#love was only true in fairy tales

[edith-moonshadow]

Love Was Only True In Fairy Tales Part Two

Summary:

Every girl at Hawkins high wanted Billy Hargrove but Tracy was determined to be the one to capture his attention.

This chapter isn't a continuation but an accompaniment from a different character's POV. (Part One)

Written for the March 2023 Billy's Birthday Bonanza Harringrove Week

For the prompt Lesley Gore Passing The Crown: Outsider POV

Billy Hargrove swept into Hawkins like a breath of fresh air. Living in a small town meant that everyone knew everyone else. Everyone came with history and connections. Being a teenage girl could either be heaven or hell in these circumstances. Tracy had experienced both. She had only had two steady boyfriends but she had admired many from afar yet due to the intricacies of high school dating many were off limits. Being a cheerleader it was expected of her to only date within a certain group of people. However many of the boys in this group were either taken or had once been someone else's. Both were off-limits.

She'd seen first-hand what happened to anyone who broke the rules and it was never pretty. Girls who weren't popular, didn't care about their reputations or their friendships were in abundance but it rarely worked in their favour. Tracy's mom had been a cheerleader and now was involved in PTA and various charities around town. She was expected to follow in her mom's very prestigious footsteps which left little time for relationships. However, she was only human and she wanted what Betty had. Betty and Ryan were high school sweethearts. They had been together since they were juniors and they only had eyes for each other. They were confident in their feelings and weren't afraid to show them.

Betty had been her best friend since their kindergarten teacher Mrs Jones had paired them together to paint on their first day. The arts and crafts section of the room had two easels and they had stood side by side, sharing paint and something cemented between them. They would cry if separated from each other and became known as the twins even though she had light blonde hair and grey eyes and Betty had dark brown hair and green eyes. They continued being inseparable throughout school even though they had other friends independent of the other.

Tracy found love first. It was silly puppy love. A boy called Jack who she had English with. It only lasted a few months and they did little more than share lunch and hold hands. She had dates in-between but it wasn't until high school that she met Paul. He was on the basketball team and a friend of her friend Carol's boyfriend Tommy. By this stage, Betty was so wrapped up in Ryan that she didn't want to admit it but she was jealous. So when Carol suggested a date with Paul she accepted. This relationship was a lot more hot and heavy. He had a way of making her feel like she was the only person in the world. They were serious for around six months but it was a relationship that burned hot and fizzled out quickly.

They broke up a few weeks before Billy came to town. Betty had been trying to get her to go on a few double dates with her, Ryan and another jock called Richie. She came very close to accepting anything to get Betty off her back and move on from Paul who was already with someone else. Everything changed when she saw Billy in the hall talking to Tommy. He was tall, muscular and blonde. There was a look in his eyes that drew her in like a magnet. His arrival didn't take long to spread through the school. He had a car that roared through the parking lot. He dressed in a way that showed off his amazing physique. Best of all he was a complete mystery. He felt like a puzzle that she needed to solve. The only problem was she had competition.

Hawkins' rules didn't apply to Billy. He didn't care about the well-established hierarchy that dictated who you could and couldn't date. As long as someone was single and interested he didn't have a problem. He caused a lot of girls to break the rules. He became very popular especially after he joined the basketball team and showed up Steve Harrington on the court.

Soon cheerleading practice started to overlap with basketball practice and she couldn't help watching him as he delighted in messing with Steve. He seemed to come alive on the court. Most of the time he was so intense and didn't speak much but every time he took the ball from Steve his entire face would light up. He was a very aggressive player constantly slamming into Steve and whispering things in his ear to throw him off his game. It was a strange sight to see him so flustered at how much better Billy was than him. She knew Steve more by reputation than personally but she knew that he wasn't thrown off balance easily.

The more she watched him play the more fascinated she became. She would daydream about all that intensity being directed her way. She couldn't help listening closely when the girls he'd been on dates with talked in hushed tones. A date with Billy wasn't a universal experience. Some girls would blush and bite their lips as they talked quietly about how the date had gone. Others with shame as they admitted that he didn't seem that interested and cut the date short with barely a glance back. Over time he started to slow down but he didn't pick anyone to go steady with. He seemed to be preoccupied with something else. It didn't stop Tracy's dreams that she could be the one who finally caught his eye.

