.”

“Sounds good, doll,” she smiles–and, oh, how you love when she smiles, especially when it has that mischievous undertone. Agatha steps over pieces of the door and exits through the doorway. “We’ll be back soon!”

When the pair of them leave you’re left to your own devices. You look around the entire first floor, ending in the kitchen. You let out an exasperated sigh, Rio really did a number on this place.

By the time you finish cleaning the house, it’s three o’clock and Agatha and Teen still aren’t back. You aren’t usually the type to snoop around but you’re so curious as to how Agatha’s been living the last few years.

In the room off the left of the foyer is the sitting room Agatha came out of. Afternoon light creeps in through the curtains but the lamps provide a warm ambience as you take a lap around the room.

You don’t recognize a single person in the framed pictures–there’s a bearded man with an older woman who looks to be his mother, a picture of three women, and a bigger picture with a huge group of people all wearing shirts that read “Bohner Family Reunion”.

There are collections of records and Blu-Ray discs from the previous owner and you rifle through them–a colossal amount of classic rock and movies that you know a guy would try to man-splain to you when you tell him that you “just don’t get it”.

On the partition wall separating the sitting room from the dining room, there are at least thirty pictures and pieces of paper covered in red ink. Upon further inspection, the pictures are nothing but daisies and patches of grass, and the ink on the papers are just random letters and scribbled lines. You think back to your conversation with Rio the previous night.

“She’s gone all true crime and thinks she’s trying to solve a murder. It’s kind of funny actually, I’ve been playing along.”

When you go upstairs that’s when you see the little touches of the real Agatha. The door to her bedroom is open and you amble in. Her bed is unmade and you’re not one bit surprised after having asked her decades ago why she doesn’t make it.

“I’m gonna be sleeping in it again tonight, why the hell would I go through all that effort just to mess it up again?” she had replied.

On her nightstand is a ceramic bunny figurine. Closer to the bed is an empty wine glass with the smallest bit of dried red at the bottom, and beside that is a bottle of ibuprofen and a half-way read through book.

In her closet are all different decades of clothing–50’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and the 2000’s. You find leg warmers and laugh to yourself, imagining Agatha Harkness wearing these brightly colored monstrosities over whatever workout fit she was wearing. Your favorite, however, is the 50’s and 60’s section. You can remember those years so vividly, going to diners with her and drive-in movies after she finished “walking the Road” again.

After closing the closet your attention is pulled to a chair across the room. You walk over to it and see there’s a pair of black boots, a folded white blouse with purple slacks, and a teal trench coat hanging over the back of the chair. On top of the neatly folded blouse is a small envelope with Rio’s familiar handwriting, reading, Agatha.

The sound of Agatha’s voice reaches your ears. You look at the clock and it’s almost four. You’re able to hear her voice clearly, snapping back a snarky remark when Teen asks her where she’s going.

She’s in the doorway of her room quicker than you realize and when you turn around she has that sly smile that makes you weak in the knees each time.

“The house looks good,” Agatha says, tossing her shawl and hat on the bed.

“Thanks, who did you steal it from?” you tease.

“I don’t know,” she huffs. “Some guy named Ralph…or Randall? Robert? I don’t know. I–What the hell is that?”

She walks quickly over to where you are and snatches the note from the folded clothes. After tearing it open, she scans the lines and rolls her eyes, balling the paper up and throwing it away in the bathroom.

“She does know your style!” you chuckle. You take the clothes from the chair and bring them to her, smiling softly when she glares at them. “Just put them on, Aggie. You want to look good when “walking the Witches’ Road”, don’t you?”

She looks at you, fighting herself before sighing, completely defeated. “Fine. But I’m not going to like it.”

“I don’t expect you to,” you smile, chuckling as she shuts the door in your face.

You have to remind yourself to breathe when Agatha steps out of the bathroom. She could wear a potato sack, a garbage bag, and she’d still be the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Right,” she huffs, looking at herself in a full length mirror. “How do I look?”

You could answer in a million ways. You could tell her that the way she has her hair pinned up makes you want to place a thousand kisses over the exposed skin. You could tell her that she looks so good you want to rip the blouse she’s wearing open and have her take you right there. That the way her hands adjust the collar of the jacket makes unspeakable thoughts fill your mind.

But you don’t say that.

“Good!” you say.

She looks at you through the mirror, grins, and turns around. “Good?”

“Amazing!” you correct yourself.

“Amazing?” she repeats. “Hm…Thank you.”

You take a deep breath and let it out. “You’re missing something, though.”

Under the curious eye of Agatha, you step closer to her and reach into your pocket. When you grasp the pendant of the necklace and pull it out she visibly tenses. But you don’t acknowledge it. Instead, you move closer and reach around her neck, clasping it in place and adjusting it to lay beneath the collar of her blouse. Your fingers straighten out the pendant before pulling away.

It’s quiet.

Your eyes meet and you can see something in her soften.

“Where did you find it?” Agatha asks quietly.

“Amidst the pile of door that Rio left behind,” you answer, letting out a quiet hum. “You’re not you without it and I know how much it means to you.”

“Is his–”

“Yes,” you cut in. “It’s still in there.”

She gives you a subtle nod. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

“You’re welcome,” you whisper, and you can almost swear you saw her eyes glance down at your lips. “You should probably get downstairs. Who knows what Teen is getting up to?”

Agatha scoffs, “Not much probably. Teenagers these days are too soft.”

Downstairs, you see Teen, who has set out what he calls “Pre-Road appetizers”. Over the mantel, he’s taped up a sign that reads “Welcome Coven”.

“I think it’s cute,” you shrug, watching as Agatha tears it down and huffs.

“No, leave it up,” a voice behind you says. “Really sets the mood.”

Teen breaks out into a smile and beckons her in. “Please, come in! Right, Agatha?”

“I don’t care, I mean whatever…” she mutters. Agatha seems mildly annoyed at this situation and you’re finding it hard to reserve a smile.

When Teen offers the new witch a “pre-Road appetizer”, she declines just to be overshadowed by another woman behind her.

“I don’t mind a lapsed expiration date,” she chirps, taking a bite of the expired granola bar. She pauses as she looks at the witch beside her, “High Priestess.”

“Jennifer Kale, potions,” she says.

“Lilia Calderu, divination,” the second one says. She narrows her eyes. “You’re bound.”

“And you need a chemical peel,” Jen retorts, much to Lilia’s dismay.

Behind them, a third woman appears and sighs. “This is never going to work. Your front door is missing.”

“Alice!” Teen exclaims with a bright smile. “How did you find us?”

“I’m an ex-cop,” she shrugs. “That’s gonna be my answer to a lot of questions.”

Impatient, and completely over the introductions, Agatha sighs loudly and claps her hands. “Okay!” she chirps. “We’ve got everyone! Let’s go!”

“Um, what about the green witch?” Jennifer asks.

Agatha scoffs. “Oh, we don’t need one of those! Let’s g–”

“Yes, we do!” Lilia insists.

“Green magic is arguably the most important of the skill sets needed for the road,” Jen says.

After more bickering, Agatha finally relents and leaves the house to retrieve the “green witch”. An awkward silence falls over the room as you all wait for her to come back, and it felt longer than it actually was.

“Okay!” Agatha cheers. “I’ve got our green witch! This is Mrs. Hart.”

A small woman stands beside Agatha, smiling as she greets everyone. “Oh, actually, it’s Sharon!”

You can see Agatha becoming visibly frustrated at the revelry, but she hides it (and not well) with an overly cheery smile. “Alright, let’s go!”

You and Agatha stand together with Teen in between you. You watch as the coven takes in their surroundings. Lilia strolls around, nosing around in the boxes on the shelves while Sharon, Jennifer, and Alice stand there awkwardly.

“Do you think we’ll need another car?” Teen asks. “I don’t think everyone will fit in mine.”

Agatha sighs, “You don’t drive to the Road, Teen. The Road is conjured. In fact, why don’t you go upstairs.” She turns him around and despite his protests, keeps pushing him toward the stairs. “Yeah, let’s getcha up there. Let the adults handle this.”

When he leaves the basement, Agatha turns to you, “Go with him. Make sure he doesn’t come down here.”

The sun is almost completely set when you and Teen make it upstairs. The dim lighting leaves an eerie glow around the house and it’s almost unsettling as you watch Teen explore the living room. When he gasps and picks up Agatha’s rabbit, there’s a twinge in your chest and it feels like you’re seeing Nicky for the first time again.

But your thoughts are interrupted when Teen drops the rabbit and slowly walks outside. You follow closely behind him, “What are y–shit.”

Agatha had made sure your priority was keeping him from going back down into the basement, but that priority had changed. Now, as you stare face to face with the Salem Seven, your priority has changed: protect Teen and make sure they never reach Agatha.

You pull Teen back, “Get inside, now!”

You can hear the faint sound of the ballad below the floorboards as you cast a protection spell over the vacant doorway in an attempt to hold them off. Teen pulls the nearest couch over and blocks the entrance. He moves to another room and it’s quiet–and you know that means nothing good.

Teen’s scream from the other room makes you react before you can even think. You run to him, pulling him behind you just before one of the Seven can reach him. You cast another spell, sending one of them flying into the wall before you turn and run to find Teen.

You can hear shouting below you and just like that, it stops. You know what that means. This wasn’t the first time you’ve witnessed it.

Teen’s screaming echoes through the house and you can hear him running towards the basement. “Agatha!” he shrieks. “Agatha!”

You run after him, just on his tail as he makes it to the basement. “Teen! Wait!”

“Is this the Road?” you hear him shout. “Is this the Road, because we should really get going!”

And now you’re nothing but confused.

Is this the Road?

The Road? “The Road” should be three dead witches and Agatha’s neighbor.

And then you reach the bottom of the stairs.

You pause and stare at Agatha. The air feels electric and the very thought of the Salem Seven leaves your mind, because when you look up from the hexagon door, your eyes meet and you both share the same questions:

Where did that come from? And why is it here?

#agatha all along #kathryn hahn #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #lilia calderu #jennifer kale #alice wu gulliver #billy maximoff

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spindrifters · 1 month ago

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Hey friends,

I know this isn’t the marginalia update you were hoping for, but HOLD ON. This isn’t going in the direction you think it is.

First of all, thank you so much for your patience. I'm really sorry for leaving you on such a horrendous cliffhanger for so long. That was never my intention, but the AO3 curse got me so, so bad.

As most of you who follow me on Tumblr know, my health deteriorated significantly over the course of the last two years. It began with chronic migraines and brain fog, which then worsened and led to chronic fatigue, increasing cognitive/language confusion, and finally issues with balance and weakness in my extremities. Long story short, in February I was finally diagnosed with a Chiari malformation, and I had brain surgery last month. I'm happy to report that it appears to have been a complete success! My symptoms are gone. I feel better than I have in literal decades. The curse is lifted. Nice. Now I’m just doing the hard work of recovering from surgery.

In the meantime, a few things have happened:

First, I became a traditionally published author. My debut novel scooted out into the world last year, and I have more books coming out over the next few years. I have no idea how I got here, but holy crap!!

Second, JKR pulled more bullshit. And while I think it’s fantastically ethical, actually, to engage in the reclamatory spaces of fandom, my appetite for it is sort of gone at the moment. I doubt forever. These things wax and wane, even when the author isn’t a piece of shit.

So here’s what’s going on.

I’ve spent the last month reworking marginalia into a piece of original fiction. Which honestly hasn’t been very hard to do. I’ve written hundreds of fic over the years, and this is the first one that I ever felt compelled to revise into something else, because it's also the only one that I knew could stand on its own two feet as more than just an intertext with canon. This fic has always been a frank conversation with its source material, but the result of that has allowed me to bypass the constraints of JKR's world to create something entirely my own. It's also about so much more than that frank conversation. It’s about navigating a version of yourself you can live with under inherently unethical circumstances. It’s about chronic pain and invisible disability, and I do see the irony in not knowing I had either of those things at the time I was first drafting. It's about breaking cycles of abuse. It’s about empathy. I think the world needs more stories like this.

So my agent is going to begin pitching the reworked version to publishers relatively soon, at which point this fic will have to come down from AO3. I'm going to set the date for June 7th. From there, one of two things will happen:

1. The reimagined version will eventually get picked up by a publisher, will become a traditionally published novel—probably a duology, let's be real—and I’ll be very open about where you can get your hands on it.

2. No one bites. And this will go right back up on AO3, comment section book club in tact, and I’ll finish the story when the time is right.

In the meantime, I don’t mind you downloading it if you want, and I don't mind you sharing it with others if they ask. It’s a big part of why I’m giving you the heads up. And Pigoletta’s excellent podfic will stay right where it is unless she decides otherwise at some point. But what I do ask is that you don't repost marginalia publicly, not on AO3 and not anywhere else. And for the love of fuck, don't feed it to an LLM to try to generate an ending.

Okay, I think that's it! Thank you all for the gorgeous community that's grown around this fic. I'm excited to see what the next chapter brings.

xo zo

#marginalia blogging

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wrathofrats · 2 months ago

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Mushy May Day 1: sleepovers

Read under cut or on ao3! Prompts by @forlorn-crows

Ifrit asks aether who he has a crush on during a game.

