#dead stars fic

[fatherofpuppets]

So, I read THIS, and my life will never be the same

Go and read it

Right now.

[yinyuedijun]

ZERO-SUM GAME

It’s different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood. (Or: Aventurine wins you in a game of poker. He decides to cash out his prize right then and there—to enjoy you on the card table, laid out among all the chips and cards.)

8.6k words of psychological issues, explicit smut, and deranged characterization. aventurine tops, reader bottoms. public sex, voyeurism from strangers, piv, oral (reader receiving), fingering with gloves on, creampie. mild dubcon but the reader is ultimately into it. afab gn reader, they are playing a fem-coded role for an espionage assignment (dress, heels, makeup). themes of objectification. discussion of slavery and sa during slavery (not explicit). dead dove do not eat, mdni.

You are in the grandest casino of Kinyoshi Moon Colony, and Aventurine is running your latest husband into life-ruining debt.

You aren’t cut up about it. If your marriage (or concubinage, rather) were genuine, you'd maybe be annoyed about the loss of capital. But as it is, this relationship is an assignment from the IPC—one of the longest and most excruciatingly boring yet. Fortunately for you, Aventurine’s presence tonight means that you've finally gathered enough intel for Diamond’s needs. It is time for the IPC to terminate your latest contract, and Aventurine is here to collect you.

Which is a little funny, given your relationship. It is strange sitting across from your boyfriend, draped over another man and thoroughly ignoring him. You’re entirely focused on fawning over your husband instead—laughing into his ear, lighting his pipe and filling his whiskey glass, and oh, Mister Li, you're so funny, you're so clever, I think you should go all in!—but Aventurine doesn't react. He only smiles at the two of you, like he isn't bothered by the sight.

This is, of course, an act: when you came home from your last marriage (assignment), he'd made sure to pleasure you so thoroughly that you forgot all about your ex-husband (mark). Aventurine did not openly admit to any kind of jealousy at the time, but you could tell he hadn't been keen on letting another man touch you. He usually isn't too keen about anyone touching any of his things, in fact. Despite appearances, he always abhors the thought of losing anything important.

But any fears he might have are concealed right now. They’re always concealed. Hidden by the expensive suit, the countless stacks of chips, the golden walls and high-vaulted ceilings of the Venetian Zhijin, Masked by his generous gifts, his easy laughter, his careless frivolity. You can see right through his gilded smile. The rest of the table cannot.

They are all intrigued when Aventurine asks, a playful lilt in his voice, “How about we make this game a little more interesting, gentleman?”

The other players at the table consider him. The other plus-ones—concubines, courtesans, gigolos, and so on—look at him with calculated expressions of cursory interest. You do so as well, but only for a moment. Your gaze quickly returns to Mister Li’s face—your husband is meant to be your true focus, after all, not the game. You are not a player at this table, but an accessory. Closer to an expensive watch than a human being.

Some business magnate from the Triangulum Galaxy leans back and raises a brow. “I'm listening,” he says. You watch a bead of sweat travel down your husband’s neck.

“How about we up the ante,” Aventurine says, his voice light, “but instead of betting more money this time, we bet our dates?”

You think, in other star systems, other worlds, such a suggestion would invite riot. But Kinyoshi Colony being what it is, and the Venetian being the establishment that it is, the other players at the table only laugh. Nearly half of them deal in the trade of human beings anyway—this is nothing novel for them.

“Well,” one of them says, “it’s not like winning more money’s gonna make a difference to any of us.” A round of chuckling. He turns to his date—some noblewoman from Jarilo-IV who seems greatly out of her depth—and says, “What do you think, love? How do you feel about being part of my wager?”

She doesn't like it. She clearly doesn't like it, and she also clearly doesn't know how to say it. Were you not on the clock, you might intervene. Maybe. As it is, though, all you can do is observe quietly. All the power in this gambit lies with Aventurine. Even when surrounded by men who manipulate the wealth of entire cities, planets, galaxies—he remains in full control.

“There’s never any shame in folding,” he says, magnanimous. Then he looks your husband in the eye, smiling conspiratorially. “But I know there are some of us who aren't afraid to take risks.”

Li laughs. “You’re right about that, Mister Aventurine.” He gives you a fond smile. And of course he does—you’re his last shot at winning back all his losses for the night. “I think you'd make a pretty little chip, don't you?”

Although Mister Li is clearly less distressed at the thought of betting you than he was at the thought of betting his company just last round, you notice, out of the corner of your eye, a muscle in Aventurine’s neck twitching. It’s very, very subtle, and he'd have never let himself do it if the table’s attention were on him, but he did it. Perhaps it was involuntary. Your mouth curls.

“Sure, darling.” You try not to sound too giddy. “I’ll be whatever you like.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn't be so happy about this farce. This is, put plainly, a stupid way to extract you from your mission. Were the cards in anyone else’s hands, your husband could win and you might be stuck with him for another several weeks, at least—assuming that you aren't discovered and killed first. Or you could go home with another man and be subjected to the kind of things that men do when they trade human beings, and you don't think the IPC would care too much if you were. You are an asset before you are a person, after all. At this table, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being—and at the Company, you are an overpriced knife.

But to Aventurine, you're a chip in one of his games, and you don't mind that so much. Men who only know wealth will throw around their riches thoughtlessly, but men who have endured poverty will hold onto them tightly—desperately. Aventurine takes care of his luxury watches, his elegant knives, his liar’s dice. His capital. And he never loses anything. He always comes to collect. You trust him to collect you, even with this stupid plan, so you are calm as you watch the dealer shuffle the cards.

The table makes their bets. Most of the players go all-in. A couple fold, perhaps feeling some degree of concern for their partners, but it's more likely that they just have shit hands. A lot of the ones who continue playing have shit hands anyway. Your husband doesn't do too badly—a straight flush. He seems confident.

Then Aventurine lays out his cards. Ten. Joker. Queen. King. Ace.

All hearts.

You have to take a sip of your whiskey to stop yourself from laughing.

Aventurine, himself, has the grace not to look too smug about the outcome. Or maybe it's very unremarkable for him, all these winnings being pushed over to him—poker chips and human beings. Some of the other dates are clearly anxious as they move toward him (they are expected to be loyal to their husbands), and some are clearly excited (they are expected to be frivolous, hedonistic playthings). He humours them all, for a little while. Puts on the usual show as they crowd around him, charms them because it'll be good for business partnerships in case any of their husbands care even a little bit about them. You'd do the same in his shoes. But in your current ones (six-inch heels, black leather, red bottoms, luxury), all you can do is seat yourself on the card table and light up a cigarette. Waiting.

Aventurine eventually sends them all off. All I wanted was to get to know you, he says cheerfully, which is probably not a lie. After they leave, he asks the dealer to close the table and go on break. Turn a blind eye. You raise a brow when they obey him.

How interesting.

You're still enjoying your cigarette by the time he turns to you. You flash him a smile, one of the ones that you use for work. His expression doesn't change, but his thumb brushes against one of his many rings—switching off your synesthesia beacons for some privacy—and he leans back to study you. You know he's admiring you, but it could be mistaken for a leer.

“Well, well,” he says, “If it isn’t the esteemed concubine of Li Fengzhi.”

“The esteemed fifth concubine,” you correct. He hums, looking surprised.

“I thought you were the fourth. Did I misremember?”

“No, just misinformed. He took another concubine right before I arrived on Kinyoshi. He acquired a sixth just last week. Turns out he picks up paramours like they’re strays.”

“How inconvenient.”

“It made no difference to me,” you dismiss. “I’m his favourite anyway, but I’m sure you knew that already.”

“I’d have had to be blind not to notice it. You have the man wrapped around your finger.” Aventurine leans back, studying you as you smoke on your perch. “But before we continue—why don’t you come a little closer, esteemed Fifth Concubine?”

You make a face. “That title doesn’t sound as nearly as flattering in Avgin dialect as it does in Zhijinese,” you note, though you get off the table anyway. You don’t go very far, electing to seat yourself on his lap, your arms draping around his shoulders. The feathers of his jacket tickle at your bare shoulders; the satin of his gloves glide down the skin of your thighs before settling on your calves. “Since you’ve won my company for the night, though,” you sigh, “I suppose I can humour you, Mister Aventurine.”

“Lucky me.” He leans in, his breath sweeping the shell of your ear. His fragrance surrounds you, your body warming at the familiar scent of ambergris and vanilla. You realize, all of a sudden, how much you missed it. You have to stop yourself from pressing your face into his neck and melting—it would be a dead giveaway for your identity and also too revealing of your feelings. Aventurine might be endeared by it, but he might also find it disconcerting. He often needs to be tricked into intimacy.

He does enjoy being wanted though, and he can obviously tell that you want him. He pulls you closer, one of his hands giving your thigh a generous squeeze. It makes you throw your head back in a laugh, exposing the soft skin of your throat. You aren't surprised when he takes the opportunity to kiss it, his lips gentle against your pulse.

“You’re being very forward,” you tease him. “Did you miss me?”

“I’m just trying to be careful,” he defends himself between kisses, his breath warm on your skin. “We should try to conceal our mouths as much as possible. No one can intercept our synesthesia beacons, but someone could still read our lips.”

You give him a funny look. “We’re the only two speakers of Avgin in the known universe. Who could, other than ourselves, could read our—mmph…”

Aventurine has caught the rest of your sentence with his mouth. He’s hungry and wanting for you, the heat of his lips overwhelming. Your tongue is as practised as his, but you find yourself too distracted by your thrill to focus, your kiss wet and eager. Messy. Unprofessional.

You’ve never kissed any of your husbands like this. You’ve never kissed any of your other owners like this. You feel dazed when he pulls away.

You compose yourself. “So you did miss me.”

He smiles. “Guilty as charged.” A gloved hand rests on your face, satin tracing your lips. “How could I not? You’ve been away from the house for so long.”

Your eyes narrow. There’s no idiom for this in Avgin, so you flip briefly to Interastral Standard: “Pot, kettle, black. You leave home all the time.” You smack away the hand at your waist, petty. He looks amused. “And you almost always die.”

He switches out his smile for a pout. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last time.”

“You nearly got yourself blasted with atomics, so yes, I’m still mad at you.”

Now he’s frowning. “Am I going back to sleeping on the couch when you come back?”

“Yes,” you say. His deepening frown is meant to be read as a joke, but you know better. Deciding to throw him a bone, you lean in, whispering playfully into his ear: “You can still fuck me on it though.”

Aventurine hums, as if considering. His hands traverse your sides as he contemplates your suggestion. You move to straddle him, your thighs squeezed around his hips. When you grind against him, you can feel how much he wants you despite his composure, his control—his length straining in his pants, pressed against the silk covering your core.

“I don’t think I can wait long enough to fuck you on the couch,” he says, voice teasing.

“No?” You hum as his hands travel upward, feeling every inch of you. “The ship on the way home, then?”

“We don’t leave until tomorrow. Do you really think I can wait that long?”

You don't expect to feel the warmth of his hands on your chest. Your breath hitches when he starts palming your tits through your dress, neon eyes admiring the curve of them. One of his thumbs skims over the peak of your breast, and his mouth curls when your nipple hardens. “No bra? That's convenient.”

“I—” You squirm in his grip, whining. It just makes you grind against his lap more, your cunt moving against his slacks. A wave of heat runs through your lower half, and you clench around nothing. You can see people from a nearby table glancing at you, doing double takes. You can feel their lingering gazes on you, and you know Aventurine can too.

“I—are you going to”—your voice shakes as he pinches your nipple, as his other hand moves to squeeze your ass instead. Your dress is short—designed for easy access—and his fingertips easily skim the underside of its skirt. You wonder if he’s going to pull it up. You wonder if he's going to go even further than that.

But that would be an absurd thing to do in the middle of the busiest casino in the colony, which also happens to be the busiest trade hub in its star system. It would be absurd even for the two of you. Nevermind the reactions of the other players in the room—the staff here would immediately blacklist you, and so would every other gambling house in Kinyoshi.