Billy's rivalry with Steve seemed to bleed out from the court into the halls of Hawkins high. He could be seen staring him down as though always waiting for a challenge. She didn't understand why. Steve was pitiful after the whole Nancy debacle. He'd chosen someone less popular than him over everything else and she had humiliated him by abandoning him for the school freak.

She'd heard all about it during history with Carol. Tommy was livid and he wouldn't forget easily. He had turned everyone else against Steve who was practically an outcast at this point. Billy had well and truly taken Steve's crown. He probably could have taken it even if Steve hadn't embarrassed himself in front of the whole town. Yet Steve seemed to command all of Billy's attention as though he were waiting for something. Amongst the cheerleaders, the prevailing theory was that Steve had done something that had royally pissed Billy off. Maire thought he'd cut him off in the parking lot. Clare was convinced that they'd had a confrontation in the locker room. The least popular was that Billy had developed a thing for Nancy and was jealous that Steve had gotten there first.

Tracy held on to the belief that Billy wanted to be the best at everything he did. This included basketball and even though Steve had lost a lot of his popularity he was still the closest thing he had to a rival on the court. She watched him closely and patiently waited for her chance. It took most of the school year but finally, she got her chance. It was a Tuesday afternoon when she found herself trying to muster up the courage to tell him he was leaning on her locker. He was too busy looking past her to further down the hall where Steve was getting something from his locker. Billy's eyes seemed to burn brightly as his tongue ran over his teeth. In one hand he had a lighter that he ran through his fingers. She knew he smoked and wondered if he was waiting for an opportunity to slip out for one. She took a deep breath.

"Um…Billy?"

He grunted at her his eyes never leaving Steve.

"It's just I need to get something from my locker."

He glanced her way. She thought she saw annoyance flash behind his eyes but she hoped it was just a trick of the light. He moved a few lockers down but kept looking forward. She meekly walked to her locker and quickly changed over her books for her last two classes. She watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye trying desperately to think of something to talk to him about. She ran through everything she knew about him. She tried to calm her racing heart. She knew that he hadn't been on a date in several weeks at least not any that were known about. So if he had the girl in question wasn't bragging because it had gone badly which gave her hope. She dug her nails into the palm of her hand and turned towards him. Just as she opened her mouth to speak he took off down the hall and out a side door. She quickly looked around her feeling her face heat but no one was paying her any attention.

That afternoon at practice he was strangely absent. She couldn't help noticing that Steve was also missing. She discreetly asked around wondering where they were. No one knew but after some discussion, they decided that Billy had finally confronted Steve and it must have gotten physical. The coach must have benched them both and they decided to skip rather than face the anger of the team.

That night she couldn't stop thinking about her humiliating experience by her locker. She rationalised that he didn't realise that she wanted to speak to him. She'd seen how distracted he was and if they were right about him and Steve fighting he probably needed that smoke to calm him down. Next time she'd be ready.

It happened almost like fate. She was walking out of school with Betty who was talking about some movie she was going to with Ryan when Billy appeared. He was walking towards his car and she knew it was now or never. She told Betty she'd be back in a minute and ran after him.

"Billy?"

He turned towards her with a bored expression. She smiled nervously at him.

"Are you busy this weekend?"

He sighed and leaned back against his car.

"Dunno Sweetheart what did you have in mind?"

She motioned over her shoulder at Betty.

"That's Ryan's girlfriend Betty and they're going to see a movie at the drive-in, I was wondering if you'd like to go with me?"

He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and placed one between his lips. He lit it almost absentmindedly as though more through habit than want.

"So like a double date?”

She swallowed thickly and nodded. His eyes became unfocused as though he were transported somewhere else. The silence between them stretched on for so long that he had to tap the accumulated ash from the end of his cigarette onto the ground. His eyes ran over her as he seemed to consider his words and her heart started to sink.

"Sure thing…"

He looked at her expectantly. She laughed nervously.

"Tracy."

"Tracy right. Can you catch a ride with Ryan and I'll see you there?"

She had never felt such relief.

"Yes, that's perfect. The film starts at seven so I'll meet you there around six?"

He took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded before he turned and got into his car. She watched as it roared through the parking lot. She ran excitedly back to Betty to tell her the news.

She couldn't sit still in Ryan's car while they teased her. It was six-twenty five and she worried that she'd be one of those embarrassed girls on Monday who had to admit that Billy found her wanting. Just as she was losing hope he appeared at the car window and she practically leapt from the car in her excitement. His car was practically at the back of the drive-in and her heart started to race at the implications. She slid into the passenger side and smiled at him. He looked so good dressed up just for her. In school, he was generally a little more conservative but she'd heard about how he looked on dates and she wasn't disappointed. She moved closer to him, desperate to feel him close.