Featuring 700 words of: truth or dare, ifrit is kinda stupid but we love him, i love writing early ifrit and aether as frat bros, they’re besties your honor, ifrit can’t make popcorn

“You didn’t even pop it?” Aether cocked an eyebrow at ifrit as he threw a package of microwave popcorn onto his lap, setting two cans of soda on the nightstand.

“I’m a fire ghoul, why the hell would I pop it downstairs and let it get cold?”

Ifrit crawled onto the bed grabbing the package off of aethers lap, picking at the plastic around it. Aether reached over him for his own drink. The can was a little warm, ifrit was sometimes bad at controlling his element. Should’ve asked him to grab a cup of ice but it wasn’t a huge deal. He took the plastic scraps and threw them into the small trash can by the bed.

“Didn’t omega tell you to stop using your magic for things that weren’t important? Tell me you at least grabbed a bowl” aether sighed. He knew ifrit didn’t, watching him hold the bag in his hands as it rapidly expanded. Ifrit stared at it intensely, mouthing numbers, no doubt counting the seconds between pops as if he was actually using the microwave. Aethers tried to explain to him it doesn’t work the same, ifrit never listens though. It makes him feel useful.

“No bowl. Omegas a stick in the mud. It’s faster this way too, look! Have some”

Aether rolled his eyes, sticking his hand into the bag and throwing a couple pieces into his mouth, wincing at the bitter taste.

“Ifrit this is burnt”

“Wow. God forbid a woman make a mistake” ifrit grabbed the bag back from him, shoving his own hand up into his mouth. He tried not to make it obvious he also couldn’t stand the taste, powering through to eat a couple more pieces before abandoning the bag between them.

“You’re not even …. Whatever.” Aether sighed “movie?”

“We always watch a movie. Can we play a game or something? We could even do each other's nails, have a spa bath or something.”

“A game? You want to play fucking truth or dare or something like kits-“

“Yeah!” Ifrit interrupted him, perking up at the mention. Aether furrowed his brow at him. There was no way he was serious right? Judging by the smile on his face and the way he turned to sit up facing aether, no, he wasn’t joking. “Ok, truth or dare?”

“You genuinely want to play?” There was a pause before ifrit nodded like it was completely obvious, “fine, truth”

“Boring. Who do you have a cruuushhhhh on?” Ifrit sang, hands in his lap and wiggling happily like a little girl.

“Dare.” Aether quickly corrected himself. A stupid blush was no doubt rising to his cheeks. The game was stupid anyways, truly he could just lie until he got bored and relented to a movie and some cuddles or something.

“Absolutely not. Answer the question, come on it’s not like it’s a secret”

“Fuck you asshole” aether scoffed as if ifrit wasn’t entirely correct, “no one thanks. Why, do you have one or something?”

“It’s obvious it’s dewdrop. You start tripping over yourself when he’s around.” Ifrit snicked

“You dodged my question”

“You dodged mine!”

Aether huffed, taking another bite of cold burnt popcorn as if it might taste better this time. Ifrit may be an idiot but god did that boy know how to read people.

“Maybe. Since you already know apparently. You can’t fucking tell him though ifrit i swear to god-“

“I won’t! It’s sweet. I don’t see him act nice to most but he’s always nice to you. Just thought I’d point it out”

Aether quickly took a sip of his drink, using it as a break to think for a second. There was no way dew liked him back, that shit head was in a different sisters room most nights. Hope sparked in his chest anyways.

“Your turn fritter, cough it up”

Ifrit laughed, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his hands in front of him in thought. He had a small smile on his face, swinging the leg that was hanging off the bed.

“Zephyr. They’re just …”

“I fucking knew it!”

“Shut up! Listen- they’re so smart and I like the way they take things seriously, I don’t know they’re just nice to be around”

“Gay”

“Fuck you”

#I love this #it’s mostly banter #they’re cuties #the band ghost #ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #wrath writes #mushy may #mushy may 2025 #ifrit ghoul #aether ghoul

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sossi-still-dreamin · 15 days ago

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jjk fic recs

aaaalright it's jjk's turn. before i start lemme remind ya'll that almost every fic is a oneshot unless otherwise mentions, everythings on ao3 and they're all character x character!! i seriously read too much fanfiction but errr that's okAY!

inuokko (my fav)

all these salmon and you decided to catch feelings by orphan_account - 20k getting together fic with a LOT of inumaki pining and oblivious longing. basically yuuta comes back and inumaki is thRIstY in more than one way and our lovely lovebirds dance around each other completely ignorant for a while before they find their way to each other <3 featuring a lot of exasperated maki 10/10

subtle differences by botanicalbites - super fun oneshot where megumi asks yuuta how he understand inumaki so well eEEEEeee. lots of subtle inuokka and fun stuff, yuuta cHEATS, no not like that, more like a it's-not-fair-only-you-can-understand-toge sort of way 9/10

and every day, it's changed since then. by botanical bites - OKAY THIS ONE'S THE REAL DEAL, 12 ch long university au getting together slow burn fic where yuuta is a third year who had just taken a gap year and meets maki in the gym. gets casually beaten up, and maki invites him to a party where he meets a lil shy boy who immediately wins his heart. gojo is a lil freak hehe 11/10

things unsaid. by botanical bites - birthday sequel to fic above ^^^

sorry, i don't understand "konbu" by diggingupthegrave - crack fic oneshot where yuuta gets an alexa, one who can talk and tell jokes and do everything inumaki can't seem to, and toge gets ridiculously jealous :( so funny and fluffy 10/10

cursed by lichtstrahl - a quick ptsd established relationship fic that takes place uhhh post jjk 0 pre jjk s1 i think? or mostly at least. a fic about toge's past trauma and fear of water... yuuta helps him get over it 9/10

i'm alright if you're alright by anonymous - 14k getting together feelings realization fic from the pov of yuuta during the time gojo's sealed, a post shibuya incident fic where yuuta has to pick up the pieces and tries to secure a boyfriend at the same time... lots of hurt/comfort aND my fAVoRITE tAG au nobody dies! 9/10

satosugu/sugusato/gojo x get

life hack: gay thoughts can't catch u if u have limitless activated by sugurugetowo - the no. 1 fic in the ship and IT DEsERVES eVEry kUdOS, a gojo coming out getting together fic that that is super fluffy, au, super fluffy and fun ;) 10/10

a spin around the rumor mill by ilovegetosuguru - a fic from the pov of nobara where gojo is a professor obSeSSED with his husband but nobody knows who he is, and so nobara takes it upon herself to figure out... sO muCH crACK i lOVE iT 10/10

a story without a happy ending by ilovesugurugeto - suCH a SAD fluffy fic that ends with a shot of angst. a soulmate au where on one wrist is the name of your soulmate and on the other is the name of your greatest enemies... geto has gojo's name on both T-T 10/10

'cause every now and then i fall a bit behind (everytime i stare into your eyes) by flowercitti - a sweet fic about geto's love for gojo's six eyes, and realization of how much his eyes actually hurt him... a story of how gojo's gets his glasses! a confessions fic with a side of hurt/comfort

guard down by illicitly - a slightly nsfw fic but honestly you can just skip the end and this is totally worth reading, a oneshot of touch-starved gojo (one of the best tropes ever). gojo hasn't been touched in years and geto is begging to ;) 9/10

how many shots does it take for us to get to the center of our relationship problems? by ilovegetosuguru - a crack fic featuring itafushi about the two ships playing truth or drink, super fluffy and this will guarantee you smile so please read! 10/10

itafushi

don't tell a soul by cursedwritings - a soulmate au fic with soulmate identifying marks featuring a lot of oblivious itadori and emotionally constipated megumi, quite a bit of crack, and a lOt of fluff! solid read for any drunk fanfiction diving 10/10

the smell of your hoodie by mustardleaf - crack fic with a side of second hand embarrassment and a lot of megumi suffering. aka itadori stays over at megumi's and megumi tries to hide that small fact, gojo gives no mercy. none. at all. 10/10

past preferences by botanicalbites - established relationship itafushi where itadori asks for megumi's first crush... megumi's crush for yuuta is revEaLED!!! mwahahahaha, crack fic because this ship is too fluffy! 9/10

these fics were so fun to read aND i HAVE MORE! so lmk if ya'll want more bc i am mORE than willing to share my wealth (no gatekeeping!)

enjoy! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

#jjk fanfic #fic rec #i read too much fanfiction #ao3 #jujutsu kaisen #fic reading #inuokko #inumaki toge #yuta okkotsu #itafushi #satosugu #gojo satoru #itadori yuuji #jjk #crack fic #geto suguru

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arclic-stuff · 4 months ago

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Hate to Break It to You (Avis Amberg x fem!OC)

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Penny is a screenwriter with a contract to direct her film with Ace Pictures. At least she thinks she does.

Upon arriving at the studio for what she thinks is a meeting with Ace, she is instead met with Avis, his wife and interim head of the studio.

Will Penny keep her temper when she’s told the bad news that her film is being cut in favour of other ventures?

Word Count: 2.6k

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READ ON AO3

MASTERLIST

One thought fills Penny's mind as she walks down the studio hallway.

I should have broken these heels in.

Given the importance of the meeting, she decided to go all out. Her casual clothes and flat shoes have been traded for a fitted copper colour two-piece suit and peep-toe shoes fresh out the box. Her dark brown hair is twisted into an intricate updo showing off her choice of earrings that match her red lipstick.

It's way more elaborate than her usual getup and strays near overdressed, but when you're meeting with the man-child that is Ace Amberg you grin and bear it.

Penny cringes as her heels click against the flooring announcing her presence. The men of the office turn at the sound and gawk. They're taken aback by the drastic change of her appearance, the feminine silhouette wrapped in fitted rayon, making no attempt to hide their stares. All she can do is avoid eye contact and walk faster towards the executive offices.

She calms herself by thinking about the success coming her way. Her film has been greenlit and starts production in a month. The cast is rehearsing, props and sets prepared, all is going according to plan.

"Penny?"

She is pulled from her daydream when her name is called out by Miss Stinson, Ace's secretary. Penny strolls to her desk, greeting the woman with a warm smile.

"Hi Miss Stinson, I've got a 1 o'clock with Mr Amberg. Will I just head in? He should be expecting me." Penny moves to go through the office door when she is pulled back by a nervous Stinson.

"Ah well about that, look, Ace isn't well.." Stinson trails off as her bottom lip quivers, trying to hold it together. She goes on to explain the situation about his health, making Penny gasp and strangely feel bad for the man. Sure she can't stand him, but she doesn't wish him dead.

She's about to turn and leave when the handle of Ace's office door twists and out steps the unexpected.

Avis Amberg.

Despite her small stature, her presence fills the room. Her elegance and poise makes Penny shrink by comparison, feeling like a little girl playing dress up.

Avis is engrossed in her planner as she hovers under the doorframe. When she looks up, Penny and Stinson stare, waiting for Avis to speak first. All she does is raise an eyebrow, looking Penny up and down before directing her curious expression to Stinson.

"Mrs Amberg, this is Pennelope Davis, a writer. She was meant to meet with Mr Amberg today. I'm so sorry I completely forgot to reschedule it, she was just leaving." Avis stops the rambling by raising a hand.

Avis steps out of the office, turning to hold the door open. "It's fine, I can see her now. Go take your lunch, Miss Stinson," Stinson nods and scampers away. Avis continues holding the door, starting to tap her foot with impatience.

"Well Ms Davis?" She looks Penny up and down again, this time lingering as she takes in Penny’s appearance. It disturbs her having a woman looking at her like that. Like the men in the hallway. But she also feels intrigued by it. And so, Penny walks into the office.

"That's an interesting accent you have, you're from across the pond, yes?” Avis shuts the office door, gesturing for Penny to take one of the seats across from the desk.

Penny fidgets, taking off her gloves as she responds, "Yes Ma'am, Oxford. It's west of London."

"And posh. What does your family think of you gallivanting around Hollywood?" Avis asks, rounding the desk.

"Ha, I'm the youngest of five Ma'am, they don't often think about me", Penny chuckles at her self-deprecating response, waiting for a similar response from Avis. Unlike Ace who would laugh at the humour, Avis just stares at her, eyebrows raised as she thinks of something to say.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Avis says sincerely, her features softening.

Penny lowers her head, focusing again on the gloves in her hands. "It's alright. I'm sorry to hear about your husband, Ma'am" Which is followed by a scoff from the other woman.

"Oh don't be, that's what decades of steaks and cigars do to a person. And don't call me Ma'am, the formality of your voice makes me feel a million years old. Mrs Amberg will do”

"Yes Ma'am–I mean Mrs Amberg! Sorry”, Penny bites her cheek wanting to the ground to swallow her.

Avis stands behind the desk, hands resting on the chair back. She tilts her head at the flustered girl before her, smirking as Penny tries and fails to make eye contact.

"You seem nervous, would you like a drink? Tea?" Avis gestures towards the drinks cart in the near corner of the room.

Penny declines politely, "Oh no, thank you Mrs Amberg I’m sick of tea, I’ve had my fair share back home"

“Then something stronger” Avis makes her way to the cart, picking up a whisky decanter with one hand, pulling out two glasses with the other.

“Oh no I couldn’t–”

Avis cuts you off, looking over her shoulder as she makes up the drinks, “I insist, Ace isn’t going to drink it is he?”