You try to calm yourself. “Are you—ah—going to take me upstairs?”

He's fully kneading your breasts now. You can feel your clit throbbing, your body responding to his rough and unrepentant touch. “Hm… I don't think I want to.” Aventurine’s voice drops. His smile takes on a distinctly wicked quality. “I think I'll take you right here.”

“But we’ll get kicked out,” you whine. Even as you protest though, you're panting and moving your hips now. Grabbing at his arms, rutting against him like you're in heat. His fingers hook around the thin straps of your dress, pull them down your shoulders, already starting to indulge despite your reservations. You bend into his touch.

“Kicked out? By who? The staff?” He smiles, as always. “I own the place now. I don't think they'll be giving me trouble.”

“Y—you what?” For a moment, you're too shocked to keep up the wanton show. “You do? Since when?”

“Since last night.” He thumbs one of the straps that's fallen halfway down your arms. The rest of your dress threatens to come down with it. “Technically it's the IPC who acquired it—or, well, their shell company did—but I'm their designated representative here. I signed the contract.”

“The IPC isn’t going to be upset that you're fucking a concubine, who's not even your concubine, on their new property?”

Aventurine shrugs. “They know the kind of establishment the Venetian is. People gamble with humans here all the time, you know, so this has definitely happened before. The IPC definitely expects it to happen again. And besides”—he returns his attention to your dress, starting to slip the fabric down your shoulders—“I'm just cashing out my winnings. I'm sure they wouldn't deny a gambler his vices. That'd be bad business.”

You want to say more, but then he tugs, suddenly exposing you. You’re bare in front of him—in front of everyone. You can feel eyes on you. Heat curls in your gut as he grabs your tits again, his satin gloves smooth across your skin, and your nipples pebble beneath them. “Hm… much better.”

“But…” You bite your lip, glancing around. There are so many people watching now—so many voyeurs, who've forgotten about their games and their slots. Though there are a greater number of people who are continuing as usual, studying their hands, smoking their cigarettes, unperturbed. All regulars and VIPs, you know from your intelligence.

Aventurine pauses as you catalogue the room, raising a brow. Probably he's surprised at your sudden modesty; you usually have none when his touch is involved.

“Of course,” he adds, “if you'd rather enjoy the suite upstairs…”

“No—I don’t mind staying down here… it's just that I’ve never…”

Your voice trails off. Your eyes traverse the space again. There are people who’ve fully thrown their cards down, greedily drinking in the sight of you instead. Even some of the dealers are watching between hands, glancing at you instead of watching for cheaters. Like this is public entertainment, like you're a show.

Aventurine tilts his head.

“You've never had sex with an audience?” he guesses. He sounds surprised—perplexed. You don't know why. You know he knows it's a stupid question. You know he knows the answer.

You had sex in front of people all the time before you met him. You did it for the exact reasons that he’s almost certainly done the same. To this table of business magnates, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being; to the IPC, you are more like an overpriced knife; to this gambling hall, you're an interesting sideshow.

To your captors who fucked you in public, you guess you were something like a toy.

The thought sitting in your mouth is this: you've never had sex with an audience and enjoyed it. It was painful—not painful for the heart or the mind or anything else sentimental, but painful like it felt you were a fish being gutted open by a knife. And even beyond that physical pain, you simply didn't enjoy being passed around. You didn't like being owned by those people. You didn't like being an object for their entertainment, a spectacle to be consumed.

But it's different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You like being his plaything, spread for his viewing whenever he wants. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this commodity code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood.

You want him to own you too. You want him to show everyone that he won you, that he bought you, that you're his possession now. That he, and he alone, is free to treat you like a toy.

You're getting wetter just thinking about it.

“Nevermind,” you whisper. “Let's do it.”

His smile widens ever so slightly. Slyer than usual.

“Good,” he says. He guides you into standing. “Let’s get you settled then.”

You're seated back on the card table. The cigarette is forgotten in the ashtray next to you. Aventurine takes the time to straighten out your dress, lifting the straps back up and affording you some modesty—before he gently lays you out.

You look up at him as you're spread in front of him, laid out next to his royal flush and winnings. Like you're another chip in his stacks, the most expensive one. He puts a hand beneath your leg, drapes it over his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to kiss your calf, his lips delicate.

You glance at the tables around you. You watch the business owners and politicians as they watch Aventurine. You watch them as they watch your boyfriend pepper kisses up your leg, unless he's settling in between them. Your thighs spread easily for him, and you don't resist as he hikes up your skirt.

Then he frowns.

“I’ve never seen these panties before.”

“They’re new,” you relay.

“From your husband?”

“Yup.”

“I see.”

You can't see his face, but he sounds distinctly displeased. You expect him to complain, to say they're not expensive enough or not designer enough or just plain ugly.

You don't expect him to tear them right off.

“Aventurine?!”

You're so surprised you sit up, just in time to see him throw tatters of silk to the floor.

“What?” He looks up at you, expression unbothered, almost mild. “It wasn't your colour.”

Your mouth opens. “But it was still very nice!”

“I'll buy you nicer ones later. I’ll buy you a whole drawer of nicer ones later, when we’re done here.”

He looks down again, humming. Your cheeks flush as he spreads your legs again, baring your glistening sex to him—this time completely bare. Satin glides along the inside of your thighs, and your breath hitches when he reaches their apex. You feel the light touch of a finger along your opening, and you feel your body responding, tightening around nothing.

“Tell me,” he says, “What else did your husband do with you?”

His voice is casual, almost disinterested, but you know Aventurine is listening carefully.

“Not much,” you answer truthfully. “I haven't cum in months, you know.”

“Oh?” He sounds surprised. “You don't have sex with him?”

“No. He's fucked me a lot. It”—you whimper, pausing when you feel his fingers spreading you open, fluttering hole and swollen clit exposed to him—“it just wasn't very good.”

“Then”—you feel a thumb press against your clit, and you swallow—“he never touched you here?”

“N-no.”

“Stupid of him.” He’s drawing slow, lazy circles into the bud now, making you squirm on the table. You press yourself eagerly toward his familiar touch, having desperately missed it for months. Aventurine, perhaps sensing your neediness, asks, “And you didn't touch yourself?”

“He didn't let me,” you whine, and now he's frowning at you.

“I knew I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he says, and you have to bite back a laugh. Aventurine’s mouth curls at the sound, and he leans in to place a kiss on your thigh. “But that’s fine. I'll make it up to you now.”

Aventurine kisses are soft and precise. They pepper a path up your thigh while his fingers continue to play lazily with your clit. You want—need—to feel something inside you, but he doesn't oblige. His fingers merely run along your entrance, teasing your dripping pussy with luxury satin, and that's all they do, even as your hips buck needily toward him.

He pauses for just a moment. When you look at him, you see him staring at you—at the brand on your inner thigh, the commodity code that your captors left on you, branding you as a product to be used and sold.

His voice is almost soft when he asks, “And what did your husband say when he saw this?”

“He never did,” you reply. “He always fucked me from behind. And he never went down on me.” You pause, thinking about the way he spoke of his business. Of his trade partners. Of what your captors had done to your home when you told him about it, feigning intimacy only to be matched in cruelty. You think about the way he fucked you, how it felt to be gutted open on his expensive, silk sheets.

None of it matters to you, really. This is behaviour that you’ve long accepted, that your body always anticipates. But you always like to offer Aventurine intimacy, whether real or feigned, whether he returns it equally or responds with undeserved cruelty: “I think it wouldn't have bothered him if he had noticed it.”

You can't see Aventurine’s eyes, but you can feel his reaction when he places a chaste kiss on your product code.

“I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he repeats. Then he pauses. “Maybe I shouldn't have let you go at all.”

“I didn't mind,” you say. You aren't lying. “You gave me up for a reason.”

He stands. Cups your face with a palm, luxuriant fabric and gold rings pressed against your skin. Sometimes he's given up the aventurine stone temporarily for assignments, parting with it in elaborate gambles that he always manages to win. The way he’s touching you now reminds you of the way he holds the gem whenever it returns to his hand.

“Well,” he says, “I’m sorry it took so long to get you back.”

Aventurine tilts your chin up for a kiss. You meet it eagerly, and it's so tender in its familiarity that every memory of your husband fades. There's only Aventurine, and his gentle mouth, and the way his hands slide your dress down again, how he palms your breasts again. How he teases one nipple with his expensive rings until you're moaning into his mouth. How his other hand travels down until his gloved hand is cupping your heat. You drag your hips against his touch, desperately seeking some kind of friction, your wetness drenching the cloth. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your body aching to be filled by him, aching in a way that it does for no one else.

It’s one of the most addictive feelings you've ever known.

Aventurine only stops touching you so he can push away all the chips, clearing space on the table. He ignores the cacophony as countless stacks fall over, not sparing the plastic coins a single glance. Like you're the only prize that matters to him, even though the sum of his winnings come out to more than you ever were worth.

He lays you out on the table again, flat on your back, exposed, before kissing a path down your body—your neck, your breasts, your stomach, between your thighs. He deigns to give your product code one more kiss, his lips so gentle that it makes you tremble—and then he finally puts his mouth on you. He licks a hot stripe from your dripping pussy up to the crest of your sex, and your eyes close in bliss.

If you felt any uncertainty before this, it's completely gone now. Your hands ghost over your tits, playing with them as Aventurine’s tongue plays with you. He sucks on your neglected clit, fingers squeezing your thighs, keeping you spread open and still for him. He presses in, lets you drag your cunt over his greedy mouth and grind your clit against his face. Heat and pressure coil tight in your belly as he pleasures you, your body flushing with the kind of bliss only Aventurine can give you. You’re so lost in it that you almost don’t notice how quiet the rest of the hall has gotten, the cacophony of chatter and slot machines oddly subdued—almost missing. In their absence, the obscene noises that Aventurine is drawing from your mouth and body are louder than they should be.

The pleasure in your belly is just starting to swell when he pulls away. You give him a pleading look as he leans over you, but before you can start begging for more, you feel his fingers press against your heat. He watches you with keen eyes as he starts rubbing your pussy, maybe enjoying the desperate noises you make at his touch. You buck your hips, moaning as your clit and entrance grind against the fabric of his gloves, seeking friction. You’re empty, aching, desperate to be filled, but you think you can finish like this, just by rutting against his satin fingers—

Aventurine withdraws his hand, and you whine.

“No,” you beg, “please, please keep going, I was getting close—”

He raises a brow, feigning surprise. “Keep going?” He brings up his hand, shows you his gloves. The satin is soaked, shiny and stained with your slick. “I don't think I should. Look at what a mess you’ve made of my gloves.” Aventurine hums, frowning. “These are designer, you know. And limited—there are only 95 pairs of these in the whole universe. And you're ruining them.”

“I'm sorry,” you say, mind so fogged with lust that you can't even return his teasing. “I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you, I'll do anything, just—just let me cum—”

“Anything?” His smile is sly.

“Anything.”

“Well. I suppose if you help me clean this up, I wouldn't mind rewarding you with more.”

You don't need to ask what he means by that. When he holds out his hand to you, runs a finger along your lips, you obediently open your mouth for him. Your tongue slides along the wet satin, only making his glove messier—but he seems not to mind. He merely watches intently as your tongue cleans his fingers, taking in the obscene image of you hungrily lapping your own slick off the expensive fabric.

He lets you ruin his glove thoroughly before finally drawing back, peeling it off.

“I'm not sure that did any good,” he says, frowning. “I’ll probably need to buy a new pair. But”—he pulls away, and you feel him settle between your legs again, his hands spreading them. “I'll still reward you for the effort.”

Aventurine is quick about getting his mouth back on you. His tongue is hot on your skin, expertly teasing your clit. You feel his fingers running along your entrance again, growing sticky with his need. He laughs when you press your hips toward his hand, desperate to be filled.

Then he's pressing his bare fingers into your heat, and your back is arching off the table.