He ran hot and cold over the next several months. His mind was always somewhere else and he seemed distant until he showed her some affection and then he took her straight home. He never wanted to hang around after he'd gotten what he wanted. When he was affectionate he left her breathless and wanting more but his coldness made her think she wasn't the only person he was seeing. She'd been sure that she'd spotted his car down the street from her house long after he'd dropped her home or stood her up.

On more than one occasion she'd heard something that suspiciously sounded like Stacey muttered into her neck. However, the only Stacey in their group was currently taken but that only made her more suspicious. If he was going to cheat it made sense that he'd pick someone unavailable as it would be a shared secret. She was so angry that she could barely sleep wondering if Stacy was getting passionate with Billy while she spent the night alone. He never mentioned it which only infuriated her more. She sometimes wondered if he really wanted Stacey and if she was just being used as a smokescreen.

Soon everyone accepted them as a couple and she pretended that everything was perfect to the envy of half the squad. She would talk loudly about their dates near Stacey but she never reacted any differently. She was determined to at least make it to the end of the school year. At least that way they'd be old news by the end of summer. Betty continued to persuade her that he had to be serious. To this point he hadn't cared about decorum so why start now? She held onto that hope tightly.

Soon graduation was fast approaching and the annual senior parties started. She bought herself a new dress and lacy lingerie. Billy had been growing more distant lately. Their dates were becoming few and far between and she feared he'd finally grown bored of her. She saw him more at school than outside. She would slide under his arm relishing the warmth of his body but he barely acknowledged her. He was always looking down the halls or buzzing with excitement to get on the court. He seemed his happiest on the court and she couldn't help the nagging feeling that it was because she couldn't follow him there.

She was determined to make tonight special. She would get them back on track. Billy seemed on edge that night. It was like he was filled with a mixture of excitement and dread. She couldn't understand why as they had been to dozens of parties before. They arrived late but she could feel the envious stares of many girls at the party when they arrived. She knew she looked good in her dress and Billy was wearing his favoured jeans that he looked so good in and his still-tanned skin was on full display. He looked like he'd also put in extra effort tonight and she hoped against hope it was because he knew things were bad between them and wanted to fix it too.

She followed him to the drinks table even though she wanted to dance. She watched him closely waiting on tenterhooks for something, anything to show he still wanted her. She leaned closer to him and wrapped her arm around his. He took a long sip of his beer. Suddenly his body stiffened and his attention was stolen by someone walking through the party. She tried to look around the people in front of her to see who it was but she was too short to see past them. Billy threw down his beer and pulled his arm free.

"I need a smoke."

He walked briskly towards the front door and was gone before she could protest. She poured herself a drink and watched the other people dance. She watched the door intently but he never came back. Finally, she swallowed her pride and decided that she would go and get him. It was better than standing here all alone. She expected to see him standing out the front either passively smoking or engaged in conversation with someone. However, he was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if he'd left his cigarettes in his car and walked in the general direction he'd parked.

She stopped when she heard hushed voices that sounded as though they were arguing. She moved as silently as she could and hid between two cars. Steve Harrington's back was pressed up against his car as he was cornered by Billy. He had a desperate look in his eyes. She couldn't believe he'd left her all alone at the party to fight with Steve. The words out of his mouth shook her to her core.

"Billy let's not draw this out…it was good while it lasted but…"

Billy moved so quickly that she let out a small gasp as he pinned Steve to the car and kissed him with more passion than she'd ever seen outside of the basketball court. Steve whimpered desperately and she felt acid swirl in her stomach. Billy kissed his way down to Steve's throat and whispered something against his skin which made Steve's eyes widen in shock. Suddenly he laughed. It was relief mixed with joy.

"We're both idiots."

Billy pulled back to look at him and she would have given anything to see the look on his face. She could feel bile rising in her throat as she realised she didn't need to see his face. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had that same intense expression on his face that he always had when he looked at Steve. His eyes filled with yearning at one end of the hall in the school. Filled with delight on the court. She heard his strangled groan against her skin and heard Steve loud and clear. Billy's car was parked a few doors down from the Harringtons. She had been a distraction for everyone else so that he could have the one thing he wanted above everything else. It had always been about Steve.

"As long as we can keep being idiots together."