“I guess, I just want to keep a clear head, that's all. I know how big an opportunity this is”

Avis’ hands stop for a second, “Opportunity?”

"I know how lucky I am to be working with the studio, Mrs Amberg. Scripts written by someone like me aren't picked up often, I’m grateful for–” Once again Avis raises her hand signalling Penny to stop talking.

“I’m going to stop you there Ms Davis. Due to a change of circumstances, the production has been suspended indefinitely.”

"What?" Penny hears the words but doesn’t fully register what’s been said.

“Indefinitely" means production has been stopped for an unspecified period of time.” Penny's mind catches up and her stomach twists in frustration. Of course she knows what indefinitely means.

“I meant, what do you mean by changes?”

Avis explains, "The studio executives, and Ace, decided to prioritise other ventures. You should have been told after the meeting”

Penny feels her face heat up, not with embarrassment but with anger. She’s always struggled with keeping her cool, occasionally getting the ‘emotional woman’ label as a result. Closing her eyes, she focuses on her breathing, inhaling and exhaling before speaking again.

"How long ago was the meeting?" Avis picks up on the change in Penny’s body language. The pleasant, warm persona has melted away to reveal something else.

"It was finalised during the last executive meeting. 2 weeks ago." Avis narrows her eyes and braces for an outburst. She sees Penny’s jaw tense as she slumps back in the chair, finishing off her drink.

Penny thinks back, shaking her head. Ace knew for 2 weeks that the movie was binned, “Why did he arrange for this meeting then? He said it would be a ‘Pre-Production Lunch’ to break the ice”

Avis laughs at this, “Is that so?”

“I don’t see how this is funny.”

Avis flicks through the planner from earlier, “When things happen enough, you learn to see the humour in them, Ms Davis", Avis passes the planner to her, opened up at today’s date. She grabs their empty glasses, getting up for refills. Penny looks at the planner, more specifically the entry for this meeting, squinting to make out Ace’s sloppy handwriting.

1pm: Lunch with Ms Davis

3pm: Check-in at Grand Hotel (Honeymoon suite, have Stinson tell home I'm at a conference)

"He was leading you on sweetheart. He wanted to get your hopes up and be there when they fell to pieces."

Penny puts everything together and feels nauseous. She can't believe how naive she had been thinking it was purely business. As she continues to spiral, a fresh whisky glass is placed in her field of vision.

“Still sorry about the heart attack?"

Penny looks up at the grinning woman, nonchalant, unapologetic, sitting there with a drink in hand. Penny downs her drink in one go, making Avis jump forward, shocked when Penny doesn't flinch at the sting.

“Guess it's back to Paramount I go, hopefully their pity gets the offer back on the table" Penny stands up, smoothing her skirt, swaying as the alcohol hits her.

"That won't happen"

Penny raised an eyebrow, hand on hip. "You don't know how convincing I can be"

"I don't doubt it, but it won't get made at Paramount or anywhere. Section 34b,” Avis pulls out the contract, flipping to a specific section and reads aloud, "In the event of the movie no longer being produced, Ace Pictures regains the patent as long as the contract has been signed by the writer", Which it has"

Penny sits, grabbing the contract to see it herself. She reads over the section, hands gripping the pages, knuckles turning white around crumpling paper. Her jaw tightens again and she exhales forcefully from her nose as she chucks the document back to the table, leaning back in defeat.

"You're screwed"

"Yeah no shit Avis" Penny spits back at a gobsmacked Avis.

"It's Mrs Amberg to you"

Penny scoffs, "That was before your husband fucked me over,” Shaking her head, Penny stands up heading towards the drinks cart, “You have no idea the lengths I went to for this to get made."

"Oh I can imagine, next time you try to use your looks in a negotiation, try and make it less obvious. This,” Avis gestures to Penny’s outfit, “ isn’t class, it’s desperation"

Desperation? How dare she.

Penny turns on her heel and marches over to the desk, leaning over it making Avis sit back in her chair.

"Say what you will, but I only have to wear this costume for a few hours, but you, Mrs Avis Amberg, you're stuck in it for life, stuck with him." Penny flops down on her chair, waiting for a reaction from the woman opposite her.

Avis’ face stays unchanged, but Penny saw her eye twitch.

"You're upset, I'm going to let that slide"

Disappointed with the response, Penny sulks. A part of her wanted an argument, to let out the anger, the frustration, the embarrassment. She should apologise and leave but instead she rubs salt in the wound.

"What changed?" Penny mumbles.

"What?"

"What changed? What film took my place?"

Avis sighs and tosses Penny a folder, she opens it to see the script for Meg along with supporting documents.

"It's going to change the industry, Ace Pictures will be at the forefront of a new age of stories" Penny sees Avis smile, not smirk or grin, a genuine smile.

And Penny can see why, as she flicks through the script and treatment. It’s fresh, gripping and– Jack Castello is in it. Penny recognises that face the minute she finds his headshot amongst the documents.

Many moons ago, Penny had interviewed a gas station that didn't just service cars, she didn't get hired but remembered Jack, a staff member coming out of a car she now realises was Avis' after seeing it today parked in the lot.

Avis sees her expression change as Penny shuts over the folder.

"Is everything OK?"

Penny fakes a smile,"Yes I just need to get going", she stands up, grabbing her things, heading for the door.

“No, something changed. I don't want you leaving until I know you're OK"

Penny stops in her tracks, still facing the door.

“It's just that I know where I stand now. Ace or not, the cards were stacked against me. Maybe if I took you to dreamland I'd still have a job."

Avis' eyes widen, with surprise and anger, she tries to speak. Penny speaks over her as she puts on her gloves and jacket.

"You're the exact same as him, vile" Penny's lip quivers. She knows in saying this she is saying goodbye to her career. She knows the minute she leaves, Avis will make sure every studio in town blacklists her. She doesn’t want any part of this industry if these are people she needs to entertain, regardless of how painful it is to walk away.

Penny opens the door when a hand comes from behind, forcing it shut. She doesn’t know how Avis got across the room so fast but now she’s right at her back.

"Take that back" Despite her calm voice, Penny can hear the hurt hidden in her words.

"Now look who's desperate" Penny moves to open the door again but instead gets pinned to the door, arm twisted behind her back.

"I'll ask again, take that back" her breath tickling Penny's ear. The closeness of the position makes her shudder, Avis notices and smiles.

“So you worked with Jack? How come I never saw you at the pumps?" Avis rests her chin on Penny's shoulder, she tries to pull away, but Avis uses her other hand to hold her shoulder.

"I didn't work there!" Penny protests resting her forehead against the door.

"But you've been?" Avis hums, letting go of her arm, squeezing Penny’s shoulders. Penny subconsciously leans back into the feeling.

"...I interviewed when I first moved here" This pulled a laugh out of the woman at her back.

"Aw did Ernie reject you?"

"No, I just didn't want to deal with certain clientele"

"What clientele? Older men?"

"It was more men in general"

"Well that's a shame" Avis moves her hands from Penny’s shoulders to her waist, feeling the muscles tense as her hands wander. She reaches for the door, locking it, making Penny freeze.

"Turn around Penny"

She sheepishly turns around, keeping herself pressed into the wall trying to build space between them, but as she does, Avis steps closer. No matter where she looks, Avis is there, in her peripheral vision, her perfume and hairspray filling the air around them.

"Tell me, would you have taken me to Dreamland?" Avis pouts, toying with the buttons on Penny’s jacket.

Penny blushes, biting her lip, she shyly makes eye contact with Avis. Having the woman so close and talking so suggestively, makes Penny giggle as she nods.

"And if we take dreamland out of the equation, would you still want it?"

Penny nods more confidently, looking down at Avis’s lips.

"And remember, I can't give you your picture back, I can't help your career at all, would you still want this? Want me?"

Penny looks up to see Avis is now the one avoiding eye contact. She sees a different side to her, a vulnerability she suspects few are privy to. She looks away before Avis catches her staring.

"Yes Mrs Amberg"

"No, call me Avis"

Penny is shocked by the new intimacy but welcomes it, "Yes Avis"

"Good" Avis steps forward, hands on Penny’s cheeks, foreheads touching. Penny moves in more, but Avis pulls back. Penny whines, reaching for the other woman's waist, which is met with a slap on the hand.

"Please.." Penny pleads, rubbing her hand. Avis smiles, bringing the girl's hand to her mouth, placing a soft kiss on the back of it.

"Later. Right now I want you to wait while I finish work. Will you be good for me?" Avis doesn’t need to repeat herself as Penny makes a B-line for the sofa, reaching for the nearest magazine, leg bouncing, desperate for time to move quickly.

Avis watches the scene for a second before making her way back to her desk. The pile of work seems more interesting now that she has something to look forward to once it’s done. Someone to go home with. Who wants to go home with her. How exciting.

..............................................................................................................................

It's done!

This is the first fic I've written in ages so excuse any bad writing or grammar (I have spell checked it but I am only human)

Any feedback or wrtting tips are welcome because this was so much fun. And if I end up doing a part 2 I want to do it justice.

Hope y'all enjoyed <3

#fanfic #wlw #writing #avis amberg #avis amberg x reader #patti lupone #fanfiction #bad grammar is still better than ai

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scary-grace · 1 month ago

Text

still life, with hope (part 2) -- a shigaraki x f!reader fic

You're an art student with a crippling fear of birds and an assignment to create art from life, so when you're assigned to study swans, you're pretty much dead in the water. And there's something strange about the swans you find on a secluded lake, something all too human. As your artwork grows increasingly surreal and your suspicions about the swans continue to build, you can't help but ask yourself the question: Are you losing your mind, or have you walked into the middle of a fairytale gone wrong? Whatever it is, you'd better figure it out fast. Seven lives depend on the answer. (cross-posted to Ao3)

This is for @shigarakislaughter, who requested this prompt from my winter prompt list: hear the fallen and lonely cry out / can you fix me up, can you show me hope. I apologize for how long this took, and the fact that it'll be in multiple chapters, but I really hope you like it! Swan Lake AU, modern setting/no quirks, art student!reader. dividers by @cafekitsune.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

“Well, we’re toast.” Shoko slumps against the wall with a sigh. “He’s going to fail us.”

“He can’t fail us if we complete the exhibition,” Kai says, but even through his mask, you can tell he’s demoralized. “We’re simply out of the running for the actual prize.”

You remember when you thought winning the prize and getting your exhibition added to the museum’s permanent collection was attainable, instead of just something you have to watch Keigo or Mirio or one of the professor’s other favorites get. “I don’t understand why he’s mad at us. What did we even do?”

“You and Kai complained about your subjects,” Shoko points out. You grimace. “But there’s no way he’s this mad at me just for hanging out with the two of you.

As far as you can tell, you and Shoko and Kai have been following the instructions for the Capstone project to the letter, but in the eyes of your professor, the three of you can’t do anything right. His critiques run one way in a given week, then the opposite way in the next, and by the third week you’re in trouble for not including them both. He never picks on technique for any of you, which you guess is a good thing – but, to quote your professor, “It takes more than technique to be an artist.” You never leave the critique period feeling anything but dispirited.

This week’s criticism, leveled at all three of you simultaneously, was twofold: First, that you don’t have enough finished pieces, and second, that you don’t have enough variation in the mediums of the insufficient number of finished pieces you have. Kai is griping about it as you walk to the library. “Seven finished pieces is perfectly reasonable. It takes some artists half a year to complete one work they’re happy with. I should have asked him what he thought an appropriate number would be.”

“He’d have said Keigo’s number,” you say glumly.

“Keigo could sneeze on a canvas and the professor would like it,” Shoko says venomously. “Of course Keigo has a billion pieces. Keigo doesn’t have to work.”

“And he doesn’t have to hike to encounter his subject,” Kai says. “And he can afford all the materials he wants.”

The unfairness is starting to get to you as you climb the steps. “So we’re in trouble because we don’t have enough pieces and they aren’t different enough, but workshop hours are limited, and we can’t even use all of them because we’re supposed to go observe – and we’re supposed to do mixed media with equipment we can’t afford in all the time we don’t have?”

“That’s correct.” Shoko mimics the professor, and Kai snorts behind his mask. “We’re screwed. What are we doing in here, anyway?”

“I’m picking up something. I used that library chat thing and asked one of the assistant librarians if they could help me find a book about swans.”

That’s not quite accurate. You asked if they could find a book on fairytales involving swans. You look around for the librarians. “It should just be a second. They said they would –”

“I am here with the stories you requested,” a deep voice rings out, and you, Shoko, and Kai all jump as the head librarian emerges from somewhere in the shadows. “My apologies for startling you. I understand you spoke to one of my assistants, but he had to leave early. He left me to make the delivery.”

The librarian is smiling. You can tell he’s trying to be friendly. Unfortunately, his friendly is yours and everybody else’s terrifying, and Shoko and Kai both take noticeable steps back. You hold your ground and try to smile back. “There is no book pertaining specifically to swans, but my assistant and I collected all relevant stories and printed them here for you,” the librarian says, holding out a binder. “I heard the three of you discussing artworks. Are you participating in the Capstone exhibition?”

“In theory,” Kai says.

“Not if the professor has anything to say about it,” Shoko mutters. “He’s way more of a hard-ass than I thought. All his Rate My Professor reviews were great. Wasn’t there that one about how his smile looks like Buddha’s?”