The moan you let out is obscene. It only gets worse when his fingers curl, making the pressure in your belly even heavier. Utterly shameless, you beg for him as he fucks you with his fingers: Aventurine, please, please, I need more, please, I'm so close, I'm so close.

As if taking pity on you, his mouth finds your clit again, his fingers pressing into your sweet spot at the same time. And he doesn't let up, pushing into it even when you think you can't take anymore—tongue swirling against your overstimulated bud, fingers making you gush uncontrollably. You practically sob when you cum, a noise of desperation that echoes in the gambling hall.

His smile looks a little fonder than usual—or maybe just entertained—as he stands again and leans over you. You taste your own release in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, and he strokes your face when he pulls away.

“So good for me,” he praises. “Are you going to let me do more?”

You nod eagerly. “Whatever you like,” you say, all sense of shame gone from your body, “and however you want.”

Aventurine’s mouth curls. “Your husband fucked you from behind, right? Why don't you bend over for me, then? Let's show him how he should have been doing it.”

You see the diamond pupils of Aventurine’s eyes glance off to the side, where, sure enough, your husband is spectating with some of his business partners. You force yourself to turn away before you can smile, hiding your expression from the other men. You’re not meant to derive any real pleasure from any of this, let alone pleasure of the vindictive kind. Your relationship with Aventurine is supposedly nothing but a gambler and his newly won, human plaything. It would be suspicious if you appeared to be anything else.

You slink off the table in a distinctly performative way, and Aventurine plays equally into the show—probably an act as familiar to him as it is to you. He guides you into turning around, your eyes falling on the scattered cards on the tabletop, the casino’s eyes falling on you. His hands waste no time in pulling down your dress and reaching around to knead your breasts, in full view of the rest of the gambling hall. You're only vaguely aware of your audience now, registering the interested, hungry stares, but not really caring. You're too focused on the way that Aventurine is tugging and twisting at your nipples, at how he’s pressed up against your ass, his cock straining through his pants. You grind needily against him, whining.

Aventurine kisses your shoulder. “Poor thing. You've been neglected for so long, haven't you?” His hands retreat, and you hear the sound of a zipper being undone. Then your skirt’s being pushed up and you're being bent over, your dripping pussy fully presented to him. When you feel the press of his cockhead against your entrance, you desperately try to push yourself back onto him. But he doesn't allow you to—only running the tip along your wet folds, still sticky from your release, while he stills you with a gentle touch on your hip.

You make a pathetic, desperate noise. Aventurine chuckles, though there’s now a breathy quality to his voice.

“Be patient,” he chides. “I'll take care of you.”

You know he will. He always takes care of you, in a way that no one else ever has. Even when he gambles your life for some mission, even when he can barely afford you the barest hints of intimacy, even when he displays your body to an audience of slave traders and murderers—he always takes care of you. Even if you are only a knife or a wristwatch or a chip in one of his games, he still treats you like you're worth holding onto.

Aventurine finally moves. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel his cock sliding into you. Usually he needs to be careful after your long missions away from him, knowing you'll be tense. He understands that your body always anticipates being in pain after being touched by other people. But he has you so worked up right now—still dripping from your release, still pliant from his fingers, still eager to please him before the crowd—that your cunt easily swallows his length. The stretch is pure bliss, pleasure unfurling in your body as you're filled up properly for the first time in months. He's just as affected as you, breath shaking as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he breathes—laughs. “Nearly forgot how good this feels.” He pauses, his breathing slowing—almost stopping each time you squeeze around him. You turn back, throwing him a pleading glance, and he meets it with an endeared smile. “Eager today, aren't you?” He hums, a hand sliding along your waist. “You really do need to be properly fucked.”

He's stalling. Trying to give you a moment to adjust, but you don't need it. “Yes,” you encourage him. Aching for the press of his cock against your walls, you grind against him, and you hear a strangled groan as you force him to move inside you. “Please, Aventurine—please, please fuck me, I need it so badly—”

He hums, both hands grabbing your hips, his fingers sinking into you. “Well. Since you asked so nicely.”

The first thrust has your eyes going wide, your hands reaching for the card table as you’re forced to bend over. You spread our palms next to the mess of heart cards and shiny tokens, bracing yourself for the way your body’s about to be used. He doesn't give you time to breathe after, each stroke filling you deep and fast. The rest of the gambling hall grows very, very quiet as Aventurine fucks you, and suddenly all you can hear is the appreciative murmur of the crowd, clink of ice cubes in aged whiskey, the noisy flick of lighters as more patrons opt to pause their games and enjoy the show. You hear the shattering of all the stacks beside you, hundreds of thousands of dollars in chips fall over beside you, tokens clinking as they roll across the tabletop. But all of that is soon drowned out by the wet noise of your pussy being fucked open, the squelch of your slick around his cock. You moan each time he bottoms out, eager to be filled.

When you feel his cock press into your sweet spot, your moans quickly turn into cries.

You hear something like a breathy laugh from Aventurine. Your body always reveals itself so easily to him, and you know he enjoys it. He hits that spot again and again, builds an agonizing tension in your body with every thrust of his hips. It has your pussy gushing around him, your thighs growing wet and sticky with your need.

Just when it feels like you can't take anymore, he reaches down and presses his fingers against your throbbing clit. Your knees buckle as he toys with you, chest heaving against the table as he sets a brutal pace. You're—overwhelmed, mind going hazy as you're fucked mercilessly. So far gone, you can hardly register the disgruntled expression of your husband, the hungry gazes of his companions, the way that other players are starting to shift in their seats, palming themselves at the sight of your pussy being split open. There's only the tight coil in your gut, the chips between your fingers as you grab uselessly for something to ground you, the cock that's filling you over and over and over—and oh fuck, you’re going to cum, you're really going to cum after being won in a game, from having your pussy used like a sleeve, from being watched by men who will never own you no matter how many times they trade you, no matter how many times they fuck you, no matter how many times they pass you around, because you'll only ever belong to Aventurine—

Your orgasm crashes through your body, and you sob.

It's a broken, blissed out noise. Your pussy is equally shameless, gushing as you pulse around Aventurine’s cock. You go limp as he fucks you through your orgasm, uncaring about the mess you're making. He only groans as you squirt all over him, hips stuttering as he reaches his own peak—spilling himself inside you, pumping you full. Aventurine’s body slumps over yours as rides out his high, his face pressing into your shoulder. You find the wherewithal to shift yourself, just enough to your lips against the tattoo on his neck. He looks at you for a fleeting moment, the blue ring of his eyes electric on you, before capture your mouth in a desperate, messy kiss.

The two of you stay there for a long moment, panting into each other. Then Aventurine collects himself, remembers how to talk: “Fuck.”

You piece yourself together just as easily. Maybe even faster. Smiling into his mouth, you ask, “Enjoy yourself?”

“Clearly.” Aventurine presses his lips into your neck, lingering only briefly. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Aventurine takes his time with moving, as if basking in the afterglow—or bragging in it. But he does rise, eventually. Pulls out slowly, making you shudder. He helps you to your feet, lets you hold onto him for support. His spend drips down your thighs as you right yourself, messy and hot on your skin. You can feel it sliding down your legs as you walk, braced against Aventurine as he guides you in the long walk toward the elevator. It slips all the way down to your calves, to your expensive heels, even onto the marble floor.

You're fairly certain that it's not an accident when Aventurine flips up your skirt as you pass your ex-husband. At the very least, it isn't a mistake when you stumble in that same moment, bending over and giving him a good look at your well-used pussy, now overfilled with your boyfriend’s cum. You don't stop to look at him, but you know he must be red-faced, displeased—aware that he’s been humiliated. Beaten by a Stoneheart, concubine stolen by Sigonian, one of his favourite possessions claimed by a former slave. You'd laugh if you could.

You can't help but kiss Aventurine while the two of you wait for the elevator, a smile glowing into his lips.

It's absurd, but a staff member approaches the two of you as you indulge in one another. Aventurine pulls away as you’re approached, looking mildly annoyed as he switches on his synesthesia beacon.

“Sir,” the staff says, “you’ve left your other winnings at the table.”

Even in his post-orgasm bliss, Aventurine responds promptly. “I’ll cash it all,” he says. “Send the money to my room. I'm not coming back tomorrow.”

“Very well. And the terms of the… human resource exchange that just happened?”

Aventurine’s jaw clicks. It's quiet, but surprising. You watch him carefully.

“We didn't bet contracts,” he says. “This is a concubine, not a slave. But tell Mister Li I'll buy them anyway. I'll pay whatever price he wants, which I’d wager is the company that he gambled and lost to me. Maybe suggest that to him.”

“Of course,” the staff member replies, bowing. Despite the first-rate service, Aventurine looks like he can't get out of there sooner enough as he guides you into the elevator. You give him a curious look as the door closes.

“You're going to give up a multiplanetary corporation just for this?” you ask.

“Not entirely. The IPC was planning to acquire it anyway. It'll be ours again in a few months.” He stares at your reflections in the mirror, his strange eyes lingering on your dishevelled form. “We’ll put your intel to good use,” he adds, and although Jade or Diamond or any of your real bosses would say this with a smile and reward you with a bonus, Aventurine’s expression is unreadable.

“What's on your mind?” you ask, fingers brushing against his hand. “You’re worried about something.”

Aventurine blinks, and it takes him a moment to recover.

“Nothing. Just hoping we didn't give our relationship away just now.” He cups your face with a hand, guides you into looking at his smile. A deflection. “I might have gotten carried away.”

You lean into his touch, eyes playful: a performance. As if he's some stranger that you're servicing, a captor being entertained; as if you're a plaything about to be used. As if you expect to be treated like the disposable commodity that your husband just gambled away.

“I wouldn't worry,” you reassure him. “I'm sure after the show we put on, it'll be clear to anyone that you're only keeping me around for sex.”

It's very, very subtle, but a muscle in Aventurine's neck twitches. He'd never allow it in a game of cards, never before the IPC, never before the prying eyes of slavers and killers—but he allows it in front of you. He always unwittingly bares himself to you, even as he swallows his discomfort before adopting his usual, vulpine expression. You don't think anyone else would notice what lies beneath the gilded surface of his smile, his liar’s eyes. You don't think anyone else would notice his tells, his vulnerabilities, his quiet fear of loss.

After all, there is no one else in this universe who knows how to trick him into intimacy.

Winning has always come with a certain emptiness for Aventurine. Gambling is, after all, a zero sum game. He plays a royal flush and people lose their homes. Winner takes all. He survives the fighting pits, his blade dripping red with the lives of other slaves. Winner takes all. He runs from the stench of blood and burning flesh, praying for thunder and rain loud enough to drown the screams of his dying kin. Winner takes all.

He alone survives. He alone enjoys his riches. Ever since the Avgin died, he has always been by himself. There is no amount of coin nor credit that will ever change this.

Here is another unyielding fact that hollows any win: that no matter how many credits he collects, he will always be a chip himself. He will always be a plastic token worth sixty coppers. Gambling is a zero-sum game, and ever since the day he was chained, Aventurine has been the pool of riches divided among winners. He has always been the commodity being traded between hands. He has always been the prize to be cashed out and used. Even now, with all this money and power, it will never be him who comes to collect: it will always be the IPC. Winner takes all.

Such is his fate. Luck is always on his side, but he has always had the losing hand against destiny. No matter how many times he wins, there is nothing that will ever truly belong to him.

But then he met you.

Then he met you, and now his luck does not always feel like such a cruel or empty thing. Now the zero-sum game has meaning. He hedges his bets in the market and buys out a planet, and acquires you along with the shares. Winner takes all. He gambles his life against a nuclear power and comes out on top, and the IPC allows him to keep you by his side. Winner takes all. He plays a royal flush and wins at a table of slave traders, and he gets to fuck you until you can't think of any cock but his own. Winner takes all.

Gambling is a zero-sum game, and when you're the reward, Aventurine wouldn't have it any other way. He’ll never share you with anyone. He'll never sell you to anyone.