She felt envy like she never had before when Steve smiled softly and leaned in to kiss him. She turned abruptly and stormed back into the party. She purposely stamped her feet hoping it would disturb them but she couldn't resist glancing back to see them completely lost in each other.

She stormed through the door and straight into someone causing them to spill their drink. She took a strange satisfaction that someone else's night wasn't going according to plan either. She looked up and into the bewildered eyes of Richie who gave her an uncertain smile.

"Tracy…I…where's Billy?"

She shrugged.

"Probably getting drunk with the other asshole basketball players."

Richie laughed nervously. His face flushed as he watched her closely. She leaned closer to him and whispered in his ear.

"Meet me at the top of the stairs in five minutes."

His flush deepened as he nodded enthusiastically. She gave him a sweet smile and walked towards the stairs. She paid a lot of money for this lingerie and someone was going to appreciate it.

[hanzajesthanza]

i tend to talk a lot about the realistic nature of the witcher, its "realistic fantasy," "brutal realism," its references to political realities and inspirations taken from history, and that is all very important to it.

but... i also want to take a moment to say that the witcher, as a tragedy, also fills me with a hope... that such love, such beautiful families and friendships can exist, even if they differ too much to survive in the end. the idea that the beauty and purity of that love even exists at all, in such a fucked up world, despite it and sometimes existing in the very middle of it, is also what makes it realistic. hope is realistic. love is realistic.

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 5!!!

[verreprincesse]

Momona (@art_of_momo22)

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"I-I..."

Is he really offering? Is he really offering to stay with me?

Oh, God, how she wanted to say yes. How much she missed nights after work when she would talk to her father, when they would sit up together (first at the table, then with Pa in bed, once the fever hit him) and talk. She'd be able to vent about Mickey and Abigail and all the other headaches she had to deal with, but sometimes, they'd talk about something else entirely, something lighter. Something to make her laugh, because August Pace loved to hear his daughter laugh.

A small part of her wanted to believe she could have something like that with Philippe. Something in the back of her mind nagged her, told her that they could perhaps have a nice conversation, about something lighter than...work or what happened tonight. Something told her that he could make her laugh. And if she was lucky, she could make him laugh too.

Who are you kidding? she thought to herself bitterly. This isn't a fairy tale, Susannah Pace. Don't act like it is.

"O-Oh, no, d-don't...don't worry about me," she assured him at last, putting on a wry smile for him. "I...I'll be alright, Mr. de Clair, really, I...I don't want to, uh...keep you anymore than I already have. I'm...I'm sure you'd like to get home."

[kaylorfossil]

🏹⛅️👵🏻 Fossil Facts 👵🏻⛅️🏹

I just listened to The Great War for the first time.

😭😭😭

Kaylor: Never Doubted/Never Dissed Club (Founder and Chairfossil since 2015 🏆)

[monsterblogging]

"I know JK Rowing is a terrible person but her books are so good-"

You sure about that?

I mean, just for a start, have you taken a good look at her fantasy creatures lately? A whole bunch of them are straight-up based on malicious and dehumanizing stereotypes about actual people.

Remember the werewolves? And being a werewolf was made into a kind of metaphor for having AIDS?

And you know how AIDS was first associated with gay men? And how conservatives back in the day were claiming gay men were preying on children in order to convert them to gayness?

Remember how Fenrir Greyback preyed on children in particular? Yeah, she put that subtext in there. She was an adult in the 90's. She knew damn well what she was doing.

Remember the house elves? Remember how most of them loved to serve and needed to have a home and a master or else they just wouldn't know what to do with themselves?

Did you know that's literally what slavers in the American South said about the Black people they kept enslaved? Go look up the happy slave myth.

Do I even need to get into the goblins and the antisemitic tropes they're based on? No, folkloric goblins were not gold-hoarding bankers waiting for their chance to stab humanity in the back.

"But the characters are so good!"

Are you kidding me?

Most of her characters are pretty one-dimensional, including Harry. Her idea of making a morally complicated character is giving a tragic past to a bully. Numerous characters are little more than stereotypes. (Looking at Fleur right now.) Literally anybody, including you, can easily make dozens of characters just as good, if not better. (It doesn't exactly take a lot of character designing skill to go, "hey, actually, having a sad backstory doesn't make it okay to bully children" or "hey, maybe I should not base a character on the first stereotype that pops into my head.")

"But the rest of the worldbuilding!"