“That one was really weird,” you say. You take the binder from the librarian, trying to ignore the way his eyes bore into you. He towers over you, scrawny like a scarecrow. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Might I offer a suggestion?” the librarian asks. “If you are unable to find workshop time during the day, why not find it overnight?”

“That’s not allowed,” Kai says. Then he frowns. “Is it?”

“Check the rules,” the librarian suggests. “The building remains open if anyone is in it, and I believe it’s possible to reserve a space in advance – and of course, while in a school workshop, the supplies and equipment are free to use.”

Kai whips out his phone to check. “It is possible,” he reports. “The only day available is next Thursday.”

“Critique is on Friday. That’ll work,” Shoko says. Her eyes brighten. “We could do it.”

“At least then if we get in trouble again, we’ll know we gave it a shot,” you say. “Book it.”

Kai books the studio, and you turn to thank the librarian for the tip. He’s already gone, faded back into the stacks, and Shoko pulls you out of the building in a hurry. “This could work,” she says to you. “If we have a really good idea of what we’re working on going in, and we make sure we have the materials we need –”

“We should bring food and stuff. So we can just keep working even when we’re hungry.”

“I can bring something to assist as well,” Kai says. He sighs. “As you said. When we’re eviscerated in front of the class next week, at least we’ll have tried.”

You and Shoko head home. You live close enough to campus that you can walk instead of bike, but the air is so bitterly cold that you wish you’d taken the three-second shuttle ride to the edge of campus instead. You’re shivering even after you’ve been inside for fifteen minutes and chugged half a cup of hot tea. “I wish we had a fireplace,” Shoko says. “You know, those giant ones they have in castles.”

“That would be bigger than our whole apartment,” you say. “Not disagreeing, though. I hate thinking about how cold it’s going to be up at the lake tomorrow.”

“You’re going up again?” Shoko gives you a weird look. “That’s not a workshop period. And I know you’ve got tons of sketches and small pieces already.”

“Yeah, but they aren’t good enough, I guess.” You were proud of some of this week’s stuff. Even knowing that the critique wasn’t of the quality of today’s finished pieces, it still stings. “Besides, I bought a bunch of stuff for the swans. They get hungry.”

“Wait, you’re feeding them now? They’re wild animals.”

“Not that wild. Somebody clipped their wings.” When you first saw Spooky’s mutilated wing, you were shocked, sad, horrified. Then you did some research, and had some nightmares about skeletal flight feathers and fingernails and toenails peeled off, and now you’re just really pissed. “They’d fly away if they could, but they can’t. They’re stuck and they’re hungry. I’m going to bring them food.”

“Okay, but theoretically they’ve been eating somehow without you,” Shoko says. “If they were at risk of starving, they’d have starved already with however many winters they’ve spent there. Don’t you think?”

You shake your head. “Clipping wings isn’t permanent. Somebody keeps doing it.”

“So let them feed the swans,” Shoko says, and you glare at her. “Okay! Sorry. Sorry. I just – since when do you like swans? I thought you were scared of them.”

“I am,” you say. “I can be scared of them and care about them at the same time.”

“Okay,” Shoko says again. Her expression takes on a thoughtful cast. “Sorry. I’ve known you since freshman year and I’ve never seen you get this committed to anything except art. Not even when you were dating people.”

You and Shoko have bad luck with dating. She keeps trying, but you’re not as good at getting dates as she is, and even when you do, there’s something missing. No matter who’s sitting across the table at the coffee shop from you or walking with you and reaching for your hand, you’ve never felt the kind of pull towards them you’re supposed to. You yearn, sure. You yearn so much that it’s kept you up nights before, or found you crying in the shower when you’ve gotten home from another date that should have worked but didn’t. You know that feeling must be out there somewhere, or people wouldn’t write so many songs about it. You’ve accepted that it’s not going to happen to you.

But that’s the weirdest thing Shoko’s ever said to you, and you can’t let it slide. “I don’t want to date the swans.”

“I’m not saying you want to date the swans,” Shoko says, laughing. “Just that I’ve never seen you get out of bed at six am to go hiking for anything else.”

You laugh, too, but the thought tugs at you for the rest of the day, until you’re getting ready for bed and it becomes crystal-clear. You change out of your day clothes and into your pajamas, and like you have been every day for the past two and a half weeks, you’re confronted with the question of whether to take off Spooky’s feather, which you’ve been wearing on a leather cord around your neck. It’s a harder question than you want it to be.

At first, you had plans for the feather – using it to make impressions on pottery, or turning it into a quill of some kind and using it to draw. But when you thought about doing anything to change it, it felt wrong. Then you decided just to keep it, to use as inspiration, and left it on your desk in your room. Then on your bedside table. And then, because you kept thinking about it while you were away, you secured it on a cord and started wearing it wherever you go.

Flight feathers are big. Even on a short cord, the feather rests along your sternum, close to your heart. You feel better knowing exactly where it is, but you feel worse for worrying about it so much at the same time. And you have a bad feeling that it’s got something to do with your increasingly weird dreams. They’re not quite nightmares, but they blur the lines. No matter where you are in the dream, you feel uneasy, unsafe. You’re always looking for the swans, but you can never find them. All you can find are shapes in the mist. Human shapes. They never turn to look at you but one of them, and you always wake up before you can see their face.

You can’t prove a connection between the two things. But when you sleep with Spooky’s feather on, you dream. When you leave it on your nightstand, you don’t. And when you sleep with it off, you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, checking to see if it’s still there.

You’ve never come up to the lake at night before, but you follow the path you’ve become familiar with, sit down on the rock you always sit, and you don’t flinch when someone settles in beside you. Some of the swans sit near you now – Spinner, usually, if you’re in the sun, and sometimes Needles – but Spooky’s never come closer to you than he did the day he gave you the feather. The feather that you don’t take off. The feather that seems to pulse with a second heartbeat, alongside your own.

You glance sideways at the swan next to you, not entirely surprised to find Spooky. He has one clipped wing unfolded and he’s yanking at his feathers again. This time, with none of the others here to stop you, you shoo him away. “Hey, don’t hurt yourself. Let me see.”

Spooky takes a halfhearted snap at you, but ultimately he lets you nudge his beak away and inspect his wing more directly. He was pulling at different spots, but your attention’s drawn to the missing flight feather, which you’re wearing. “You didn’t have to give me this. I didn’t want you to hurt your wing.”

Doesn’t matter. Spooky’s voice dry and raspy, rough in the same way his hissing is. You’ve never heard what his call sounds like, and you can’t tell whether you’re imagining it or not. I couldn’t fly even if I had it. It’s better with you.

You’re conscious, again, of the feather against your sternum, and questions flutter against your lips. What are you and the others? Why did you give me this? What do you want? None of them are the one you ask. “What happened?”

You already know. Spooky’s red eyes are locked on yours, refusing to let you off the hook when you shake your head, insist out loud that you don’t. You already know. What are you going to do?

You look hopelessly at him, and a cold wind whisks across the lake. It smells like old earth and dark stone, making you shiver and making your skin crawl, but what it does to Spooky is worse. He flinches, fluffing out his feathers. His body rattles, his neck curving at an odd angle – and then, before your eyes, something about him begins to change.

Before you can see what it is, before you can even come close to processing it, the sound of laughter snaps through the dream, and you come back to awareness all at once. You aren’t at the lake. You aren’t so crazy that you’re talking to a swan. You’re in the studio, at school, and the laughter belongs to your roommate. You and your roommate and your weird classmate reserved a studio, and you’ve been here all night. How long have you been sitting like this? The crick in your neck says it’s been a while, and the weird taste in your mouth says it’s been longer since you drank water or ate anything. You straighten up, get to your feet, and then go to check on Shoko and Kai. Maybe they’ve had better luck than you did.

They’re sitting together on the floor, much closer than you’d have expected to find them, and for a second, you’re not sure what you’re seeing. Once you figure it out, you still can’t believe it. “What are you doing?”

Kai swears and drops the palette he’s holding. Luckily it lands face-up. “Kai thought the textures might look better on a person than a canvas,” Shoko says brightly. “I’m helping.”

Unlike Shoko, who looks pretty comfortable with the fact that she’s sitting there in her bra with her arm and shoulder painted to look like the skin of a banana slug, Kai looks like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “How does it look?” he asks.

“I mean, it looks good –” You just can’t work out what happened. “Is this what you guys were doing while I was out? Paint me like one of your French slugs?”

Shoko laughs so hard she cries. Kai doesn’t get the joke. “It’s her turn to paint me next,” he says. You were talking to a swan in your dreams; your roommate was having some weird tripped-out body-painting fantasy. Just your luck. “What did you do?”

“I made some stuff early on, but I think I got off-track.” You spent some time at the pottery wheel, making seven swan-inspired nested vessels, and you know that adding them to your exhibition will give the professor one less thing to critique you on. You look down at your hands, expecting to still be clutching an unused paintbrush, and find your hands empty and covered in red. “Oh my God –”

“It’s paint,” Kai says. He glances back at the corner where you were working. “You must have made something.”

“Yeah, a mess.” You watch as Kai helps Shoko up, careful to leave her painted arm exposed, and the two of them head for your workspace. “Guys, don’t. There’s not going to be anything worth looking at.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds. Then a few seconds more. “False modesty doesn’t suit anyone, least of all you,” Kai says – then makes an odd, winded sound as Shoko smacks him. “Come explain yourself.”

Your hands are so covered in drying paint that you can barely move your fingers. You draw up alongside Kai and Shoko and stare in shock. There’s not a mess on the floor. There’s a canvas, half-covered with a drop cloth, and it’s not even close to being the only piece crowded around your easel. There are at least half a dozen others, all finished. You blink the rest of the daydream out of your eyes and study all of them, feeling more hopeless with every passing second. “They’re all wrong.”

You painted the swans, sure. It’s clear where your inspiration came from. But every piece you’ve painted has something human about it, subtle enough that only you could catch it or so obvious that it can be seen from the moon. You might be able to lie about the portrait of Gorgeous on her favorite rock, but if the professor looks closer he’ll be able to see the suggestion of a woman, her curves outlined with careful shading and hidden beneath a swan’s feathers. The watercolor of Spinner’s wet footprints on the stone would be fine if the footprints weren’t obviously starting to morph into human ones. You’ve got no excuse for the close-up black-background oil painting of Needles’s beak, open to bite – and full of human teeth. That thing’s going to give people nightmares.

And it keeps getting worse. Everywhere you look, you see clipped wings, skeletal flight feathers, and in Sneaky’s portrait you haven’t even been subtle about the outline of a human hand within the wing. Sooty’s painting doesn’t have any creepy human elements, but you can feel fury leaking through it, so much that Kai, who’s been enthusiastically examining the tooth painting, recoils slightly when Shoko holds it up for him to examine. “Don’t use that one. It’s unsettling.”

“It’s about the only one I can use,” you say miserably. “It’s the only one that’s just a swan.”

“Hang on. What are these?” Shoko is sorting through yet another stack of canvases. Her eyes widen. “I don’t care if these look human. You have to use them.”

You know even before you look at the first one that it’ll be of Spooky, and it is – focused tightly on his head, his red eyes as the centerpiece. Except his eyes are human, with eyelids and lashes that fade into his feathers, and they’re boring right through the painting into your soul. It gets worse with every painting. No matter your medium, no matter the size of the canvas or the style you’re experimenting with, you’re seeing things that aren’t there.

Human hands caged inside ruined wings. A human body straining to run, caught within a swan’s awkward frame. A swan afloat on the lake, a human drowning beneath the surface – and then one that’s barely a swan at all. Nothing more than a man crouched at the water’s edge, wrapped in a cloak of white feathers, his hair so long and white that you can’t tell whether it ends and the feathers begin.

“This is surreal,” Kai remarks. “I didn’t know you were exploring that style.”

“I wasn’t exploring anything. I don’t remember making this.” You don’t remember making any of it, really. When you claw through your memories of the last few hours, you find yourself setting up canvases, squeezing paint onto palettes, switching out your brushes over and over again, but never sitting down and making a choice about what to paint. You look down at your hands and cringe again. “I don’t even know what I was doing with all this red.”

“Fingerpainting.”

“Says the guy who’s painting my roommate like one of his French slugs.” You ignore Shoko’s laughter and study the covered canvas. Unless you were sitting here drinking red paint with your hands, that’s the only place you could have used it. You steel yourself and pull down the drop cloth. “Oh.”

Your hands might be red, but the canvas is black. The scene hasn’t been painted on it – it’s been carved, and you can see red underneath it. You covered this whole canvas in red, painted black over it once it dried, and then etched into it like you were doing sgraffito on a piece of pottery. It would be a really cool effect if you’d drawn a swan. Instead you drew a man on his knees, his back to the viewer, his arms wrapped around himself. He’s clawing at his shoulders, and you can see his shoulder blades erupting through his skin, feathers already sprouting along their edges.

It’s the same man from the last painting you looked at, but while he’s the first thing the viewer’s eye goes to, he’s not the focal point of the piece. The focal point is the enormous, disembodied hand, emerging out of the darkness and poised to come down on him. “That looks like a nightmare,” Kai says after a long, horrible silence.