He’ll never lose you to anyone.

Sometimes it surprises him, this attachment he feels to you. He doesn't quite understand it, but he thinks it mostly just has to do with how good it feels to fuck you. Much like gambling, Aventurine has never enjoyed sex until you came along. Sex for him has always felt like a humiliation, like being gutted open as a captive animal, like being won and passed around in the grand hall of some gaudy casino.

Which is, in fact, another thing he never thought he'd enjoy: having sex in the Venetian Zhijin before an audience of revolting men. He'd resented having to do it as a slave, but he’d enjoyed doing it with you as a Stoneheart. He'd even do it again if he could—take you over and over again on that card table, fill you up with his cum. Spread your cunt in front of everyone, so they could see for themselves that you were now his. Winner takes all.

Winning doesn't feel empty when you're his reward. Sex doesn't either. Because Aventurine isn't a chip or an animal or a commodity when he fucks you—he's a player. Someone with a seat at the table, as just as wealthy and powerful as the slave traders around him. Someone who’s allowed to own something—really own something.

Really allowed to own you.

Aventurine owns you. When he fucks you, he is a player at the table, and you are the prize he gets to keep. And no matter how you feel about him and how you act toward him—this is all the two of you will ever be. He knows this. He knows that you know it too.

So sometimes he can't fathom it, the way he treats you in bed. The way he always kisses your commodity code when he sees it, the way he allows you to kiss his own. The way he always thinks about pleasuring you until you're drunk on his cock, so addicted to him that you’ll never want to be touched by anyone else. The way he always likes how your body feels when it's being shaped by his hands. How different it feels from being forced to touch other people.

How badly you make him want something that he's always hated.

And this is what he understands least of all: how he doesn't like to hear you say aloud the true nature of your relationship. How he doesn't like it when you accept this reality and say, you're only keeping me around for sex.

It hollows him out when he hears it. A bitter feeling swells in his throat, and he forces himself to swallow.

Aventurine keeps his face neutral as he enters the suite with you. As soon as the door is shut, you pull him close—close enough for him to see the blurred lines of your lipstick, smudged from his mouth; close enough to see the white diamond necklace on your neck, a collar for a concubine; close enough to see the finger-shaped discolorations on your throat, poorly hidden by your foundation.

Close enough to see all the things done to your body by others—all the things you didn't choose for yourself.

“How do you want to have me next?” Your fingertip traces his lips. “On the bed? In the shower?” Your eyes are playful. “Maybe against the window?”

Aventurine’s hand cups your cheek, gold rings pressed against your skin. His hold is delicate, more careful than with anything else he's ever handled—any of his watches, his furs, his jewellery. Even more than with the aventurine stone.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You blink.

“Kiss me?” Your brow ticks up, but then your face lights up in supposed understanding. “Okay. You can kiss me. And then?”

“And then I'll keep kissing you.”

You tilt your head, not understanding. “Really?”

“What? Is that off-limits now?” He leans in, expression playful. “Don't tell me I've got to go back downstairs and win back permission to kiss you from your husband.”

Before you can say anything else—ask anything else, perceive anything else—he presses his mouth to yours. Your eyes widen for only a moment before falling shut, your arms wrapping around his neck. Your lips part for him, and he delights in the noise you make as he deepens the kiss.

He did lie, in a way. The two of you do end up fucking again—this time in bed, your mouth gasping into his as you fall apart for him, wet and needy around his cock. You're so warm around him, so pliable beneath him, so desperate when possessed by him. He knows that he could keep going, that he could do anything to you, that you'd be eager to let him use you however he wants.

But all he does afterward is kiss you.

This is yet another act that he never thought he'd enjoy. Kissing has always felt like a chore or a power play or a manipulation. It has always come with a certain emptiness—just like gambling, just like sex. And then he met you, and now it no longer feels so hollow. Because when he wins bets for the IPC, he feels like a poker chip in one of their games, but when he’s fucking you, he feels like a player at the table. And sometimes, when he kisses you—when he holds you close, when you come down from your high and press your face into the crook of his neck and in the vulnerable haze of your bliss, tell him, I missed you—

—he finally feels like a human being.

end notes: christ alive I have never written anything so horny glddjsksjs. I apologize for both my mid smut writing and deranged characterization 💔

initially this was supposed to be brainless pwp about aventurine eating you out on a poker table but I kept asking myself “why the hell did aventurine gamble for human beings and why are these two insane enough to be fucking in a casino tho lol”, and thus a coherent narrative was born from my shameless lust for this guy! but please also don't take the story too seriously because this is a dumb smut piece first and foremost and I mostly wrote it with my clit 😔✌️

that being said, if you are curious about the subject matter that I covered – here's an afterword expanding on my intentions with the themes.

[brynn-lear]

Yandere rancher!Gallagher vs Yandere cowboy!Boothill over a mail order bride!reader fic when? When I'm done with the event probably-

Tentative fic title: Holding A Wedding On Top Of His Funeral

“Let my spouse go.”

“Or what, eh? Send a herd on my way? Chuck that flimsy shot in my direction? Don't act tuff when I can put a bullet on your skull.”

“You know nothin' about Penacony. Let (Y/n) go. Now.”

“Ha. Well I'll be. Time to get serious.”

[void-of-unparalled-chaos]

Star Shoes

"Things had been going so well for him lately. He should have expected the other shoe to drop. Or the metal pipe in this case."

In which Danny and his totally normal boyfriend who is definitely not Red Hood are abducted by cultists. Danny is super concussed, but he's got the spirit.

@deadonmayn Day 2: Jason Has Magic | Ritual | Danny and Jason are abducted by the same cult | "You were never monstrous to me."

AO3 Link

   One day! Danny had asked for just one day! One day free from ghosts and vigilante stuff! A single day off! Was that too much to ask?

    In retrospect, he should have known something bad would happen. Things had been going too well for him lately. 

   Six months ago he began his degree in astrophysics at Gotham University. Since moving to Gotham, Danny and his apartment had yet to be caught in any sort of rogue attack or crime. It was certainly odd considering he was living in the crime capital of the country, but Danny decided he would take it.

   Most of his classes were able to be taken online, which was much more accommodating for Danny’s schedule. Sometimes a baby ancient of space just had to stretch themselves out amongst the stars and let their form slip. Frostbite said it was important for his development. He even offered to write Danny a doctor's note, but something told him it wouldn’t go over well with the school. 

   Danny Fenton requires up to five days of star exposure per month or else he breaks out in fins and eyes that may cause you feelings of cosmic terror. Please excuse him from lecture.

   Yeah. That would work.

   He didn’t need a note if the lectures were online anyway.

   The online lectures were also easier for him on bad tremor days. Sometimes his legs would ache and shake and randomly lock too much for him to walk. It was so much easier to float on those days and just… let loose. His human visage had begun to feel too small and restricting. He could put up with it normally but it itched. It was harder to stay restrained when he also had to deal with the tremors. Luckily for him, the bad days had been decreasing lately.

    By far the best part of the past six months was Danny’s new boyfriend. Jason was great! Better than great! Jason was amazing! They had only been dating for a month but Danny swore if anything happened to Jason he would kill everyone in Gotham and then himself (again). He had a sharp way with words that never failed to make Danny laugh, and though he may seem rude and grumpy on the outside, he was secretly a big sweetheart. 

   Danny had once seen him cry because of a feral (possibly radioactive) Gotham rat that was “just too small”. 

   There’s really no repairing your facade after that.

   Truly, Jason was everything Danny could ask for in a boyfriend. Danny had worried that the questionable functionality of his legs would be a turn-off, but he had been pleasantly surprised. Jason never pushed him past his limits, in fact, he fought to keep Danny from doing so. On the bad days, Jason would make him soup and drape heating pads over his limbs. He would knead his knuckles into Danny’s muscles and press kisses to his trembling fingers. It didn’t make the bad days stop, but they became more bearable. 

   Danny was so lucky.

   So really, he should have expected the other shoe to drop.

   Or the metal pipe in this case.

   Groaning, Danny struggled to open his eyes. His head hurt like he had been doing shots for twelve straight hours and his mouth tasted like iron. He must have bitten his tongue. Or lost a tooth. They grew back so fast that it was honestly hard to tell. 

  “D…n..”

   Someone was talking.

   “Da…n…”

   Someone needed to shut up. Danny hated that name.

   “D…ny!”

   Ugh. 

   Vision swimming, Danny peeled open his eyelids. This… he was in a pawnshop? Why was he in a pawnshop?

   “Danny!”

   Oh. 

   Jason is here.

   Hi Jason!

   “Hey, baby,” Jason huffed in amusement.

   Did he say that out loud? Fuck. He probably has a concussion.

   “I’d be surprised if you didn’t with all the blood on your head.” 

   Blood? Danny tries to feel his face for it but instead finds his hands bound behind his back. He struggles to free them, not accomplishing much besides wiggling around on the carpet like a sad worm. He pauses once for breath and then resumes his wiggling in earnest.

   Now hypothetically, Danny could just phase out of the restraints. One issue…

   Jason was completely in the dark about the whole Phantom thing. They had only been dating for a month and like- how could Danny even bring that up? 

   Hey, just so you know I’ve died before and I’m technically still dead depending on how you think of it? Apparently I’m also a baby god which is news to me too so if that’s distressing for you imagine how I feel! And while we’re at it, I should let you know that your entire concept of the afterlife is probably wrong. Enjoy that crisis!

   Okay, so Danny wouldn’t use those words exactly but that’s the gist of it. It’s some world-changing information and people have been dumped for less. Danny doesn’t want to scare Jason off!

   And even if he was fine after that conversation, what about Danny’s other form? The one that Frostbite keeps calling his true form? It was… a lot, and he hadn’t been joking about the cosmic terror. If he were being honest, Danny barely felt human some days. 

   Danny allows his head to fall back to the floor with a thunk.

   “Careful, darlin’,” Jason sounded concerned from where he was bound adjacent to him, “I think it's stopped bleeding. Don’t want you to open it again.”

   “It’s fine. Worse than it looks.”

   “...Do you mean better than it looks?”

   “Yeah, that. Head wounds bleed a lot.”

   It really was better than it looked. With Danny’s healing, it was probably entirely gone by now. 

   Jason looks like he is about to say something else when the backdoor opens. 

   In comes the most stereotypical cultists Danny has ever seen in his life. Actually, they were stereotypical but worse. The robes they wore looked plasticy and the black was off with a gross yellow undertone. Overall it was giving purchased off some shitty cheap website vibes. Like Wish. 

   They circle around Danny and Jason so perfectly synchronized that Danny knows they had to have practiced this. He imagines them running through their steps as if they were practicing for a dance recital. Did they have a choreographer?

   “Why would we have a choreographer?”

   Oh, Danny is speaking out loud again. Did he say the stuff about the robes?

   “What’s wrong with our robes?!”

   “I love you, baby, but I need you to shut the fuck up.”

   Understandable. Have a nice day.

   Danny passes out.

   When he wakes up again they are in a different room. Jason is struggling against a cloak’s hold and cursing up a storm in true Jason fashion. The cultists look a little worse for wear. The one holding his boyfriend looks like he might have gotten into a fight with a weedwhacker. 

   “Touch one hair on his head and I’ll fucking kill you!” Jason snarls.

   He’s largely ignored by the cultists who continue with their preparations.

   Danny finally takes stock of where he’s at. He’s still on the floor, but the carpet feels slightly different. The room is bare compared to the one they were in before. A desk and office chair are pushed against the wall to make room for the summoning circle. A summoning circle that Danny was currently resting in. As an offering. Great.

   Flashing lights distract him from their predicament.

   The guy closest to Danny was wearing light-up sneakers. Danny didn’t even know they made those for adults. Neat!

   “Hey man, where did you get your shoes?”

   He can’t see the cultist’s face but he assumes he’s raised an eyebrow with the way the hood crooks to the side.