Sorry, but her worldbuilding is just as basic as her characters. Magical castles and secret passages are stock tropes. Magical people who keep their true nature secret from humanity is the premise of pretty much every White Wolf TTRPG. Most of her fantasy creatures are just common European fairy tale and folklore creatures with shitty stereotypes projected onto them.

I'm not saying "basic worldbuilding bad." I'm saying, you could do just as good, if not better, with minimal effort.

Also there's her magical bioessentialism, where only Harry's abusive blood relatives could provide him with supernatural protection from Voldemort. Rowling thus effectively declared that non-biological family isn't quite real family, and that abusive biofamily can give you some essential thing that a loving, supportive family that isn't related to you just can't.

The Hogwarts houses are one of the most insidious elements of her worldbuilding. The idea of being sorted gives you a little dopamine hit because wow now you have a li'l niche where you belong!

But the actual function of the houses and sorting system and the House Cup is teaching children to see each other as rivals, and ensure that the most toxic views of the upper class get passed on to every new batch of kids sorted into Slytherin.

Hogwarts effectively prepares children for a dystopia where magic serves to distract its citizens from how nightmarishly awful it is. Economic inequality is so bad that people like Arthur and Molly Weasley can barely afford to put their kids through school, casual sadism is just an accepted norm in everyday society, and non-humans are second class citizens. Rowling sorta acts like she thinks this is a bad thing with certain lines she gave to Dumbledore, but in the end, her special boy protagonist becomes an auror; IE, a defender of the status quo. So.

If you've never seen it, Lily Simpson's video goes into even more detail on how the worldbuilding of Harry Potter is actually incredibly fucked up, and how it betrays small-minded attitudes on Rowling's part. There's no separating the art from this artist, because Rowling's rotten values pour out of nearly every page.

Yes, there are many things in Harry Potter that evoke feelings and inspire people, but there's absolutely nothing in it that this series has a monopoly on. You can find those same experiences in much, much better media.

[ripplesinthesand]

the scene where jessica uses the voice to force chani to use her tears to resurrect paul is SO fucking crazy to me. true love's kiss only it doesn't save the day, it destroys everything. the fact that she literally has to cry to bring him back, the way his eyes immediately snap open, her horror and devastation when she realizes he came back changed. it's a fairy tale and it's a fucking nightmare.

[hanasnx]

“ I WAS MADE FOR LOVIN’ YOU ” — logan howlett.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader ノ age gap ノ established relationship ノ size difference ノ suggestive content ノ sexual content: naughty daydreams about pussy eating, nipple play, and groping; masturbation; voyeurism.

“I’m gonna take care of you.” Those six words—six—have defined your relationship with your husband, LOGAN HOWLETT. There’s a great protector in him, this compulsion to mentor and house within him that stretches far beyond his own needs. You fall within that range, and as soon as you met him you latched onto him. It didn’t take long at all before your imprint was reciprocated. Now he thinks of you first in everything he does.

He may not always look it, but you’re a factor in all his decisions. Settling down, nabbing a good job—one that didn’t ask for his background—was all to put you up in a house in the mountains. Far away from civilization, an ivory tower made up of wood he cut himself, surrounded by acres of nature. He’s always thought of himself a hair on the wild side, somehow you tame that down. It’s good, he tells himself, you and him.

It’s a partnership, and all he wants out of you is your safety. He likes you where he can keep an eye on you, make sure you stay out of trouble, make sure you’re comfortable.

You wish you could explain just why he thinks he has to protect you, why he married you, why he pays all the bills and expects nothing in return. You wish you could explain just why this relationship comprises all facets of a real marriage except for intimacy.

Logan won’t touch you. You’ll eat off each other’s utensils, fall asleep on his chest on the couch watching a movie—hell, he’ll reluctantly incline in your direction with a roll of his eyes to let you peck his cheek good-bye when he leaves for work. Yet, he won’t even kiss you. Even before he married you, there wasn’t so much as a grope or a stray look.

There’s home in Logan. You live to please him. You’ll cook him whatever he wants, keep the house he built for you clean as a whistle, you’ll spend all your free time with him, grab him his nightly beer and light his cigar so he stays content—but you’ve never even seen him naked. You doubt you ever will. Regardless, you stay, you can’t imagine leaving this life, leaving him.