It is one. Yours. “Maybe don’t use that one,” Shoko says, and you nod. “Everybody awake?”

Awake enough to know you’re screwed. You nod again, and so does Kai. “I’m hungry,” Shoko says. “Let’s eat – and then I’m making you an anemone.”

She’s pointing at you. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, but Kai’s idea looks like fun and I want to try it,” she says. You start to suggest that she should paint Kai instead and she cuts you off. “You’re going to paint Kai. Make him a swan.”

“Why not?” You’re already dead in the water. You might as well seal the deal. “Let’s do it.”

“This is an impressive achievement,” the professor is saying to Kai, and as much as you hate to admit it when you know a blistering critique’s headed your way, he’s right. “You’ve increased the diversity of your exhibition significantly. Focusing on texture rather than milieu seems to have inspired you.”

“Yes,” Kai says after a moment, “it has.”

You’re pretty sure that Kai was less inspired by the texture of slugs and more by the texture of your roommate’s skin, but you’re not going to argue that the stuff he made during last night’s sleep-deprived art spree isn’t good. Shoko got a standout review for her pieces, too, and both she and Kai got better critiques than the professor’s usual favorites. Keigo and Mirio still look a little shell-shocked. You’d feel bad for them if they hadn’t been so smug about it until now – and if you weren’t about to get your ass publicly kicked, too.

Kai sits down with full marks for the week, and then it’s your turn to present your work. You came up with a grand total of two usable pieces, plus your nesting vessels, and although the professor has positive things to say about the vessels, you know you’re in for it when it comes to the paintings. Ultimately, you could only really present the paintings of Sooty and Gorgeous. The others are too surreal, or too far off the subject. Seven vessels, two paintings. There’s no way you’re getting out of this in one piece.

The professor studies your paintings. “You’ve captured the spirits of your subjects quite effectively in these, and you’ve used the features of the setting to draw attention to your subjects, not to obscure them. That’s certainly an improvement from your first paintings.”

It is, but none of what he’s just said is a compliment, and you and he both know it. He’s quiet for a moment. “I rather expected more pieces, given the quantity of art supplies you apparently consumed during your overnight in the studio.”

He didn’t make Kai and Shoko justify their art supply usage. You grit your teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“Uh, professor?” Shoko raises her hand halfway, and the professor turns to look at her. “She’s got more pieces. A lot more. She made more stuff than me and Kai combined.”

“Is that so?” The professor turns back to you, and you stop trying to shush Shoko in a hurry. “Where are the other pieces?”

“In storage,” you say. “They weren’t appropriate for the exhibition.”

“Did they feature swans?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Kai says, ignoring you when you glare at him. “Swans were prominently featured in almost all of them.”

“Then I will be the judge of whether your pieces are appropriate,” the professor says. He gestures at you. “Bring them out.”

You have to make two trips, even with Kai’s help and Shoko’s – and Keigo’s, for some reason. With the too-human set of paintings added in, your output for the studio lock-in is truly absurd, and the professor goes through your canvases one at a time. He doesn’t ask you to explain anything. He doesn’t question why so many of the paintings have suggestions or outright sledgehammer blows of humanity embedded in them. His expression doesn’t start to change until you start lifting the series on Spooky into view. When you reveal the first painting, the one of Spooky’s head with human eyes, he nods. By the time you uncover the second-to-last canvas, the one where Spooky’s more human than swan, your professor is beaming.

“Marvelous,” he says. “Simply marvelous.”

“Sir?” you ask, bewildered. “I don’t understand. I made them too human –”

“Which proves to me that you’ve gained an understanding of them,” your professor says. “Do you remember when you were first assigned swans as your subject? You regarded them with fear and wished to keep them at a distance. These pieces suggest to me that you’ve found ways to connect to your subject on a deeper level, enough to imagine personhood within them.”

Enough to hallucinate personhood within them. You can imagine it perfectly fine on your own, but you would never have put it into an art piece if you hadn’t been in some kind of weird trance last night. “This new understanding of your subjects combined with your technique make this a very impressive body of work,” your professor concludes. “Congratulations, my dear. Consider yourself well in the running.”

He didn’t say that to Shoko or Kai. You’ve never heard him mention the prize to anybody else during a critique. You collect your pieces and sit down again, and when the professor turns the class loose to use the remainder of the workshop time on refining pieces or adjusting based on critiques, several of your classmates come up to you. Keigo’s one of them. “These are amazing,” he says to you earnestly, grinning. “I had no idea you could do stuff like this. I guess I should have been keeping a closer eye on you.”

“Maybe,” you say, and shrug. Spooky’s feather flutters against your breastbone beneath your shirt. “I had to catch a good critique at some point, right?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Keigo leans closer, close enough for you to smell smoke. “Either way, it’s definitely overdue.”

You’d feel more like that if you’d done this on purpose. Any of it. You know it’s your work. When you look at it, you can see your fingerprints on each piece, identify every place when conventional wisdom pointed in one direction and you went the other way. By now, your memory of making them came back completely, except for the most important part of it: Where you got the idea. All you have to go on is the vision or nightmare or whatever it was where you talked to Spooky at the lake. And whatever started to happen to him when the wind came through.

“Oh, come on,” you complain. Needles looks up at you, unrepentant. “Did you have to do that?”

Needles rustles her wings. You could swear she looks smug, but for the life of you, you can’t figure out why she’d be proud of knocking over your water bottle on purpose. And you have a rule about when you leave the lake, one you had to institute to make sure you’re not hiking through the forest in the dark. “I have to go home now. You know that, right?”

Needles honks at you. She looks towards the lake, then towards your water bottle, then back towards the lake. You’ve given up on pretending that the swans can’t communicate with you somehow. “I’m not drinking that. You guys use the lake as a bathroom.”

Needles honks again. This time she sounds offended, and when you try to pick up your water bottle, she takes a snap at your fingers. You don’t want to leave without your water bottle, and you don’t actually want to leave, period. You peer into your backpack, hoping for a spare water bottle. You don’t have one, but you’ve got a box of water purification tablets that Shoko gave you. Those would work, right? You nod and reach for your water bottle again. This time, Needles lets you have it.

While you wait for the tablets to dissolve in the water bottle, you go back to sketching. All the swans have been sticking close today, and you’ve had a chance to draw all of them, Spooky included. Spooky’s sitting still, almost close enough to touch, changing positions every so often, like he knows how long it takes for you to finish a preliminary sketch. As a trade-off for acknowledging that the swans aren’t normal, you’ve forced yourself to stop drawing them like people. There’s something about Spooky’s awkward grace that compels you, whether you’re imagining humanity in your sketches of him or not.

Lake water plus water purification tablets doesn’t taste that bad, as it turns out, and the sun is bright enough today that you’ve started feeling warm. You can feel yourself descending into a trance, sort of like the one you fell into during the studio lock-in, and you keep snapping yourself awake. You see enough weird stuff in your dreams as it is. You don’t want it translating into your sketchbook. Besides, you’d rather draw Spooky the way he is than get all fanciful with it. All of this is weird enough without believing that there might be –

A sudden wash of cold startles you. Startles you awake. You look down at your sketchbook in horror and realize that you’ve been drawing on the cardboard back panel of it for who knows how long. The panel is covered in what you can only describe as doodles – hands, eyes, feet, feathers, overlapping into an almost-incomprehensible mass. How much of your sketchbook did you ruin to get here?

You flip back through the pages, relieved to note that at least some of the drawings are potentially useful. But you’re having to squint to see them clearly. At first you wonder if it’s just residual sleepiness. Then you realize that it’s getting dark.

It’s not just getting dark. It is dark. The last shreds of light are disappearing behind the mountains, and even if you get up right now and run the whole way back to the road, you’ll still be biking home in the dark. Can you even make it through the woods before night actually falls? You grab for your backpack, try to get to your feet, but your hands hit feathers. The swans have you surrounded. There’s nowhere you can put your hands that you won’t be putting weight on somebody’s wings.

They’ve never gotten this close to you before. What are they doing? “Guys, please move,” you say. They stir, feathers rustling, but none of them move. “I have to get home. If I can’t get through the woods before the sun goes down –”

Then what? You don’t know, but the feeling of foreboding that settles over you makes your skin crawl. Rather than moving away, the swans pack themselves in even more tightly around you, Gorgeous and Silly pressed against your back, Sneaky and Spinner and Sooty hemming you in on either side, Needles in front of you to cut off your escape from that direction. And Spooky – Spooky was sitting in front of you, until you closed your sketchbook. Now he gets up, closes the distance between the two of you, and climbs up into your lap.

Your face turns bright red for reasons beyond your comprehension, and your efforts to get up fall apart as your desperation to get Spooky off of you takes precedence. You’ve been thinking a lot about swans – way more than you ever wanted to – but none of it’s ever extended to physically handling them. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you say. Spooky makes eye contact, like he can hear you, like he can understand – and then he settles in. “Hey. No. Come on –”

What are you going to do?

He hasn’t spoken. He can’t talk, because he’s a swan, and it’s only a memory echoing through your head. A memory of a hallucination or a dream, something not real, not real, not real. It can’t be real. You shouldn’t have drunk the lake water. Now you’re going out of your mind for good, and as you struggle to deal with Spooky, the last rays of light vanish, plunging the lake into darkness.

It’s silent for a moment, everything still. And then, just like in your dream, an icy wind stirs up, tearing across the lake. Old earth, dark stone, the kind of chill that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. It’s strong enough to sting your skin, more than strong enough to ruffle the swans’ feathers. But something’s happening to the swans as the wind whips around all of you, forming a vortex with the eight of you at its center. Something awful.

You hear huffs of breath as air leaves their lungs, dry-twig snaps as bones break and bodies deform, the hideous sound of living creatures being reshaped before your eyes. You’ve captured some of this in your sketches, you realize with a surge of horror – but seeing the whole process together, beginning to end, is nightmarish. You’ll never be able to un-see it. And because Spooky is in your lap, you can feel it, too.

As their mouths transform, you hear pained grunts, whimpers of agony as teeth sprout from gums and jaws re-hinge themselves. Feathers retreat back into the skin and feet slough their webbing before splitting and reforming, revealing ankles, insteps, toes. Spooky, somehow still sprawled across your lap, jerks and shudders like he’s having a seizure, his back arching as his spine elongates. The wind picks up even further, full of ice and dirt and grit, and you squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t want to see any more. Hearing and feeling it is bad enough.

The wind dies away as suddenly as it appeared, and everything goes still around you. Still, and quiet, save for the ragged breathing of the seven people sprawled across the rocks with you, all of them naked. Including the one who’s still in your lap. You open your eyes and look down into Spooky’s face. Spooky, who’s human now, white-haired and red-eyed, terrifyingly familiar. You know his face. It’s the one you’ve been drawing, any time you sketch a swan with a little too much humanity.

You recoil as far as you can go, shoving him out of your lap and falling backwards onto Silly and Gorgeous. Gorgeous huffs as air leaves her lungs, but Silly starts protesting. “Be careful! My ribs just got back where they’re supposed to go. Don’t ruin them again!”

“Forget your ribs, what about my hand?” Sooty yanks his hand from beneath yours. You hadn’t noticed he was there. His hand is scarred. Burned. “I told you this was a bad idea. And you – we told you not to sit in her lap –”

Spooky scowls, struggling to pick himself up off the rock. “We told you,” Needles agrees. You were right about her – she looks younger than the rest of them, and she’s a girl. “Women don’t like naked men in their laps.”

“Not strange naked men, at least.” Sneaky’s keeping a respectful distance while he goes through your backpack. The only other one who’s reacting normally to being naked is Spinner, who’s hunched over and facing away from you. “That assault on your dignity is exactly what you deserved.”

Spooky’s scowl deepens. Even in the moonlight, you can see a flush coming up on his pale face, spreading down along the column of his throat to his chest. “We aren’t strangers.”

His voice is the same as the one you heard in your dream – dry, raspy, quiet. You must be losing your mind. “I’m never drinking lake water again.”

“We didn’t want to make you drink it,” Spinner says. “But you had to stay. You had to see. And it only happens at night.”

“I’m cold,” Silly whines. “Can we go inside yet?”

Inside where? “I need to go home.”

“You can’t,” Gorgeous says immediately. “The woods aren’t safe at night. The beast is out there.”

“The beast?” you repeat, incredulous. “What’s the beast?”

“You don’t have to worry about the beast if it’s daylight or you’re past the edge of the trees,” Spinner says. “You’re safe here.”

“But it is cold,” Sneaky agrees. “Perhaps we should move this party elsewhere. I believe you asked at one point where we spend the night?”

You did. You were mainly talking to yourself, because you thought they were swans, and swans don’t talk. “What are you guys?”

“We’ll explain inside,” Needles says. She hops up, and you avert your eyes in a hurry. She makes an impatient sound. “Take my hands and I’ll show you. You can leave your backpack here so it won’t get wet –”

“And you should take your clothes off,” Sooty suggests, getting to his feet. The burns aren’t restricted just to his hands. His hair is white, like most of his plumage as a swan, but you can see where his char markings must have come from. “It’ll be easier that way.”