   Danny genuinely wants to know! The lights look like little stars blinking in the darkness. He has to have them.

   Danny is about to ask again but is cut off by a loud curse. 

   Jason? 

   Jason!

   Danny has to save Jason!

   He growls, eyes flashing for the briefest of moments before he can tone them down. Jason can’t know about Phantom. He’ll have to figure something else out. Actually, he might not need to figure anything out! Depending on who this circle summons this could be a nonissue. 

   Danny cranes his head to look at the circle. 

   Groaning, he allows his head to fall back against the floor for the third time that night. 

   This isn’t just any summoning circle. This is his summoning circle.

   He lifts his head again to double check and yup, these idiots are using him as an offering for himself. Great job. Gold star.

  This is both good and bad. Good because they are in no immediate danger outside of the world’s worst Grim Reaper cosplayers. Bad because Eldritch horror.

   If these yahoos actually go through with the ritual and summon Danny, he’ll be forced into his ancient form in front of Jason. Probably. Danny wasn’t entirely sure that the ritual would work in the first place what with him already being there.

   Danny spends too long thinking about the summoning logistics and not enough time actually stopping it. Before he can come up with a plan the cultists are chanting. He can feel the tug in his chest getting stronger and fins pushing against his skin. This was happening whether Danny wanted it to or not.

   “Jason, close your eyes!”

   “Danny!” Jason was still squirming in Weedwhacker’s hold and valiantly trying to get to Danny. His teeth snapped dangerously close to the cloak’s fingers. Ancients, Danny loved his boyfriend.

   “Trust me, Jason!” Danny yelled, choking down the mist trying to escape from between his shark-like teeth, “Close your eyes!”

   With one last glance to verify that his boyfriend’s eyes are squeezed shut, Danny lets go.

   His very being unravels.

   It feels good to be this big, no longer vacuum-sealed into a too-small bag. The fins along his tail flick, stretching now that they are no longer confined. The luminescent lights travel up and down them as if doing a calibration run. His body parts disappear into fine vapor whenever they move before reforming in their new positions. The very pulse of the universe thrums in his chest. He can feel so much. He can see so much. He lets out a cool, dead, misty breath.

   His eyes open.

   The screaming starts. 

   Danny grins, displaying his sharp teeth proudly. He flies through the air, knocking person after person to the ground. They fall like blades of wheat to a scythe, small and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Just a speck in the eye of a giant. 

   Jason’s eyes are still closed. Good.

   Danny plucks him from Weedwhacker, setting him gently to the side. He can’t stop himself from getting into Weewhacker's face and screeching. He watches with satisfaction as he crumples to the ground seizing.

   The screaming eventually stops, the cultists catatonic on the carpet. Jason’s eyes are tightly shut. He’s breathing heavily, unmoving from where Danny had placed him. 

   Softly, ever so softly, Danny covers Jason’s eyes with his hands, careful not to prick him with his claws. He winds himself up tight, shoving himself back into his body like clothing in an overpacked suitcase. Gradually his claws shrink back into normal human digits. 

   His fingers shake with familiar tremors, still covering his boyfriend's eyes. Danny breathes shakily as Jason’s hands slide over his own.

   “Danny?”

   “Yeah.” 

   “Can I open my eyes now?”

   He swallows hard, mentally preparing himself. Jason’s going to leave. Jason heard the screaming and felt his claws. He’ll see the cultists and know what he’s done. Jason knows what Danny truly is and he is going to leave.

   “...Yeah,” it already sounds heartbroken as it leaves his lips.

   Jason’s hands take Danny’s with care, removing them from over his eyes. He blinks, surveying the room and Danny knows this is it. He’s waiting for the look of horror or sneer of disgust he has become so achingly familiar with. 

   Jason’s eyes meet his own.

   “Hey baby,” He presses kisses to Danny’s quivering fingertips with careful affection. Just like on the bad days…

   Danny sniffles, turning away with watery eyes and grit teeth. He wasn’t expecting this last scrap of kindness from Jason. 

   “No no no,” Jason squeezes his hands with gentle pressure. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt. “Look at me, Danny. Please?”

   Danny’s head pounds, his vision is blurry, his skin itches, and his heart hurts. He just wants this night to be over. But he could never deny Jason. 

    Jason smiles at him, hands coming to rest on his cheeks. He wipes a stray tear away with his thumb, smudging some dried blood away with it. 

   “There you are, handsome.”

   More tears race down Danny’s face. His voice cracks, “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

   “What don’t you understand, baby?” Jason asks, checking his hair for a wound that’s probably already gone.

   “You’re still here.”

   Jason pauses his minstations, “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

   “I-” Danny stops, addled brain thinking. Jason waits patiently for him to form the words, “I’m wrong. I’m not supposed to be like this,” Danny’s not sure how much sense he actually makes between the persistent concussion and rampant emotions, “I’m a monster.”

   The look in Jason’s eyes turned steely, “You're not a monster, Danny.”

   “But-”

   “No buts. You're not a monster. You wanna know how I know?”

    Danny remained silent, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Jason considers him for a minute then continues anyway.

   “I’ve seen monsters before. Monsters do awful things with only themselves in mind. Monsters go out looking for someone to hurt just because they can.” 

   Danny turns to look away again. It doesn’t matter that the timeline is gone or if he’s trapped in a thermos, the very concept of Dan will always haunt Danny.

 “Danny,” Jason redirects his attention, gently turning his face back to him. Danny’s not prepared for the pure unbridled devotion in his eyes.

   “You are the most selfless person I’ve ever met. You go so far out of your way to help others even when it becomes an inconvenience to you. It doesn’t matter if they are a stranger or not. Sometimes I worry you're going to get yourself kidnapped.” 

  Like today goes unsaid. Jason looks like he’s on the verge of tears too.

   “You were never monstrous to me, and you never will be. How could you possibly be a monster?”

   Danny sniffles again, leaning into his boyfriend’s touch. Jason readily accepts him into his arms, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

   “Sorry…” Danny finally mumbles into his… shirt? Whatever Jason is wearing feels hard against his cheek. Danny doesn’t really care. His head hurts too much to think about it, “I shoulda told you.”

    Jason quietly laughs, “Technically you still haven’t told me anything.”

   Danny nods solemnly, wiping the last of his tears away, “Complicated.”

   “Yeah, I get that,” he scoops Danny effortlessly into a bridal carry. 

   Danny yelps as the movement jostles his head. Jason makes a sound of apology.

   His boyfriend’s eyes scan the room again, “How about you explain it all to me when you're no longer concussed? Besides, I have some things I need to explain to you too.”

   “Sounds good,” Danny slurs as Jason walks them to the door.

   They are about to step over the threshold when Danny suddenly REMEMBERS.

   “WAIT!”

   Jason startles, looking around wildly, “What?! What is it?!”

   “The shoes!” 

   “The shoes?”

   “Yeah! The shoes! The star shoes!” 

   “...do you mean the light-up sneakers?”

   Danny pouts at him but nods anyway, “The star shoes.”

   “The star shoes, then,” Jason easily confirms, “What about them?”

   “I need to take em.”

    Jason grimaces, “...Why? I can just buy you your own pair.”

   “No! It’s not the same!” Danny whined, “They summoned me using me as an offering. I didn’t actually get anything!”

   “Okay, I’ll go get his shoes-”

   “My shoes.”

   Jason laughs, setting him down on the table just outside the door, “Wait here.”

   Danny waits. His vision is still swimming in a blur of colors. Colors. He’s pretty sure he can taste colors now. The dull brown carpet is disgusting. 

   Jason remerges victoriously with star shoes in hand. Danny cheers, immediately making grabby hands. Jason passes them over with a look of mild disgust.

   “You ready to go now?”

   Danny bats his eyelashes, throwing his arms (and shoes!) over Jason’s shoulders and around his neck. He presses in to rub his nose against his boyfriend’s, “Take me home?”

  “Of course.”

Danny had the best boyfriend.

[daily-sifloop]

we had housewife loop. now give us housewife siffrin1111 (or you can give us more housewife loop.. thats also an option)

Day 39: griefpilled mournmaxxer

[keyotos]

loved you every single day

summary ⎯ what is love for the xianzhou guys? that's basically it. very sappy and tender and sentimental.

includes ⎯ dan heng, blade, jing yuan

tana's words ⎯ hi...

dan heng

⎯ dan heng had a vague understanding of what love felt like. before the astral express, he never really knew what love really felt like due to memory loss. but he learned, eventually.

⎯ he found love when himiko always offered to make another coffee cup for him (this time, with the blend he enjoys). he found love whenever march/stelle would check on him during the late hours of the night, knowing he'd be buried in books. he found love whenever welt offered to shoulder the burdens of keeping watch during trailblazing missions.

⎯ but he has never felt love like this before. not with you anyway.

⎯ there was a sense of loyalty he had for you. of course, he was obviously also loyal to the crew, but it was different with you.

⎯ you made him want to follow you towards the end of the universe. you made him want to run with you into the light or whatever awaits the both of you later on. he was willing to do all of it.

⎯ why? a lame question to ask, he thinks. there are hundreds of reasons why, and he could list them easily. was your smile and the way it instantly warmed an entire room enough reason? or should he add onto the fact that you were practically made of stardust and cosmic radiance? that you have some kind of miraculous or even transcendental ability to string words so brilliantly that it manages to calm the harshest of voices down?

⎯ and love was scary for dan heng, at first. there were too many hindrances and difficulties in his life. for one, he could not let you get caught up in his past. he wouldn't: he would make sure of it. for two, he wasn't very used to love.

⎯ yeah, there was the express crew. but there was also you. dan heng thought that he would spend the rest of his life alone. he still has not settled into his room on the express because he reasoned that he'd stay until the archives until he was ready to leave. but you challenged all of that.

⎯ how is it that one person could make him want to stay by their side forever? how is it that you have such an enormous effect on him, yet you aren't even aware of it? every wall or barrier he's put up, you've always managed to erode it down. you allowed him to be vulnerable and you allowed him to be carefree. you allowed him to relax. to breathe.

⎯ loving you, was to breathe, for dan heng. you were the gasp of air that he needed while he was drowning beneath the waters. finally being able to decompress and unwind; he felt lighter around you. less stressed, less worried. less stoic. less somber.

⎯ he has never even thought of love like that before he had met you. but you changed him. and he is eternally grateful for that. eternally grateful for you. you are his home, his safe space, his sanctuary of security.

⎯ so he repays you often. he knows what kind of tea you drink and how to make it by heart. he makes a cup for you every morning. you have your own shelf in his archive. hell, you have your own damn space in there as well. there's an indent of you in every corner of every room.

⎯ or maybe, dan heng is so accustomed to you that he sees you in everything.

⎯ he lets you read from his shoulder. he has a shelf filled with all your favorite books from various worlds in his archives. he lets you sleep on his body rather than the flacid mattress on the ground, because he wants to keep you as comfortable as you've kept him. his fingers trace your body every night you stay with him, to ensure that you are safe and you are here, and he is home.

"are you sure you're comfortable like this?" you ask, situated on top of dan heng's body. you're partly afraid that you'll crush him with your entire body weight on him, and that his back would hurt after tonight, "wouldn't it just be smarter to crash in my room instead?"

his chest rises and falls underneath you, getting slower and slower as time goes by, "if you'd like. we can go."

you bite the inside of your lip in thought. it would be safer to do so, for both your and dan heng's safety. but, to be honest, you were very comfortable and tired. "is your back gonna be okay after this?"

"it'll be fine," he brushes off, "besides, you've been sleeping on me for the past few nights now. i can handle one more night."

"huh???"

blade (contains lore spoilers)

⎯ love was something blade has always lived without. as a child, with war and battles as a constant on his homeworld, there wasn't any room for affection or anything similar.

⎯ but then you came along, practically shaking his entire world. there you were, dragging him off to drink god awful mung bean soda. to force him to go outside on days where he was over-occupied with work. to let him enjoy something for once in a while. to let him rub his thumb over yours in the quiet hours of the night, forgetting about work and all other duties.