It’s defied your expectations the fairy-tales of your childhood gave you. Your knight in shining armor rescued you, yet refuses to plant even true love’s kiss. When you’d matured, you’d fantasized about an insatiable husband that found you so irresistible he couldn’t keep his hands off you. Logan’s never looked at you that way, even though he calls you his wife without hesitation, married you without a second thought.

“Is it because I’m younger than you? I’m only in my early twenties. That’s not a big deal!” you’ve reasoned with him, but he still treats you like you’re naive. He must want passion, you’re sure of that. Why else are you young and beautiful if not to take advantage of it while you still can? Just once you’d like to see him yearn for you, to show lack of restraint, to come home one day so hungry for you that you don’t make it out of the kitchen.

Those claws… those deadly metal claws… you wish he’d use them in fantastical and deviant ways. Just one would glide through your nighty like sheet paper, bareing you to your husband—a sight for him only. You lie awake next to him at night, envisioning raunchy dreams of him proudly boasting the size difference between you two, demonstrating his sheer raw strength by overpowering you and taking what he wants from you. You’ve run your fingers delicately over his lips and the rough pad of his shaved chin, but you can’t imagine just how good it’d feel against your tit, swirling his hot tongue around your perked nipple while his callused digits pinch the other. You can pretend his head is ducking between your thighs, the sensation of his soft hair tickling your skin and tangling in your fingers as his masculine jaw scratches the fragile tissue of your pussy. As starved as you are, even discomfort like that is enough to make you moan into your palm, only to check over your shoulder to make sure you still hear your husband’s snoring.

You steel yourself at the noise, the low rumbling of his sleep cautions you to stay quiet but to proceed nonetheless. Your hand creeps down your neck, your chest, your stomach… You really should leave the room, but you’d risk waking him up for real at the sound of the door. Instead, you fuck yourself yet again, the soft rocking of the mattress as you hump your own hand filling the ears of your kindhearted husband—who’s been awake this whole time.

[kandlewick]

i was thinking about this but as much as i love romantic malleus, i think platonic bestie hornton is equal if not better. you know those fics where grim is the one cock blocking all the other characters? imagine if it was your 6'6 bestie, future ruler of briar valley, the one the only malleus draconia. this man has the highest standards for you. he can't be swayed by a simple can of tuna. what is one meal to a near immortal fae? no, this man is subtly eyeing every single classmate that shows any sort of interest in you, silently judging for their intentions. he doesn't even need to threaten them, just him standing beside you is enough for them to get the picture. do not mess with his child of man. your suitors thought ace and deuce were bad, malleus is a whole other beast all together. if this person loved you like they claimed, whats a few card soldiers and a dragon? be like the heroic knight in legends long passed. fight for your maiden, prince, steal them away from their guardians. try it.

that's not to say he's unwilling to compromise. he loves his child of man very much even if they do make, in his eyes, unwise choices. you've made it very clear to him that even he makes choices that backfire. putting an entire island to sleep is not his proudest moment after all, but that doesn't change the fact he still worries. to him, you are so young, so fragile. isn't it said that your kind can die from a broken heart? the very thought of you leaving him due to his inaction has left him breathless on more then one occasion. where would he be without you?

so he watches and waits by your side, your ever present companion. your platonic soulmate. the man who walks you down the aisle and hands you off to your true love, just like in the fairy tales. he trusts you and loves you with every beat of his heart, his child of man, and he will be your best friend as long as you live and beyond. love never dies after all.

[edith-moonshadow]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Characters: Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove, Background & Cameo Characters, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Steve Harrington's Parents, Original Characters, Tommy Hagan, Carol Perkins Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Miscommunication, Top Billy Hargrove, Bottom Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Semi-Public Sex, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Biting, Come Marking, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Anal Fingering, Intercrural Sex, Marking, Praise Kink, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Pining, Secret Relationship, Confessions, POV Steve Harrington, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Implied/Referenced Sex, Jealousy

Summary:

After having his heart broken Steve begins a secret relationship with Billy Hargrove.

Written for the March 2023 Billy's Birthday Bonanza Harringrove Week

For the prompt Lesley Gore Passing The Crown: Unrequited Love

Note that the second chapter isn’t a continuation but an accompaniment (For the prompt Outsider’s POV)

Once again a huge thank you to @lazybakerart for these amazing prompts  💜💜💜

Steve had been in love many times. He remembered every single time his heart had started that rhythm that made it feel like it was going to beat out of his chest. He'd feel clumsy in his skin, he was light as a balloon and just wanted to be with the other person every waking hour. He'd think about them and smile. Have butterflies in his stomach and be giddy with excitement just thinking about holding their hand. Being popular had its drawbacks as he was expected to be a certain way and he'd had his fair share of meaningless flings but even though he'd never admit it to Tommy they left him feeling cold. Steve hadn't grown up admiring or wanting to be the hero in the stories his mom had read to him. He hadn't been interested in superheroes or suave secret agents; he'd been more interested in love stories. His mom had stopped reading to him when he'd been around three and he'd found himself in the care of Amelia.