“Uh, no.” You get to your feet and cross your arms over your chest. “I’m not taking my clothes off. I don’t even know what you –”

“There’s a cave we stay in at night. It has hot springs, so it’s warm. We can only get to it by water.” Spooky’s also picking himself up. He keeps his back to you. “Keep your clothes on if you want.”

“Usually, we’re inside before the sun goes down,” Gorgeous explains. “Rest assured, we’ll be just as cold as you are.”

This is insane. Everything about this is insane. You’re surrounded by naked people who used to be swans, and now they want you to go skinny-dipping in a mostly-frozen lake with them on the promise that there’s somewhere warmer on the other side. Except – you don’t have the equipment to spend the night out here. You don’t know if there really is a beast in the woods, but you do know you don’t want to find out. If you’re stuck here overnight and the swans have somewhere warm to stay, you need to take them up on it. And you don’t want to spend all night in wet clothes.

You keep your bra and underwear on, just so you won’t lose your entire mind, and you follow Needles, Silly, and Sneaky as they lead the way into the water. The first few steps down into the water are painful, but by the time you’re submerged up to your chest, it’s impossible to hold your breath. Or even to move. The cold is that intense and paralyzing. If you have to submerge all the way, you’ll drown.

“Here!” Spinner’s teeth are chattering, but he’s moving through the water better than you are. He gets in front of you and holds out his hands for yours. “Follow me. I’ll help. It’s not far.”

You put your hands in Spinner’s and follow him, putting all your focus into putting one foot in front of the other as the muscles in your legs cramp and lock into place. “Get it together,” Sooty mumbles off to your right, and you glance at him. “Not you. You.”

You don’t know who he’s talking to, but a moment later, Spinner lets go of your hands, and Spooky takes his place. You were pretty bad at coping with Spooky as a swan. Coping with Spooky as a human is a lot harder. His hair is white, like Sooty’s, but his is long, so long that the ends are already trailing through the water. That doesn’t surprise you. That’s the way you drew him, after all. It occurs to you all at once that you didn’t leave his feather on shore with your backpack and your clothes and your shoes. It’s still around your neck on its cord, floating ahead of you in the water.

“Pay attention,” Spooky says, and you realize you’ve been looking everywhere but at his face. “You’ve been looking at us for months now. It should be easier now that you know who we really are.”

“I don’t know who you really are,” you say. Maintaining eye contact, looking into his crimson eyes, feels like a lot right now. You focus your gaze lower, somewhere between his nose and his chin. “I only know the nicknames I gave you.”

“We like those,” Gorgeous says from somewhere behind you. Her teeth are chattering, too. “Most of us do, anyway. You even got Spinner’s right.”

“Wait, really?” That thought is enough to temporarily distract you from the cold, and the brittle grip Spooky has on your hands. “You really go by Spinner?”

Spinner nods. Meanwhile, Spooky is leading you around an outcropping in the rocks, and the water’s almost up to your chin. You tip your head upwards to keep it out of your mouth. Needles’s voice issues from around the other side of the outcropping, echoing strangely. “We don’t pee in the lake,” she says. “We go up on the bank. We’re not gross.”

“Sorry.” You’re so cold you can barely think. “It’s not you. I don’t want to drink this stuff again if it hypnotizes me.”

“It only does what we want it to,” Sneaky says.

“What he wants it to,” Spinner corrects. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

You reach the other side of the outcropping, and see what’s behind it – a cave, tucked between the rocks. The last stretch of water you cross is the coldest, and the deepest, too. You have to swim, your limbs shot through with pins and needles, the lake’s frozen depths sucking at you from below. But then you’re through, passing through the dark maw of the cave underwater with your eyes shut and coming up at the edge of a small, pebbly shore. When you drag yourself out of the water, the air that puffs against your skin is warm.

The cave isn’t dark. There’s bioluminescent moss and fungi growing here and there, and while it’s still dim, you’re able to see well enough to make your way up from the shore to the hot springs. The swans are gathering by the largest of the pools, stepping in one by one, and you join them. All at once the weirdness of the entire situation overwhelms you. It’s seven naked people and you in your bra and underwear, all hanging out in a hot spring in a cave, and those people were swans half an hour ago. “So, um – are you swans who turn into humans, or humans who turn into swans?”

“Yes,” Silly says promptly. “No.”

“We were humans to start with,” Sooty says, annoyed. “Now we turn into swans every morning, and we go back to being human at night.”

“Okay,” you say. “Why?”

It’s quiet for a moment. The other swans are looking at Spooky, so you look at Spooky, too. He’s facing away from the others, head ducked, shoulders hunched. You’d thought the swans were all equal at first, that none of them was in charge, but in spite of the way they were picking on Spooky earlier, they’re all looking to him now. Spooky doesn’t stir. “We’re under a curse,” he says. “It’s my fault.”

Silly punches him in the arm. So does Needles. “You didn’t curse us, Spooky-kun.”

“I didn’t stop it. And don’t call me that. You know my name.” Spooky lifts his head to glare at her, then drops it back down again. His arms are folded on the shore, his head pillowed on them. “My teacher put a curse on them, and I couldn’t stop him. I can’t break it, either. It’s my fault.”

You try to decide if you believe in magic now. If you believe in curses. You’re not sure if you have a choice. There’s no scientific explanation for people turning into swans. “How long have you been like this?”

“A long time,” Spooky says, and your heart sinks. “Someone else explain. I don’t want to.”

“Me! I’ll do it!”

“No,” Sooty says. “I’ll do it. You all can’t explain worth shit.”

Silly scowls. Needles pouts. Spinner and Sneaky and Gorgeous just look tired, and something occurs to you. “How many times have you tried to explain?”

They don’t answer. You sort of knew they wouldn’t, but it was worth a try. Sooty leans back against the side of the pool, his arms crossed over his chest. “Magic exists,” he says. “No one believes in it anymore, but it existed then, and it exists now. Most of us studied under a traveling sorcerer, until he was imprisoned. With him gone, we went looking for a new teacher. Some of us can sense sources of magic. We went looking for a powerful source, and we wound up here with Shigaraki.”

“Shigaraki?” you repeat. Sooty points at Spooky, who doesn’t stir. “Okay. You came here and found Shigaraki. What happened next?”

You learn the swans’ real names slowly as Spooky tells the story. You already knew Spinner’s, but you match names to nicknames – Magne to Gorgeous, Atsuhiro to Sneaky, Jin to Silly and Himiko to Needles. Sooty doesn’t share his own name for a while, and when he does, it strikes you as just as much of a nickname as Sooty is. Not that it matters. Whatever his name is, the story he’s telling is unreal. Unbelievable. Or it would be, if you hadn’t seen the swans transform for yourselves.

When the others came to the old estate and met Shigaraki, they met his teacher, too. They knew his teacher was cruel, but he was kind to them, so they didn’t care. They learned from him, but they befriended Shigaraki, and Shigaraki told them that his teacher was worse than cruel – that he was stealing Shigaraki’s magic to bolster his own, and he’d do the same to them if they stayed. Shigaraki told them to run. They wouldn’t leave unless he agreed to run, too.

“We tried,” Spinner says. Sooty, or Dabi, got bored a while ago and demanded that somebody else finish the story. You didn’t see where he went after he left the hot springs. “He caught us. He said that if we’d left Shigaraki, he would have let us go, but since we tried to take him with us, he’d make sure we stayed together forever. And that was when he put us under the curse.”

“That was almost a hundred years ago,” Magne says, and your jaw drops. “He returns to clip our wings, so we can’t leave.”

“We can’t use magic in our swan forms, so we can’t stop him. He always comes during the day,” Atsuhiro says. “And if we were to try to leave at night –”

“The beast,” Jin says, and shivers in spite of the warm water. “It won’t let us go.”

“The only way we can get out is if the curse is broken,” Magne says. “He gave us a hundred years to try. After that –”

“We won’t turn into people at night anymore,” Spinner says. “We’ll be swans forever, and we’ll forget we were ever people to start with. We have to break the curse –”

“And you’re almost out of time,” you guess. “If it happened almost a hundred years ago –”

“We have until spring,” Dabi says as he walks by, headed for the water’s edge. “Then it’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Himiko says, speaking up for the first time in a while. She sits forward, her amber eyes bright. “We can break the curse. You can help us do it. You will, won’t you? You like us. You want to help us.”

You do. Ever since you saw Spooky’s – Shigaraki’s – clipped wing, you’ve worried about them, wanted to help them, wondered if there was something you could do. “I want to help,” you say, and Himiko beams at you. You remember your painting of her beak, full of human teeth, and shiver. “What do I have to do?”

“You can’t.” Shigaraki hasn’t spoken since he ordered someone else to tell the story. He still won’t look up. “We’ve tried before. People find their way here, and we get our hopes up, and it never works. It won’t work with you, either.”

“You don’t know that,” you say. Shigaraki scoffs. “You don’t. Why don’t you tell me what it is, and then I’ll tell you if I can do it or not.”

Shigaraki won’t answer, and Himiko fills in. Her smile has an anxious cast this time. “You just have to love one of us,” she says. “And you have to be true until spring.”

You sit there for a moment, nonplussed. “That’s it?” you ask, and the swans give you identical strange looks. “I don’t have to go on a quest or anything?”

“You don’t even have to love one of us,” Spinner says. “Just promise to be faithful.”

“And it’s not ‘one of us’,” Dabi says. He climbs down into the pool again, jostling Shigaraki on the way, and somehow you know what he’s about to say even before he says it. “It’s him.”

<- Chapter 1

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hivemuthur · 5 months ago

Text

What was that? - Ch. 14.

viktorxfemale!OFC explicit!

friends to lovers, co-workers, sexual tension up to the wazoo, pinning and banter that got me frustrated when I was writing it, attempt at humour, some angst and a slow burn with a happy ending and a classic Viktor for once

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12. | Ch.13. | Ch.15.

word count: 6,5K

tag: #what was that

author’s note: @rennethen as beta reader and co-author of nsfw scenes. Big decisions are made as we inch toward the ending, more big decisions to come in the next chapter. This one has a bit of angst and making up :')

Cross-posted on AO3

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A crumpled piece of paper stared at her from the desk, almost offensively. Don’t come. Ekko had been very clear about what was happening in Zaun—how they needed help and supplies—and yet, at the same time, he’d written, “Don’t come.” The words, scratched out in haste and frustration, outlined the chaos unfolding in the Undercity, painted in vivid, heart-wrenching detail. He spoke of the Chem-barons pushing harder, of the Grey spreading faster than anyone had anticipated, but it was the final sentence that cut deeper than the rest: Things look bad, but don’t come.

It was an incredibly stupid thing to say to someone whose first instinct was to do the exact opposite.

She knew how to sneak in unnoticed. She knew how to blend into the Undercity’s shadows, how to remain invisible on its streets even while carrying a massive bag filled with meds and supplies. She knew where to leave the packages and how to find Vander if the need ever arose. Her wardrobe even included the most inconspicuous clothes for this exact purpose, and she had practiced her most inconspicuous stroll to match. Yet nobody wanted her to go.

Ekko had told her not to come. Jayce would probably say the same. Was it fear for her safety? Or was it a plea for her to stay out of a war that had already begun to consume everything? Viktor—though he hadn’t said it so firmly—had shown it in his eyes. More than anyone, he didn’t want her to go. He’d all but forbidden her. The same way she had tried to forbid him from using the Hexcore.

Her chest tightened as she thought of his fractured resolve, of the utterly betrayed look on his face when he had found her clutching onto Jayce in the lab. How she had cried her heart out to Jayce, how she had confessed her complete, unfaltering devotion to Viktor. And yet it was Viktor who should have heard those words. Not Jayce. And certainly not like that. Not stolen or overheard in a desperate attempt to turn him away from his goal. He deserved so much better. He deserved to hear it in the safety of their bed, spoken with love and certainty—not anguish.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed the paper on her desk, her mind returning to the fleeting moment when Viktor had said, I am happy. How quickly that happiness had faded, replaced with another want—one far more dangerous and unapproachable than the concept of being loved. Or perhaps, she thought bitterly, they were equally alien to Viktor.

A knock on the door wrenched her out of her own head.

She glanced around her apartment, taking in its natural state of controlled chaos. Papers were scattered across her bed and floor, a few too many cups for one person splayed across various surfaces, clothes draped haphazardly over the chair. A scented candle burned faintly on the table, its singular ember a small, grounding presence in the midst of her internal monologue.

She sighed, stretched—she’d been sitting in the same position for what must have been two hours—and walked toward the door on wobbly legs.

When she opened it, Viktor stood on the other side, and her first thought was whether he had felt the same as she did now when she had shown up at his doorstep after their week apart. She mirrored his movements from that moment, fighting the immediate urge to pull him into an embrace. Instead, she settled for a gentle chin tilt, a silent beckon for him to come inside.

Wordlessly, she closed the door and turned to face him, only to find his gaze fixed on the floor. His trembling hand gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles white with tension. He looked awful—worn, hollow somehow—but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

Before she could form the words to greet him, he suddenly clutched onto her like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.

“Forgive me,” he whispered desperately against her neck, his voice raw and unsteady.