⎯ he had never thought that loving could be so easy until he met you. it seemed as though time would stop in his tracks whenever he saw you. blade thought it was a myth coming from romance novels (one he had heard from you, ironically enough), but it proved to be, in fact, real.

⎯ and everything was easy. up until everything wasn't. it was one thing, then the other. baiheng passed, jingliu was extremely distraught. it was wearying to see everything go so downhill, so fast. nobody was ever the same after that period.

⎯ yet even after all that, you still had the same look in your eye. you looked at blade the same way you looked at him all those years ago. so much has changed between the both of you, and you know that the both of you would never be able to return to the past.

⎯ though, even after all of that, some things remained the same. for example, the way you never failed to take his breath away. seeing you for the first time in years had him going through a plethora of feelings: distraught, appalled, and slightly less dejected.

⎯ but most importantly, there were still parts of the other's heart still beating for each other. even if you couldn't love him anymore, you still cared about him. you cared about him the same way you did all those years ago.

⎯ you went out of your way to find him. you went out of your way to offer him solace, even if it was for one last time. why? he didn't want to know, he didn't want to ask. he has a mission: he has to pursue it, always. nevertheless, he still found himself underneath the sun's rays, as it managed to follow him wherever, saying, "i'm here. even if you don't see me sometimes, i am still here."

⎯ and if you still cared... well, there was still hope, right?

he's leaning over a rail, looking over the xianzhou skies and the starskiffs racing by. he hasn't been back in ages. it feels... strange; it feels as if he's experiencing his first day all over again.

blade is so fascinated by the sight that he fails to hear your footsteps come closer, now reaching his side. he only hears you after you clear your throat. he's startled, for obvious reasons: but, when he sees you hold up a mung bean soda in surrender, he's surprised at how fast the panic dies down.

"aren't you going to arrest me?" he took a step back from you. you didn't move, but instead held out the drink.

"i could," you dragged out, checking your watch, "but... i'm not on duty," the corners of your lips turn up ever so slightly, like you were happy at the fact that you were having a drink with a criminal. you pull open the tab and take a sip, then offer it towards him.

he blankly stares at your hand. remembers the feeling of it in his. now, his mind is skewed. maybe even grotesque if he wanted to sound dreadful about it. but there are few happy memories he can recall, as well as the feelings during them, and it seems like you are recreating one of them currently. and oddly enough, there are no feelings of bitterness that follow him this time.

he takes and drinks the mung bean soda, and to his surprise, it’s not as bad as it was many years ago. maybe it was because your lips were on it, or maybe it’s because the once atrocious drink did get better. and when he looks up and is greeted by your curious face, he hopes that love is like that as well.

jing yuan

⎯ years ago, if you had asked jing yuan what love was, he'd say something benign: love is indescribable. a simple answer for a simple man in love. but oh, has time took its toll.

⎯ it isn't to say that love isn't indescribable. on some days, he finds it worrying that he may love you too much⎯that his willingness to give you the world was a bit concerning at times. others point it out, but jing yuan chooses to be blindsided. but he is always aware.

⎯ aware. jing yuan is nothing short of perceptive. he has been around for centuries. he has been there for wars, for battles, for decrees. and it sticks with him: forever. he does not simply forget, yet he is forced to stay in one place forever. immorality may be a blessing for others, but a curse for xianzhou natives.

⎯ he does not give himself a moment to fully relax. even if it seems that way a lot (the dozing general needs his power naps), he is always back to his duties.

⎯ however, it's different with you. with you, he has no burdens to shoulder. he has no secrets to keep from you. there is no wall of tension blocking between you. with you, everything is for grabs. his feelings, his emotions, his heart.

⎯ vulnerability. many look down at the vulnerable. and in jing yuan's line of work, the cost of vulnerability comes with a substantial price. his guard has to be up at all costs, because if not, there would be another catastrophe. his act as a lazy general is just a rouse, because there is so much that's weighing on him inside.

⎯ in a city that flies, jing yuan feels rooted by the weight of the luofu.

⎯ so imagine the amount of unconcern he feels when he's around you. the feeling of rocks suffocating him has subsided, and you are here to remove them. and one by one, he begins to feel lighter and lighter as you hull them off.

⎯ and you don't get tired. you're still here. you keep picking off the rocks, even the smallest ones. you relentlessly continue until everything is gone, and the only things left are just you and him.

⎯ by now, he understands what love is. it's when he knows how your fingers have ran through every crevice of his brain, every knot in his stomach, every knot in his soul. it's understanding. it's being able to shoulder the weight of the world with another. it's someone staying to help you get the rocks off of your body.

⎯ love is being met with soft touches instead of daggers. love is being met with mhms and reallys while retelling a story from this morning. love is being able to speak about the past, the truth of it all, and allowing the light to peek through instead of the darkness. that is what love is.

"and then, get this, i found him in the midst of a fight with blade," jing yuan throws his head on your shoulder exasperatedly, disregarding the fact that you were halfway through your novel.

"well, he was doing his job," you counter, looking back towards your lover.

"i know," he slides a hand across his face, "it's just tiring. and i don't want him to get hurt." like others, is the unspoken phrase here. it's on the tip of his tongue, you know it.

you place a bookmark in your book before shutting it. you finally turn your full attention towards jing yuan, "he's strong. you trained him."

"but," he sighs, "what if it's not enough?"

you decide the mood is a little too melancholic, so you decide to lighten the mood a little bit, "then i'll take over as general of the luofu," you grinned. jing yuan smiled as well: your smile was infectious, how could he not?

you ran a hand through his hair, "you are good enough. i hope you know that. you won't fail yanqing. he's tough and stubborn... he sadly gets that from you."

jing yuan chuckles, a real chuckle, and pulls you closer to him as you grab your book once again. he presses a chaste kiss to your temple as he reads along to the same words on a page as you.

yes, things will be okay, he thinks.

hi y'all! i have been sooo busy w sm stuff lately, like i've been preparing for college and i've been going to the gym and i've been doing sm. updates have been scarce except like the 3 alhaitham posts (i couldn't resist). but hopefully during these last few weeks of summer i can get my grind back on!!!

[redbean-nom]

thinking about 17's grievous incident again

(he also sent the pic to Grievous)

shebse interactions once again inspired by @thefoundationproject, because I feel like Priority would have Much To Say about it

and the version without the priority additions

[tossawary]

You know, given all of the cloning and other evil experiments that Palpatine apparently had going on, it's a little remarkable in hindsight that he never targeted Shmi Skywalker personally.

Like, this woman apparently reproduced asexually and gave birth to one of the most powerful Force-sensitives of all time; I don't characterize Sith Lords as having great scientific curiosity or a sense of wonder for the universe (or bothering to remember "little" people exist most of the time), because their whole deal kind of precludes that, but it seems reasonable that one might conclude that there's potential power in investigating this.

If Anakin was friendly with Palpatine for the latter half of his childhood, it seems like it could have been relatively easy for Palpatine to learn things like 1) Anakin's midichlorian count (which he can use to tell Anakin that everyone else is just jealous of his power) and 2) Shmi's situation on Tatooine (which he can use to foster resentment between Anakin and the Jedi Order for not helping Shmi too). Just get Anakin a little frustrated and he'll probably start talking! Palpatine could make some concerned offer to send someone to check on Anakin's mother - it is the least that Naboo can do for the family that helped to save them, the Chancellor might say, but he would prefer that such favoritism remain a secret between them - and then Sidious would have Watto's exact address no problem.

And it's not like it would be hard to kidnap Shmi. Palpatine (as Sidious?) could pick some random bounty hunter and order them to go buy her, because this amount of money is presumably pocket change to him, and if Watto resists selling her off to a stranger, the bounty hunter can claim that they've come on behalf of her son. And if that doesn't work or if Shmi is already with the Lars family, there's always violence. Palpatine can just lie to Anakin and say that his agent discovered Shmi was targeted by enemies of the Jedi Order. Oh, what a shame they didn't protect her!

I don't know what would happen from here. Sidious could potentially contract the Kaminoans as a private, anonymous citizen to research Shmi and see if she'll be useful to him at all; the Kaminoans seem to be in the business of designer babies for specific clients (Jango + my vague memories of some "Clone Wars" comic). Which means that Shmi could be unhappily, awkwardly hanging around Kamino, probably still enslaved, when Jango Fett and the clones business is going on. For years, potentially.

Ideally for the Sith, the Kaminoans would be keeping Shmi in an entirely separate facility most of the time, away from the army intended for the Jedi and the Republic. But Jango might be sent around the planet on errands or something and the Kaminoans might need to use very specific equipment at some points, and I am a fan of grand plans being ruined by chance encounters or workplace logistics, so I think it would be fun if Shmi met Jango or Boba. Maybe Palpatine assumed that the Kaminoans had already disposed of Shmi or were keeping her on ice, due to a badly worded email or something else mundane, because the Kaminoan forgot the right Basic word (it's not their first language!!! or a translator malfunctioned or something) during their space phone call.

There's lots of Canon Divergence directions for this, like more serious angst or drama or thriller horror being imprisoned by a Sith Lord (somewhere besides Kamino) or discovering what's being done to the clones. Shmi could end up being rescued by Jedi and helping uncover Sidious. Or she could have a different tragic ending. (This whole post regarding Shmi and cloning is partially inspired by that one post pointing out that Rey looks a lot like Shmi, and given the strange circumstances of Anakin's birth, any attempt to clone Anakin might have created a clone of Shmi instead. I still think a "Rey as Anakin's clone" is a fun sequel trilogy AU.)

I'm leaning towards fix-it and comedies of errors ideas because the prequels are tragic enough for me. Currently, I'm thinking about Shmi eventually ending up as part of young Boba Fett's gang somehow, because it's amusing to me that he was somehow a recurring antagonistic figure on that TCW show despite being a child. The other bounty hunters are like, "Kid, did you... bring your mom on this mission...?" And Boba Fett is like, "No!!! She's my ship mechanic!!! But if you touch her, just so you know, I will fucking kill you."

I think that both Anakin and Boba would fucking hate being adoptive brothers in any way, shape, or form. And the idea of Luke and Leia someday having an "Uncle Boba Fett" is also very funny to me.

(EDIT: I'm currently dubious regarding a Jango/Shmi ship because Jango does participate in the creation and enslavement of the clone army. Like, it's the Kaminoans who do it, they hold most of the blame and they would have gotten someone else if Jango hadn't done it, but Jango is very much there and at the very least complicit in a horrifying series of crimes against millions of people. Depending on how you characterize Shmi Skywalker, an enslaved woman, I don't really think she'd be cool with that. She let her child go off to become a Jedi because she thought it would be a much better life for him, while Jango sold his own "children" off into war for money. So, I'm currently thinking that Shmi might like the innocent child Boba, but she might honestly dislike Jango quite a lot.)

[mxfrodo]

y'all for fucking real. don't fucking write slave fics or x reader fics of aventurine's slavery??? are you guys out of your goddamn minds???

[strawberryspence]

Yeah, so Eddie realizes he likes Steve when he saw him biting that bat and yeah, Steve realizes he likes Eddie when Eddie called him “big boy”

But the moment they realize they’re in love with the other? That’s what I want to focus on.

Steve falls in love first, because he always does and maybe he’s stupid for letting himself fall in love with Eddie so fast but it’s so easy. Eddie’s so easy to fall in love with, with his stupidly gorgeous hair, his creativity and kindness and resilience. Steve’s never met anyone like Eddie, with his pure uniqueness and weirdness, tied together with loveliness.

He realizes he’s in love with Eddie on a normal Tuesday night, they’re hanging out in Eddie’s room, doing separate things, but comfortable in each others presence. Music is playing softly in the back as Eddie scribbles on a notebook. Steve puts down the comic he’s been reading, trying to subtly watch Eddie and giving up. Eddie’s hair is up in a bun, eyebrows scrunched in concentration, pencil between his lips as he chews on it. He’s muttering to himself, whispering as he jots down new story lines for the new campaign.