She had been young and sweet and she showered him with the affection his parents seemed embarrassed by. She spent time with him where they created entire worlds out of his toys, she baked him cookies and taught him songs. At night she read books filled with adventure, love, sacrifice and friendship. Steve had never felt happier or more secure. He dreamt of a time when someone would love him completely and without question. He grew to love Amelia, he thought of her as a second mother. He'd been twelve when his parents decided that he didn't need a nanny anymore. Steve grew to hate the silence of the house when they were away. He had cried until he had no more tears left. He hated crying. It brought back those terrible memories of being so alone for the first time and losing someone he loved. He wasn't even allowed to talk about her. It felt as though they were trying to erase her existence.

After that, he fell easy. Once his hormones kicked in Steve fell in love with every girl who showed him a little affection. He was in love with a new person every week. By the time he was going to high school, he'd left any awkwardness behind and become popular and desired by many. He had taken advantage of this egged on by other members of his group of friends. At the time he'd felt like it was how he was supposed to be. Maybe he needed to kiss a lot of frogs before he found the one. He fell in love with falling in love. It was a rush like no other when he felt his heart race and the butterflies begin to flutter. Yet it always faded quickly and he was looking for his next fix.

He remembered the day that his heart skipped a beat because of Nancy. It had been a normal boring Thursday afternoon and his mind was on practice. He'd broken up with Ava a few days ago and he was already feeling that itch under his skin for someone new. He had been standing near his locker absently listening to Tommy and Carol playfully bicker about some party they were going to when he'd heard someone laughing. He looked around and found Nancy talking to someone a few feet away. Her laugh lit up her whole face and he felt his heart quicken.

Steve had never had any problems with girls at Hawkins high. He'd even had girls break up with their current boyfriends just for a chance to be with him. Nancy was different. He had to fight for her. Had to prove to her that he was worthy. He felt like he'd been transported into one of Amelia's books. That he was on an epic journey to prove his love and himself. When she'd finally agreed he felt like he could fly. The next year he dedicated himself to her. He felt happy and content like he had when he'd been a child. Everything was perfect. He was dreaming of their future together until he heard the words that broke his heart. Her angry eyes and the cruel assertion that everything about them was bullshit made his throat burn and his eyes sting. He hadn't cried since he had lost everything when he'd been twelve. He needed some air.

He walked to his car and leaned against it trying to catch his breath. To stop the tears that desperately wanted to fall.

"Hello, Princess."

He turned abruptly at the voice to find the new keg king of Hawkins high grinning at him. He looked around expecting Tommy to appear from the shadows to pour more salt on his wounds but he seemed to be alone. He cleared his throat.

"Hey man."

He felt awkward and out of place. They hadn't been introduced so he didn't know his name and earlier had been a weirdly charged moment. He didn't know what he wanted but all Steve wanted was to go home and be alone.

"Leaving us so soon?"

"Yeah something's come up and I need to go."

The keg king looked at him so intently that he felt his face heat. He licked his lips subconsciously wondering what he looked like. Did he know that Steve was on the verge of tears and was going to make fun of him for it? He moved closer and Steve straightened preparing himself for what was coming next. He gave off dangerous energy like he was sizing him up before he went in for the kill.

"Figured you'd know somewhere better to go."

Steve blinked at him in confusion.

"Everyone's here."

"I was thinking something a little more private."

Steve's confusion continued to grow until he found himself pinned against the side of his car. He could feel the other's body heat even though he wasn't wearing a shirt. Hot lips brushed against his ear.

"I can make you forget all about her."

He shivered. His heart beat painfully in his chest. His mind was screaming at him that this was a bad idea. He didn't even know his name but he'd have to see him in the halls of Hawkins high tomorrow. He just wanted to think about something else for a moment or not think at all. He nodded.