His cane clattered to the floor. Viktor clung to her with so much need, his breathing laboured and erratic, as though every exhale cost him more than he could bear. Renly froze for a moment, startled by the sheer force of his grip, but instinct soon took over. She raised her hands, resting them lightly on his back, feeling the faint tremor coursing through his body. His arms encircled her neck, holding her so tightly it almost hurt, as though letting go might shatter him completely.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice raw, cracking under the weight of his anguish. "I’m so sorry."

Renly’s fingers pressed gently against the fabric of his coat; her touch uncertain but steady. "Viktor," she began softly, but he interrupted her with another broken apology, his words tumbling over one another like a prayer.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered again, the sound of it splintering her heart.

She tightened her hold on him, grounding him as best she could, though she couldn’t understand what he meant. Her mind spun. He did it, didn’t he.

"Viktor, talk to me," she said, her voice calm despite the storm she could feel radiating from him. "I’m here. Whatever this is, you don’t have to carry it alone."

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pressed his face against her neck, his breath hot and uneven on her skin. She could feel his weight bearing down on her, not just physically, but emotionally, as though the very act of standing upright was too much for him.

"I’m afraid," he murmured at last, so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

"Afraid of what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to startle him.

"Of losing you," he admitted, his words breaking into a sob.

The sound sent a sharp pang through her chest. Viktor, who always carried himself with an air of precision and control, now stood before her utterly undone. He was a man stripped of his defences, standing on the edge of a precipice with nothing left to shield him.

"You won’t lose me," she promised, her voice firm despite the tears welling in her own eyes. "I’m right here, Viktor. I’m not going anywhere."

But he only clung tighter, as though her words weren’t enough to break through the crushing weight of whatever he was carrying.

"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice cracking under the strain. "I’ve done something… something I cannot undo."

Her breath caught. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands moving to his shoulders. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, his face ashen with guilt and fear.

"What did you do?" she asked, the question gentle but unyielding.

Viktor shook his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I thought I could… fix—," he said, his words halting, as though even admitting it out loud might unravel him completely. "But I… I made a mistake, Renly. A terrible mistake."

A cold dread settled in her stomach. He did it. At least attempted it. She could feel her hands trembling—not just with fear, but with anger. Betrayal coursed through her veins, sharp and biting. How could he?

The thoughts poured into her mind, gnawing at each other, each one more vicious than the last. He’d gone ahead in his anger, in his stubbornness, and risked everything. Risked his life. Left her teetering on the brink of losing him entirely.

And for what? Because what she offered wasn’t enough? Because her care, her devotion, hadn’t been enough to make him stop, to make him reconsider?

The realisation burned her, stoking the flames of her own insecurities. She could feel the edges of her composure fraying as she stepped back from him, her arms dropping to her sides. The absence of her touch seemed to hit Viktor like a physical blow, his gaze snapping up to meet hers, wide and filled with something that might have been regret—or terror.

“What did you do?” she asked, her voice colder than she’d intended, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Viktor flinched, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of her words pressed him further into the ground. His lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came. His hands hovered uncertainly at his sides, as if reaching for something—her, maybe—but they didn’t move.

“I…” He muttered another apology, his voice barely audible, before finally forcing out the words. “The Hexcore. It… it nearly destroyed me.”

Nearly was an understatement. It had destroyed him—briefly—and then put him back together. Or rather, he had put himself back together with the last ounce of his will, while being consumed and pulled apart in every direction.

In that moment, a fleeting thought had crossed his mind, as one of the possibilities presented to him was an end. An end to his pain, to his indecision, to his fear. A blissful nothing had glimmered faintly before him, just within reach, offering peace and absolution. To become a part of the Arcane, forever forgotten and undisturbed.

Wrenching himself away from it had been the hardest thing Viktor had ever done—until now. Now, standing before Renly, he was faced with something even more daunting: proving his worth to her again. Explaining, somehow, that he had found all the answers he thought he needed, only to realise that none of them mattered without her. Explaining that he had stepped away—not because she was a consolation prize—but because she had always been, and would always remain, his first choice.

Emptiness echoed through Renly’s mind. Her anger faltered quickly, replaced by despair. She had despaired for him so deeply. Part of her wanted to reach back out and shield him from the world, to gather him in and protect him. But another part of her was so deeply wounded by the possibility—one that had never come to fruition yet had still clawed a gaping hole in her—that he had chosen otherwise, even briefly.

She willed her legs to move and passed him wordlessly on her way to the kitchen, granting him only a fleeting moment of her hand resting on his shoulder. She put the kettle on and pulled out two cups to later join her ever growing cup display across the apartment.

Viktor dragged himself behind her, eventually slumping into the chair like a defeated dog. They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity until she finally placed a steaming cup before him and took a seat across the table, facing him directly.

“All right. What happened?”

“Renly, I—” Viktor sniffled, struggling to gather words that would make sense. “I am so sorry.”

“Stop apologising, Viktor. It already happened,” she said, exasperated, her voice tinged with annoyance. But seeing how he shrank under her scolding, she softened, reaching out to take his hand.

“I was so angry,” he admitted, his voice low and trembling. “With you, with Jayce. I suppose I felt exactly how you are feeling now.” He looked up, meeting her eyes with raw vulnerability. “I… I touched it. And it just devoured me. Broke me. Showed me what I could become—and the price for it. And I realised… I hated it.”

Renly held her breath, her hand retreating from his. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Well, slightly,” Viktor winced, his lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s mostly my mind that’s hurt. My pride.” He thought of the way the Hexcore had terrorised him, its merciless grip, and how he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the full truth.

“I can’t believe you threw it all away on a whim,” she blurted, unable to keep the accusation from slipping out.

“It was not a whim!” Viktor’s voice rose, but only briefly, before it broke into a sigh. “It was a promise of something better. For you. For me. Mostly for me,” he admitted, his gaze falling, his thoughts spiralling into incoherence.

“Viktor.” Renly’s tone was heavy, her emotions warring within her. “I can only imagine… No, actually, I can’t imagine what you feel every day.” She stopped him with a sharp look when she saw he was about to interrupt. “I’m so sorry that I don’t know. I was… I was afraid to lose you too.” Her voice cracked, betraying the pain she had tried to hide.

“Renly,” he said, his words weighed down with difficulty, yet he forced himself to continue. “I would understand if this were something you cannot forgive.”

“Viktor, how can you—” she began, but the tears rolling down her cheeks choked the words in her throat. She raised a crook of her elbow to cover her eyes, desperately trying to steady herself.

A hysterical thought shot through Viktor’s mind—that this was their teary goodbye—and for a moment, he was certain he’d start crying as well. He closed his eyes, feeling the heat gathering under his lids, when her hands found him again. Her weight settled on his lap, her face nuzzling into his hair.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, a full-blown cry that dampened his sweater and neck. “You’re so… good, and I haven’t told you,” she said, her voice breaking as she wiped her tears on him. “I didn’t know what I would do if you…” Another sob tore through her, ugly and raw, overblown with all the feelings she had bottled up for far too long.

Viktor wrapped his arms around her, pulling her impossibly closer as he tried to suppress his own tears. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder, and he whispered hoarsely, “I know.”

And he did. He knew it with a clarity that terrified him. That feeling of being so completely entwined with someone else, so dependent on them for a piece of his own happiness—it was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. Never in his life had he allowed himself to need someone like this, to let someone burrow so deeply into the carefully constructed walls around his heart. But he couldn’t fight it anymore. He didn’t want to.

“Will you…” His voice wavered as he pulled back just enough to meet her swollen, tear-streaked face. “Will you have me back?”

Renly blinked at him, her brows knitting together as if she wanted to argue, to challenge him, to tell him just how wrong he was. She’d never gotten rid of him in the first place. But the words didn’t come. Instead, her trembling hands cradled his face, and she leaned in, pressing a sloppy, tear-soaked kiss against his mouth.

“Yes,” she muttered, her lips brushing his as she spoke the word straight into him, warm and raw and final. “Yes.”

Viktor shuddered under her touch, relief washing over him. He kissed her back, softly at first, then with more urgency, needing to feel the truth of her words. It wasn’t elegant or perfect—it was messy and desperate, as he swallowed her tears down as if they were his own.

Wordlessly, Renly took his hands and guided him toward her bedroom, minding all the obstacles along the way, her movements impatient. Viktor stepped carefully behind her, taking in the clutter of random objects. Not much had changed since the last time he’d been there; she had just added more colourful lamps.

Once they had reached the bedroom, she pushed the door shut before pinning Viktor against it, her hands reaching for his neck to pull him into a desperate kiss. He gave away a startled gasp, as she bit his lower lip and slid her palms underneath his shirt. His coat, long abandoned on the hallway floor, left him wearing the same clothes he had worn the day before, and they gave off a faint metallic smell of blood and gear oil from the lab.

Viktor let out a chuckle, as her needy fingers rushed to undo his buttons and rush him out of the layers, scratching his chest with her fingernails by accident. With almost restrained movements, he did the same for her, as if his regard for clothes had vanished, and he only obliged because of her decency in not ripping the fabric right off his back.

With their mouths still glued together, Viktor let his weight rest on her, as he backed them toward the bed, positioning himself to sit first and pull her into his lap. He cupped her face and pulled her in for a tight embrace, his forehead resting in the curve of her neck. He pressed his face into her hair and breathed in deeply through his mouth and nose, hoping to keep her scent with him forever.

Renly ran her fingers down his spine, the bolts embedded in it, as she gently detached all the parts that corseted Viktor’s frame, rubbing her palms flat along the dents and marks it left in his skin. He let out a relieved exhale, as her mouth came back to his into a messy open mouth kiss, his hands pressing on her shoulder blades. Her lips needy, giving away moans of urgency, as if there wasn’t enough of him.

She stood up, guiding him with her, before she leaned down to take off his leg brace with a few quiet clicks and placed it by the bed. Viktor felt her hands sliding down his thigh, her fingers pressing gently around his knee. She then returned to level with him and licked the seam of his mouth as she unbuckled his belt.

Viktor hesitated; his hands travelled to steady hers before she could pull his pants down. There, below the layer of material, was the very proof of his infidelity, of his weakness. The purple, fluorescent vein that burned itself into the fabric of his flesh—a forever reminder of a moment when he almost let himself be corrupted.

She squeezed his palms and broke the kiss with a sigh. Her hands then cradled his neck, pulling him in so she could ghost his forehead, his eyebrows, his eyelids, his moles, the corner of his mouth, the side of his nose, the spot under his jaw, his neck, with her lips. A silent signal of acceptance, of forgiveness, of the fact that nothing had to be forgiven in that moment. Viktor’s hands hovered in the air patiently until her last kiss, when they rested on her hips, curling under the waistband of her pants.

They rid themselves of the last bit of clothing together, Renly’s eyes lingering for a moment on the alien string in Viktor’s body, his own eyes closed as he slid her pants off with the dull movement of his palms, cradling the skin of her legs. Standing close, but not close enough, Viktor reached out to slowly pull her flush against him. Their mouths came together wrenching breaths out of each other, his thumb stretching the muscle of her cheek as he sunk his tongue in her, breathing heavily through his nose, pressing his chest, his groin, his legs to her and her to his chest and groin so he could feel her naked against him.

Renly’s arms cradled his waist, her palms splayed flat on his back pushing him in, her teeth bringing blood onto his tongue. The fleeting moment of loss was gone, but the feeling of it still present, as they met each other truly for the first time—in hunger and longing, both searching for absolution in each other’s bodies.

Viktor lowered himself back to the edge of the bed, breaking the kiss only to sit her on top of his thighs, her legs straddling him tightly. He clung onto her for balance and for kindness, all their rituals previously established now abandoned for the sake of the urgency of feeling one another, sealing all the things that were close to breaking. He searched for consent in her eyes when his cock found her entrance, and she gave him a silent eager nod against his nose.

Viktor pressed himself in and paused mid-movement, noticing a wince cross her face. “Are you alright?” Of all things, this couldn’t hurt—it mustn’t.

“Yes… ah, yes,” she breathed into his mouth, sinking onto him up to the hilt, the stretch so gratifying she could cry again. A quiet ‘yes’ kept falling from her lips as Viktor’s hips thrusted upwards, their lips and noses bumping against each other in erratic rhythm.

She steadied herself, gripping his chin with one hand and his shoulder with the other, letting him take over, when his hand seized her palm and guided her fingers between them, where their bodies met. A bead of sweat travelled from the pool of her collarbones, down between her breasts, down her belly, to where she touched herself for him.

Her brows knitted together, her mouth hung open between quick breaths, waiting for him, when Viktor cranked his neck to rub his face against hers whispering, “Come on my cock, lásko.”

A full body shudder went through her, as she leaned her weight on him, her thighs clutching around his hips, his bones digging into her flesh, her walls clenching and she muffled a cry of completion into his mouth.

Viktor groaned soon after her, the tightness hugging his cock almost unbearable, as he spilled himself inside, caging her body with his arms, his tongue and teeth dragging across her shoulder. He then collapsed them to the side, still buried within her core, his waist resting on her thigh, his legs curled up under her bum, face nuzzled into her neck.

He kissed her again, his arm stretching out to grab the pillows from the bed head, one to tug under her pelvis as he rolled them over onto it, the other propped under his knee as he hooked his leg underneath hers, their bodies still connected. His tongue exploring her mouth, slowly this time, when his cock slipped out of her, and she let out a disappointed gasp.