Suddenly, Eddie jolts up, meeting Steve’s eyes. “I got it! I know how to end the campaign!” Eddie’s talking so fast, so animatedly, nothing’s loading up on Steve’s head because all he can think about is how Eddie’s eyes lit up in the orange fluorescent bulb, happiness sparkling in his brown eyes.

It’s a mundane, quiet Tuesday night and he wants this for the rest of his life.

The sky is blue, the grass is green and Steve Harrington is in love with Eddie Munson.

Eddie falls in love harder, because just like everything else in his life he goes hard in falling in love and maybe he’s stupid for falling in love so hard with Steve but it’s so easy. Steve’s the strongest, kindest and most generous person he’s ever met. Steve’s heart is a well, that gives and gives and gives to everyone he loves and he has so much love to give.

He realizes he’s in love with Steve on a Saturday night. The kids are in the living room, screaming and pointing at each other as they fight over monopoly properties. Robin, Nancy, Jon and Argyle are upstairs smoking weed. Eddie’s helping Steve clean up the mess from the dinner. There’s no music, no instrumental playing, just the kids screaming in the background and a few laughter from upstairs. Steve’s wearing an apron as he washes the dishes and as Eddie sweeps.

Suddenly, there’s music. Soft, sweet, almost like a lullaby. Eddie whips his head to look for where it’s coming from. His ears find Steve, singing as he dries the dishes. And god, Eddie wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Steve is singing Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper and it’s so far from Eddie’s usual genre but he wants it recorded on a cassette for his van so he can listen to it everyday.

It’s a hot Saturday night and he wants this for the rest of his life.

The sky is blue, the grass is green and Eddie Munson is in love with Steve Harrington.

[p4nishers]

no really ALL im saying is if aziraphale was infront of ME and me only and even gave me a smallest amount of attention i would've already confessed right there. wouldn't have taken me 5 minutes let alone 6000 YEARS. nuh uh. especially if he slutted me out while dressed like THAT in 1793 or rizzed me up in 1941. i may be oblivious but im not dumb as fuck and i would've taken THE FUCKING HINT. unlike SOMEONE. ugh if only i was in crowley's place this shitshow wouldn't have taken more than aziraphale's eyelashes to flutter once and i'm done for the wedding is already in full swing oh lookie here a priest appeared completely out of nowhere how odd how mysterious!! anyway we must not waste this opportunity let's just get over w it for completely normal regular reasons YEP!! nothing to see here just a perfectly regular every day wedding !! like come on man atp u gotta blame urself for wasting opportunities like that

[muyru-iru]

Thíre: Búir decided to take measures into his own hand

Sergeant Hound on the intercoms: what did he do again?

Thíre: he's strangling his boss to "measure" the width of the bullshit he's dealing with.

[weskie]

To Make Your Heart Sing (Albert Wesker x ftm!Reader)

3556 words, fluff, hurt/comfort, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, ftm!reader, top surgery mention, coming out, main character injury, soft wesker, established relationship | Fic Directory

some truths are simply hard to tell. still, they must be told

You tried your best to keep things under wraps.  

RCPD’s human resources department knew of your ‘condition,’ but the file that landed on Captain Wesker’s desk a year and a half ago mentioned nothing of it.  You were just, well, you.  And that’s all you needed to be.  You were hired and the rest was history.

Or it was supposed to be.  Instead, you found yourself getting into the best of trouble.  Make no mistake, Captain Wesker intimidated you to no end.  Suppose that’s why the first time you turned a corner and the both of you knocked into each other left you a stuttering mess while you tried desperately to help him pick up the stack of paper he’d been holding.  The other officers who had been in the adjacent break room had the luxury of watching with bated breath to see him chew you a new one for such a careless mistake.

But he didn’t. 

The next was when you’d overcooked your food in the microwave, leading to a loud, wet pop and spaghetti sauce all over the insides of the machine. To your embarrassment, your captain was beside the coffee pot, brow arched just above the rim of his sunglasses as you sputtered and chuckled your apologies for both the mess and the noise.

You could’ve sworn he smiled.

Then there was that day you’d been running late.  You called the precinct from your clunky Nokia, begging for forgiveness from your captain.  As a peace offering, you offered to bring him coffee from a local shop, stating that it was “so much better than the liquid tar in the break room.”  His silence had scared you half to death, but his acceptance carried the strangest hint of amusement.  Black with two sugars, he’d told you.  When you’d finally arrived and delivered it, he took it directly from you, fingers brushing yours and making your cheeks light up.

That was the first time you’d ever seen more than a miniscule smirk on his face.  

Not to mention that time you’d pulled overtime and, upon entering to deliver yet another report, you’d found Wesker with his head resting atop his folded arms on the desk.  To this very day, you still had no idea what came over you to retrieve your S.T.A.R.S. jacket from your desk and drape it over his back.  You’d returned the next day to find it neatly folded atop your desk with a sticky note that simply said ‘Thank you.’

When the day came that he cornered you in the break room, black coffee with two sugars in hand from another one of your late mornings, you felt like a deer caught in headlights.

“I want to take you on a date.” 

Your eyes practically fell out of your head and your cheeks went up in flames.  You were stunned.  Captain Wesker was into men?  Not only that, but he was into you? You didn’t know what to say, what to do– anything.  You must have sat there blinking with your mouth agape for minutes before he’d finally just hummed, snagged a napkin and wrote his number down for you.

“If you find it agreeable, call this number later.  We can… work out the details then.”  

Looking back on it, he seemed just as nervous in that moment as you felt.  Not that you could blame him.  You figured he must have observed you for a long time to gauge if you’d be receptive to advances from another man, but the risk was still high– rejection, risk of harassment accusations… all sorts of bad outcomes must have been weighing on his mind.  But, that night, you called him.  Awkward as it had been, you both settled on a restaurant an hour outside of the city to reduce the chances of you two being seen by the others from the station, and the rest?  Well, it had progressed slow and steady, but your secret relationship with Captain Wesker, now simply Albert to you when appropriate, had entered its third month.

Which is why you’d grown nervous.

You didn’t know how to tell him.  At some point, things would progress beyond warm kisses and tender touches.  At some point your… anatomy was going to matter.  You wish you would’ve told him before all of this began and saved yourself the potential heartache of losing what had been the sweetest, gentlest relationship you’d ever had.  You worried yourself sick about it, always careful never to wear tank tops or shirts bright or thin enough that the tone of your chest scars could show through.  Your testosterone shots were easy enough to hide, thankfully.

Albert had been nothing less than a pure gentleman throughout it all, never once pushing your boundaries or showing impatience when you’d shy away from things.  Even the night you’d both fallen asleep on your bed consisted of little more than a hand resting atop the small of your back and your face nuzzled against the comforting rise and fall of his chest.

But, try as you might to hide it, Wesker had picked up on your anxieties.

“Have I made you uncomfortable?”  

Your heart fell through the floor the night he’d asked that.  You swore up and down over and over again that it was nothing he’d done and that you were just dealing with something that you didn’t know how to put into words.  He accepted your answer without question, pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and continued reading the file he'd brought home from work.

Your mind always turned to thoughts of how you were going to tell him, distracting you at the worst times.  Which, of course, put you in a situation where you had no choice in how the truth would come out.

The bulletproof vest had saved your life– for the most part, that is.  Gunmen in a hostage situation had released a young girl, sending her out to run toward the blockade.  She was to be a message, clearly, because they fired at her as soon as she got close.

You bolted out to cover her, mind devoid of sense the very moment you saw one of the men emerge from the building.

You took two to the chest with the first simply lodging into the center of your vest.  The other managed to pierce, embedding in your right pectoral.  You’d laid between squad cars and the steps to the bank for god knows how long, shaking fingers applying as much pressure to your wound as you could muster while the sun beat down on you without mercy.  The next thing you knew, you were being thrown into an ambulance and given the good stuff, and you woke up after who knows how long in a hospital bed.

Your first visitors were Rebecca and Jill.  You’d grown closer with them than most of the others– save for Wesker, of course.

“How are you feeling?”

You simply answer Jill with a lopsided smile and a hum, tipping your head back against the pillow.  “Mm, yup.”

“I don’t think the pain meds have worn off yet,” Rebecca giggles from across the room where she inspects the whiteboard covered with hastily scribbled patient information.

“Lucky him.  Should let Captain Wesker know he’s at least feeling good when we go back.  He’s…”  Jill turns to you with a sweet smile, clearly pondering her words.  “Distraught is a… is a word for how he is right now..”

That, of course, breaks your heart.  He was there when it happened.  Albert saw you go down.  Silly you, covering the girl they’d released…

Your eyelids grow heavier as time goes by, eventually slipping shut while you bask in their company.  When they open again, you’ve got two nurses at your bedside.  Even in your dazed state, you can put two and two together.  Just a change of bandages…

“Hi, sweetheart!” Chirps the woman closest to you while she peels away tape and gauze.  “You bled through so we’re just cleaning you up, okay?”

You simply nod and stare up at the ceiling.  It doesn’t hurt, thankfully, and the only thing you feel is cold air on your chest.  Part of you shudders.  Medical settings could be… complicated with your unique condition.  But you try not to anticipate the worst.

Oh how wrong you are.

“You can come in,” says the other nurse.  “Just replacing his bandages.  We’ll be out in a few.”

The hum in response yanks you from whatever blissful stupor the pain meds had lulled you into and you shoot up in the bed, shocking the nurse tending your wound.

“Careful, baby! You’ll tear your stitches–”

You barely hear her, nor do you feel her hands attempting to coax you back to the bed.  You go down, but not before locking eyes with your one and only.

Fuck…

They’ve got the top of your gown off and there’s no way–

You swallow thickly as your throat closes with a wave of shame.  You shut your eyes to hide the tears gathering within them, listening intently as Wesker’s nearly silent footsteps come to a halt on the other side of your bed.  He sees you.  There’s no way he doesn’t.  He’ll have questions.  Fuck, maybe he’ll just know outright.  Wesker’s a smart man…

You should’ve told him.

You keep your eyes screwed shut for what feels like eternity, even after the door clicks and the nurses leave you to each other’s company.  Neither of you says a word and it’s nearly pure silence until you hear the drag of a chair.  You just about jump out of your skin when his fingertips graze your knuckles, but they don’t retreat.  Instead, he takes your hand in his, lifts it, and presses kiss after kiss to it.

Your eyes crack open, vision bleary from tears and clearing as they spill.  You find him looking at you with furrowed brows and some painful combination of worry and relief written across his face.  His glasses are hooked on his shirt, showing you icy blues with a touch of red in the surrounding scleras. 

“How do you feel?”  His voice is as calm as ever, but, for once, his expression betrays him.

“Like I got shot,” you rasp.  You crack the tiniest smile despite the swirling dread and anxiety filling you to the brim.  You observe him for a minute, looking for something, anything to confirm your fears.

You find nothing.

“Indeed,” he hums, lips twitching at the corners.  “I’m glad you’re in good spirits despite the tears.”

You give a weepy chuckle that turns to tight sobs.  You feel so helpless and pathetic.  You’d almost died and now your little secret had been put on wide display for him.  Part of you figures this is just the universe’s way of telling you to get on with it.  Just finally rip the bandaid off.

You suddenly start to rise from your flat position.  Wesker watches you for signs of discomfort, taking his finger off the bed controls only once you were upright and–

Oh fuck– no, no, no!

They hadn’t buttoned your gown earlier.  The front section falls forward and you scramble to push it back up, holding it in place as you clench your eyes shut and bite your tongue.  His hand leaves yours and your stomach drops, ice shooting through your veins. For a minute, you think he’s leaving, but then–

Snap.  Snap.  Snap.