Splaying his body on top of hers, their stomachs pressed against each other, he kept kissing her until he felt himself grow hard again. Her belly began to raise and fall more frantically, his own abdomen flexing as he propped himself on one arm and spat into his hand. He reached between them to cup her cunt and rubbed it gently, the slick spreading around her entrance.

He gave his cock a couple of wet strokes to then cage himself around her, one hand above her pressed into the mattress, the other entwining their fingers together, pinning her palm next to her head.

Gently and slowly, he entered her again, his movements soft so she could get used to him once more. The feeling of her walls around him washed over his senses, their scents mixing together, his hips rolling languidly against hers with reverence, as her body accepted him fully. In a pledge of utter devotion, Viktor murmured between his gasps, “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” she immediately whispered into his mouth. Viktor was being careful and precise, drawing out her pleasure and prolonging his. He wanted to savour the slide of their bodies melting into one, memorizing every moan that fell between them. Their noses pressed together, breathing heavily, her brows furrowed, mouths agape as their lips brushed against each other with each push of his hips.

His movements grew more intense, though the pace remained the same. Each slow deep thrust he gave her made her gasp quietly, as his cock kept hitting the right spot. He released her hand to slide his palm between them, his fingers finding her cunt, spreading her lips before resting on her clit. He rubbed it lazily, timing the action with the rolls of his hips and building the pressure withing her as her walls begun to clench around him desperately.

Renly dug her nails into his hips, her brows scrunched together, her mouth panting, breathless, and Viktor only smiled and whispered a quiet, “Yes, you are doing so well.” Her thighs squeezed his hips as she reached another climax, her head lifting from the pillow, crying out into his mouth.

He carefully worked her through the orgasm, before picking up the pace of his thrusts to reach his own completion, her name falling from his lips in a quiet chant. Her walls squeezed against his cock, his arms wrapping around her, face buried in her neck, gasping and panting. His movements grew sloppier the closer he got, when he finally spilled himself inside her with a loud groan, his body collapsing onto hers.

For a moment they both breathed heavily, their stomachs connected, rising and falling together. Then, Viktor rolled off her, pulling her with himself to give her a kiss sealing his devotion to her. He withdrew his cock with a quiet sleek sound, letting his seed leak out between them.

He felt her arms tightening around his neck, her breath growing unsteady, and the flutter of her heartbeat. Then he noticed her chest trembling next to his and pulled back to look at her, only to see tears streaming from beneath her closed eyelids.

“Did I hurt you?” was his first instinct to ask as he eased himself out of the vice grip of her thighs to cradle her face against his chest. “Are you in pain?”

“No, no—” Renly croaked, laughing through her sobs as she dampened Viktor’s chest. “I just feel… empty.” Empty of pain, of anger, of the horrible dread she’d felt when he crossed her doorstep. Empty of doubt and insecurities. All the empty space left to be filled with something new.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” she chuckled, trying to wipe her tears away with her hand, but there were too many. “It’s never happened before. I’m so sorry.”

“Lásko, it’s normal. Cry it out—it’s… beautiful,” Viktor murmured against her ear, his fingers combing gently through her hair. He felt his ribcage swell with contentment, a feeling of utter peace flooding his body from head to toe. Her tears felt like a silent confession etched onto the skin covering his heart.

“What is this?” Renly sniffled again, quieter this time, as she began tracing circles in the damp patch on Viktor’s chest, exhaling slowly through her mouth.

“Temperance,” Viktor mused, cradling her to him as though she were a precious gift. “We’ve been… reforged in our heat, tempered in your tears.”

His words left her gaping into the space in front of her, tracing lines between Viktor’s freckles and moles with her fingers. Silence followed for a while. It was comfortable, with something unfolding. Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once.

When a yawn tore her mouth apart, Viktor nudged her gently with his chin and asked, “Shower?”

“Yes, shower.” Renly stretched across the bed, pulling Viktor along with her. She grabbed his hands and pulled them above their heads and pressed her toes on his feet, drawing a low chuckle from his throat.

They did all the things they usually did, but somehow it all felt new again—in a new space, with a new emptiness to fill. Renly let the shower run until the water turned warm and prepared fresh towels for them.

They stepped into the shower together, the steam curling around their skin. The first blast of water hit Viktor’s shoulder, and he winced, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Too hot?” Renly asked with a smirk, already reaching for the handle to adjust the temperature.

“Do you usually scald yourself in the shower?” Viktor teased, the corners of his mouth quirking up despite the discomfort.

Renly rolled her eyes, turning the dial until the water was just shy of lukewarm. “Better?”

“Much better,” he said, his tone playful. “Though I’m still recovering from the trauma.”

Renly huffed a laugh and grabbed a bar of soap from the shelf. “I’m afraid you’re going to smell like a coconut,” she said, holding it up as if presenting evidence of her crime.

“Good,” Viktor replied without hesitation. “I love coconut.”

She grinned, shaking her head slightly before beginning her task. Her hands glided over his arms and chest, the soap lathering into creamy bubbles as she worked. She moved with deliberate tenderness, kneading his muscles as though to coax away every last knot of tension that had taken residence in him. Viktor let his eyes drift shut, exhaling as her hands trailed over his shoulders and down his back.

She hesitated when her hand landed on his thigh, the oppressive purple vein even more visible on his flushed skin. Feeling the hover of her touch, Viktor took her palm in his and kissed her knuckles. “It’s alright.”

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly, and then a thought popped into her head. Of course, it did—it had always hurt.

“No. It just feels… strange.” Viktor pulled her in and wrapped her arm around his neck. “I’ll have to get used to it. It’s a small price.”

When she reached up to wash his hair, he leaned into her touch like a weary traveller finding solace. Her fingers threaded through his damp curls, massaging the soap in gentle circles over his scalp. Every now and then, Viktor caught her hands, pressing a kiss to her fingers and wrists in a gesture that felt reverent. The simplicity of it—the quiet intimacy—made Renly’s chest ache in the best way.

When she finished, Viktor turned her by the shoulders, swapping places with her under the stream of water. He took the soap from her, his hands warm and sure as they smoothed over her skin. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if mapping her anew. The steam curled around them, the water running in rivulets down her back as he pulled her flush against him.

When he reached her hair, his fingers worked through the strands with a skill that surprised her. His thumbs pressed into her temples, eliciting a soft moan as her eyes fluttered shut, rolling back in her skull.

“Good?” he murmured, his voice low and rich.

“Perfect,” she breathed, leaning into him.

They kissed lazily under the stream, the water running between them as their mouths met in unhurried synchrony. Their hands found each other’s skin, not in hunger this time but in care—an exchange of solace, of connection. Every touch felt like a quiet vow, a promise that they didn’t need words to seal.

When they got back to bed, which had been changed by Renly’s insistence—Viktor said he didn’t mind, and he really didn’t—she started to drift off almost immediately. His hands traced the lines of her tattoo, lingering around ‘his place’ in it. After a long pause, he finally took a deep breath and asked, “You’re going to Zaun, aren’t you?”

“Will you hate me if I do?” Renly murmured, barely keeping her eyes open.

“No. Will you let me come with you?” Viktor’s voice was low and steady, though there was a hint of something uncertain beneath it. He truly couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone in there, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her constantly looking over her shoulder to see if he was safe if he went with her.

She shifted slightly, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “Viktor, you know I can’t do that. You will suffocate.” It was a statement that carried no judgment and no guilt. It was just a statement, saying the obvious, and yet—it made Viktor feel like he was just about to suffocate.

He inhaled sharply, but his hand gently found its way to hers, his fingers threading through hers. “I can wear a mask. But… we can talk about this tomorrow.” His thumb brushed her knuckles, a subtle gesture of reassurance. “Just know I’m ready to come with you.”

***

As they walked, Viktor’s grip was tight on Renly’s hand. Their morning was quiet, almost warm, until she made him laugh by dropping half of her sugar dish into his coffee with a smirk. He glanced at her with concern when he saw her putting on her Zaunite clothes, but dared not say anything.

They arrived at the lab together, and Jayce, relieved to see them both, looked up. "Mel fought off the council," he said, almost hopefully. "For now, the Hexcore is to remain as an 'on hold' project. We’re to seal it and put it away." Viktor sighed, a mixture of relief and disappointment flooding through him. Renly placed a hand on his shoulder, cradling his cheek gently with the other.

She moved on to pack a bag with supplies, medications, and gas masks for her trip to Zaun. She felt Viktor’s eyes lingering on her the whole time; she knew exactly what he wanted to do and say, and all the bones in her body ached with that knowledge. Jayce glanced at her and asked, "Are you going?"

Renly replied with a weak "yes," her gaze flicking over to Viktor. He shifted his stance on his cane, his voice soft as he spoke, "Renly… please take me with you. I cannot bear it." The weakness in him tore him apart. The weakness of his body fought the weakness of his pride, and his fragile heart—one that had only just reconciled with Renly’s—beat unsteadily in his chest when he saw her eyes, an apology pouring from them.

"Viktor, I beg you. Please, don’t make me choose," she replied, stopping her packing for a moment. She took his hands in hers. "Because if you make me, I will stay, and you will resent yourself for it."

"I will resent myself either way," he whispered weakly, the shape of his mouth askew as he tried to hold all of his weaknesses back. And even though he knew that none of the options presented to him in his agonizing journey through The Arcane were acceptable, for a fleeting moment, he longed for his body to be whole and able.

"I will go." Jayce’s voice was firm and present, so present, in fact, that both Renly and Viktor turned their necks to look at him.

"Jayce, you can’t—" Viktor shook his head in disbelief. He took a step forward toward Jayce, as if trying to physically stop him.

"I will go, and I will come back—with you." He gripped Renly’s shoulders while making his plea. "I’ll deliver you to Viktor’s doorstep, unharmed, I promise." And that promise was meant for Viktor, as Jayce turned his head to look at his partner.

"I… Jayce," Viktor’s words failed him. He knew, of course, that this was the solution to their conundrum. He admired Jayce so deeply in that moment. And even though his mind still whispered horrible insults to himself, he exhaled a breath of surrender. Because he trusted Jayce.

"I told you. You don’t have to carry this alone. And you don’t have to carry this—" Jayce pointed to the bag, "—alone. This is what I can do." He said, his face painted with a reassuring smile, as all three of them stood in a small circle, as if there was no grave danger before them.

Viktor pulled Jayce into an embrace, his voice barely a whisper as he said, "Please, bring her back to me." Jayce hugged him tighter, knocking the breath out of Viktor’s lungs.

They all packed the necessary items into three convenient bags. Jayce’s hand rested on Viktor’s shoulder from time to time, as if to reassure him he would be true to his word. When everything was ready, they stood before the front door, staring at the floor. Viktor let out one last sigh before kissing Renly deeply, for the first time on full display in front of Jayce.

She squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to his wrists. He rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.” Renly let out a shaky exhale, then opened her eyes and cradled his face.

“Viktor, I admire you. I respect you. I adore you; I love you so much my heart aches.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and kissed him again.

They were startled by a muffled choke coming from Jayce, who had been completely forgotten in that moment. “Guys, this is so beautiful,” he said weakly, pressing his fingers into his eyes, trying to hold back one, maybe two tears.

Renly and Viktor exchanged an embarrassed chuckle, the tension of the moment dissolving. Jayce wiped his eyes, smiling apologetically as he slung one of the bags over his shoulder. “Alright, let’s get moving before Viktor convinces me to restrain you and keep you safe here.”

Renly stepped closer to Viktor one last time, smoothing a hand down his chest. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, leaning in for a final, tender kiss. “Promise me you’ll rest.”

Viktor nodded; his throat too tight to speak. He held her hands in his for a moment longer, his grip unsteady but firm. “Be careful,” he managed to say, his voice breaking just slightly.

Renly squeezed his fingers before letting go, turning to Jayce. He gave Viktor a reassuring nod as if to silently repeat his earlier promise. “I’ll bring her back,” Jayce said softly, the sincerity in his tone like a steady anchor.

With that, the two of them stepped through the door. Viktor stood frozen as he watched them go, his cane trembling slightly in his hand. The sound of the door closing echoed through the room like a final note, and for a moment, he stood there in silence, staring at the empty space where they had been.

The sound of his own sob startled him in the silence. He tried to shy away from it by hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, but it was a futile attempt. His shoulders shook as a full-blown wave of weeping overcame him. The weight of everything—the worry, the helplessness, the love that threatened to swallow him whole—poured out in sobs that filled the empty hallway. His heart, so fragile and raw, cracked under the pressure of letting her go.

He clutched his cane like it was the only thing keeping him upright, tears streaking down his cheeks as he gasped for breath. Viktor rarely allowed himself to cry, but now, in the solitude of the lab, there was no one to witness his unravelling. No one to judge the vulnerability that poured out of him in rivers. For the first time in so long, he let himself feel everything, unrestrained and unapologetic.

He cried out all his anger, cried out his leg, his spine. He cried out the unbearable thought of Renly getting hurt—or worse. He cried out the failure of his dream, the loss of Rio, his lungs, himself—every oppressive thought that gnawed at him, every splinter in every bone of his body. When his throat began to burn, a thought ignited weakly, like an ember. You are good at something. Wiping his tears away, chuckling at the absurd of his outburst, he turned back to the lab and sunk back into work.

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