Your eyes widen, gaze falling to the hands working to pinch together the little buttons that run along the seam at your shoulder.  Wesker leans across you just slightly to repeat the process on the other side.  His scent fills your lungs and you can’t help but take a deep, greedy breath, chin quivering all the while. 

“Would you like to stay with me while you recover?”  He asks softly, taking his seat once more.  “Or would you prefer if I stayed with you instead?”

It’s so earnest that you could scream.  Part of you wonders if he’s just avoiding the elephant in the room.

“I imagine the comfort of your own home would lend itself better to your recovery,” he continues, taking your hand in his once more. “But I am not averse to either choice.”

“Al, you don’t have to–”

“You’ll need the help.”  He says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.  “I assume you’ve had restrictions like this before.”

That cold feeling runs through your body again. He’s not avoiding it.   

“Yeah…”  

And he’s completely right.  You will need help.  You doubt your restrictions will be as tight as those you had after top surgery, but you did take a bullet to the chest.  Two, technically…

“I want you to think about it.”  Wesker checks his watch as he speaks, rising from his chair with a small huffed breath.  “My break is nearly over, but I’ll try to come by again before visitation hours end.  You should rest some more.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow once again, eyes fixed on him as he pushes the chair back to its original spot.  Wesker approaches your bedside again, hand raising to rest against the side panel controls.

“Up or down?”  He asks, voice soft.

“Mm, somewhere in between please.”  

Your eyes lock with his as you descend.  That same tenderness still dances in his gaze– the kind he saves for you and you alone.  Despite the tendrils of anxiety tugging at your mind, you find such an act soothes you to the core.  Wesker breaks eye contact for a split second to glance behind himself, ever the private man he is, and he leans over you.  His lips press to your forehead first, warm and soft, and his right hand rises to your cheek to thumb at the curve.  He holds that position for a moment, breaking it only to press another to your lips.

“Hm,” he hums, breaking away to glance at the monitor.  He chuckles softly.  “Your heart rate just jumped.”

Oh god, you think it yourself.  You can practically feel your cheeks go up in flames, but you giggle nonetheless at his cheeky little observation.  “Well, you know… handsome blonde guys named Albert do that to me.”

He leaves with a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, much to your satisfaction.

They keep you at the hospital for another full day just to be safe.  Wesker spent his lunch break with you again, during which he reminded you that he would absolutely be aiding you while you’re under physical restrictions– you need only pick the place.  He’d been positive your own home would be better, so that’s what you opted for.  

Much to your joy, you weren’t excessively limited.  No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity– all the usuals.  You were to have two full weeks off before returning to simple desk duty.  Wesker picked you up, duffel bag of his necessities already packed in the back seat of his car, and brought you home.  Things were stellar until you realized he wanted to do just about every little thing for you, convinced you would cause yourself further harm.  Cooking was out of the question, so he made you meals that you could’ve sworn belonged in a gourmet restaurant rather than your little apartment. And laundry?  Forget about it.  You practically had to wrestle a handful of socks and towels from him so that you could feel less like a deadbeat.  Wound care, though… that was where things got tricky.  Wesker insisted that he be the one to change your bandages, and he did so twice a day, which was more often than was even recommended.

“I said I would take care of you.  What kind of partner would I be if I let you walk around in old bandages, hm?” 

It had been hard to let him do it.  Despite knowing full well he had a clear view of your chest in the hospital, you were still apprehensive to let him see it again.  No questions had been raised in regard to the origin of your scars, but that was somehow worse.  For a time, you figured he chalked it up to some sort of wound obtained in the field, but the day came where his hands wandered and a fingertip trailed the line running beneath your left pectoral.

“I…” You try, swallowing thickly to quell your nerves.

“Tell me about them.” Wesker breathes, finger still running along the ridge, pausing over the parts that weren’t quite perfect.

The worst part of everything?  You know full well you could just walk away and he’d leave it.  Al never pries; he always respects your boundaries.  'No' has always been a complete sentence to him, something you’ve appreciated endlessly in your time together with him.  But, all the same, wasn’t it time you gave an inch?  The man so endlessly patient and sweet to you, despite how he presents himself to the rest of the world, deserved the truth.

So you spill.

“I’m transgender…”  You murmur, words tight in your throat as you stare down to your socked feet.  From there, the rest falls free.  Every little detail.  Childhood woes, adulthood struggles– how happy you were the day you got your very first shot of testosterone and how you felt like you had a new lease on life itself when you woke up from your chest surgery all those years ago.  A tear or two escapes you as you tell your tale, but they’re not the bad kind.  No… they come from something else entirely.  A joy you could never put to words, a cresting wave of pride that you’ve come so far and lived so well despite every bump in the road, a sense of self that felt like wings upon your back…  With every story, you find yourself meeting his gaze more often until you’re looking right into those icy blues.

If Albert is dissatisfied with your revelation, he doesn’t show it.  Instead, he stands before you and listens intently to every word.  Without his glasses, you can see his eyes soften at certain parts, but it's the way his hand doesn’t quite leave from where he’d touched your scar before that keeps you hopeful throughout the entire ordeal.

“And I– I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I just…” You exhale hard, eyes dropping with the weaning of that miracle burst of confidence.  “Telling people is… difficult.”

“Did you think I would react badly?”

You didn’t expect such a question, let alone for it to be asked so gently.  “I… yes and no.”  You chew the inside of your cheek as you ponder the way to best explain it to him.  “Not everyone is kind about it.  I didn’t think– it wasn’t that I thought you’d be mean about it, I just… I didn’t want you to feel like I was lying to you…”

Wesker’s eyes flit to the side for a brief second.  “I understand.  Though I fail to see how you would’ve lied.”

At that, you let out a breathy little laugh, eyes closing as you shake your head.  “So you’re okay with it?”  You ask finally, hand rising to rest over his that still lingered at your chest.  The anxiety returns and you worry the side of your lower lip between your canines.

“I am,” Wesker hums, offering you perhaps the softest, sweetest smile you’ve ever seen grace his face.  His free hand reaches for the one that hangs loose by your side, holding it tenderly as leans forward.  At first you think he’s going for a kiss, which you happily prepare for, but he presses his forehead to yours.  You allow your eyes to flutter shut, same as him.  “I’m afraid you’ve stolen my heart, my dear.” He pauses for a moment, brushing his nose against yours. “You are who you are.  I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

At that, there’s simply no helping the way you throw yourself at him, arms wrapping around him as tight as you can without agitating your wound.  He returns your embrace immediately, palms stroking up and down the length of your back, perfectly warm against your skin.  

There’s one last thing to tell him.  Something that’s been in your heart for a while now.  He deserves every truth from you, and you’re all too happy to give it to the man who assigns you heaps of reports at work and makes your heart sing at home.

“I love you.”  You murmur against his collar, smiling big and wide at how his arms tighten around you.  “I really, really love you.”

“Good,” he hums.  Wesker rests his chin atop your head, swaying slightly as if to music that wasn’t there.  “Because I really, really love you, too.”

You giggle at his mimicry, but, in truth, you’re overflowing with joy.  It’s as if the sun itself has risen in your chest to hear those words, but that is simply the effect Wesker has on you.

What bliss to know you warm his heart the same.

[the-boy-who-drank-the-stars]

@bartylusmicrofic - prompt: duck/ date: july 14 - word count: 438 words

“Ducks are my favorite animal,” said Barty. 

It was a random sentence, something that came out of nowhere, disrupting the companionable silence that had been occupying the dormitory before. It didn’t even make sense. Sprawled on his bed, face tilted towards the ceiling, Barty asked, “What about you?”

“What?” From the desk wedged in the very corner, Regulus glanced up, frowning. He was used to Barty’s quirky thoughts, to his confusing rambles and brain-splitting nonsense. But he’d woken up with cramps this morning, and had spent the rest of the day in an irritated, skittish mood. Now even the slightest word irked him. 

“I like ducks,” said Barty. He sat up, pulling his legs to his chest and hooking his arms beneath his thighs, as if he were rocking back and forth. It was his favorite position. “What about you?”

“I dunno,” Regulus muttered. He turned back to his Potions essay- three inches left, yet he had poured more effort and knowledge into it than he had with anything else in his Hogwarts career. He blew out an exasperated sigh. One day, he thought, Professor Slughorn will get the karma he deserved. 

“Everyone has a favorite animal,” Barty insisted. 

“Cats, then,” said Regulus distractedly, still squinting at his essay. There was a distinct lack of progress that was simply unacceptable; the realization made him scowl deeper.

“Interesting,” mused Barty. “Cats.”

***

“Expecto Patronum!”

There was a chorus of gasps and oohs as the room exploded with light, silvery whisps ballooning out of wands into grand, soaring creatures. Regulus could see a deer, a horse, a dog, a turtle, a cat-

A cat?

Regulus watched astonishedly as the cat pranced in the air, whizzing by students until it came to a swishing stop on Barty’s shoulder. Barty- who looked smug and ridiculously proud of himself. Even from across the room, Regulus could see the smirk on his lips, the challenge in his eyes. Go on, he mouthed. 

Later, Regulus wouldn’t be sure what possessed him- after all, he was always smart enough not to engage in whatever foolishness Barty had going on. Yet he found himself raising his wand, murmuring the incantation, never breaking his gaze with the brunette, who looked far too cocky for his comfort. 

From his wand came a stream of silver streaks, weaving and knotting together in the air to form what looked like a blob…

With webbed feet. 

And a bill. 

A duck floated in front of him, suspended midair- and for a moment, Regulus felt time itself stop as he caught the huge grin growing on Barty’s face. 

Shit, was all he could think.

@themortalityofundyingstars @vivusmortuusexcrucior @aesthetic-writer18

[lulublack90]

Prompt 9 - Star Crossed Lovers

@wolfstarmicrofic May 9, word count 311

They’d been written in the stars. Sirius was named after one for Merlin’s sake! It was just a shame that those stars had happened to be crossed. 

Remus had loved Sirius at Hogwarts and after. They’d been so happy in those adolescent years. Blind to what the future would bring. 

He’d loved him for those twelve years he was in Azkaban, even though it killed him a little more each day that he couldn’t stop his feelings for him any more than he could bring Lily, James and Peter back. 

He’d loved him with all his heart those few months they’d found each other again after Sirius’s escape and Voldemort’s return. He’d really thought they’d stood a chance. But those damned fates had other plans. 

He drank to forget now. If he didn’t, all he saw was Sirius falling backwards through that archway in the old execution room below the ministry, his final smile still spread across his face. It made the hole in his chest wider every time he saw it. So he drank and welcomed oblivion. 

He sat on the roof of Grimmauld Place. A spot he and Sirius had spent many evenings over the last year, watching the few stars that London’s light pollution allowed to shine. He raised his eyes to look at them now. 

He found Sirius with very little trouble. Always the brightest star in the sky.  

“Hello, Padfoot.” He smiled a pained smile up at the star. “I miss you,” He choked out as the tears spilled from his eyes and dripped to the ground below. He picked up the bottle of firewhisky from his side and drank and drank and drank, until nothing remained. 

How he didn’t fall from that roof he’d never know. But he stayed there all night until the rising sun winked out Sirius’s star, and he was alone again. 

[vaguely-concerned]

“Computer, end message,” said the younger Julian Bashir, as flushed with embarrassment as his counterpart had been flushed with arousal. “Computer, belay that order,” said Garak.

Fanart of one of my favorite moments from the amazing fic A Bag Full Of God by @vermin-disciple (The whole series it belongs to is also so so good, please do yourself a favour and check it out if you haven’t already!)

The mental image of a deaged Garak — with his heart full of murder and inadvisable devotion to Tain and Cardassia yet untempered by time and Julian Bashir — still being like ‘no no let’s hear him (you) out we don't know where he's going with this’ as he watches his husband-to-be-in-like-fifty-years perform a loving Space Zoom striptease, while a deaged Julian goes 😳 next to him at the mortifying ordeal of witnessing his future slutty dilf self cheerfully sending nudes… *chef’s kiss* I was laughing so hard that I was wheezing