He found himself pinned down in the back of his car with his trousers ripped open. Intense blue eyes stared into him as he lost himself in a hot cruel mouth that brought him to the brink of ecstasy but denied him release until he begged. All that pent-up energy left him and he sagged back feeling like he was becoming part of the upholstery. He briefly wondered about reciprocation. His face burned as he didn't know what to do when hungry lips devoured his own. He could feel how hard he was through his jeans so he nervously slid a hand down and touched him. He groaned into Steve's mouth and then quickly undid his jeans.

Steve pushed his hand inside, shaking when he found his hard cock. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was just touching himself even if the angle felt wrong.

"Look at me, Sweetheart."

He opened his eyes seeing that same intense stare and everything changed. He felt a twist in his stomach, his heart hammered in his chest and he leaned up to kiss him. He wanted him closer. He felt so overwhelmed but his mind was only thinking about this moment. He whimpered when he felt teeth in his lip and the cock in his hand throbbing. It was an exhilarating experience even if he felt confused and clumsy. A harsher bite followed by a growl and he felt come splash against his stomach. Thick fingers rubbed it into his skin as he panted like he'd run a marathon.

It was a little awkward after that. The keg king gave him one last lingering kiss then did up his jeans and left. Steve inelegantly stumbled from his car as he fixed his clothes. He could see a faint glow from a cigarette by the fence as he started his car and drove home. He got ready for bed quickly then fell face-first onto his pillow. He was exhausted but he barely got any sleep.

He awoke the next morning and everything from the previous night flooded his mind. He groaned as he thought about how his rash decision last night had probably made everything worse. His heart sank as he remembered the anger in Nancy's eyes. How vehemently she denied their love. He desperately hoped that it was all a mistake.

He spent the day at school in a daze. He was searching the halls for any sign of Nancy or the new keg king. He didn't think he'd acknowledge him but Steve was worried about his reaction. It still felt so raw and his stomach was twisted up in knots just thinking about the feelings from last night and the intense look in his eyes. He didn't see either of them until he walked onto the court for practice. He heard Tommy's obnoxious laugh and braced himself for the things he was going to say. It had been easier to ignore these insults when he knew that Nancy loved him. The uncertainty made him feel vulnerable. He took a deep breath and then turned to face him. He felt a swoop in his stomach to find Tommy walking in with the new keg king. Tommy smirked at him.

"Stevie you remember Billy right?"

His eyes widened as he glanced at Billy who winked at him. He swallowed hard as memories of the previous night flowed through his mind.

"He destroyed your keg record and now he's going to wipe the floor with you in basketball."

Tommy laughed loudly as he slapped Billy on the shoulder. Billy's grin grew wider and Steve's heart started to beat again. The coach's whistle sounded loud and shrill, almost making him jump but he felt great relief as it gave him a chance to walk away. The coach split them into two groups as he always did especially when they had a new play or player. He always wanted to see who worked well together. Steve was placed in the first team which meant he kept his shirt. He breathed a sigh of relief and walked to his side of the court. He could feel someone watching him and he looked up to find Billy's eyes on him. He held eye contact as he pulled his shirt up and over his head. Steve could feel sweat building on his skin as he remembered what it felt like to be pinned down by him. His hot skin and wicked tongue drove all thoughts from his mind.

He tried to hold eye contact to show that Billy wasn't getting to him but the sensations from last night overtook him and he finally looked away. He hoped that Billy had proved his point. That he could get under his skin and if he wanted to be the top dog at Hawkins high he would encounter little resistance. He soon learned he wasn't so lucky.

As soon as Steve had the ball Billy bulldozed through everyone so he could try and retrieve it. He pressed himself up against Steve's back so that he could feel his hot sweaty skin through his shirt. Billy didn't move right away to get the ball. Steve started to feel overwhelmed like the night before.

“Harrington right? I heard you used to run this school is that true? King Steve, they used to call you huh and then you turned bitch.”

Steve's head was swimming. There was an edge to Billy's voice and he couldn't help thinking that last night was all part of some power play and he'd just walked right into it. Billy pushed further into his space and he was once again transported to the night before when having Billy on top of him had been pleasurable.

"Maybe you should just shut up and play the game…"

The words sounded so weak. He didn't even know if he believed them as there was a part of him that secretly enjoyed the attention. Even if he knew it was just to bring him down. He felt Billy stiffen behind him and then the ball was gone and Steve hit the ground hard. After the shock wore off he got up on instinct and chased the ball. Billy easily made a basket. He even did a trick move to rub in how easy it was. Steve felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs as Billy turned towards him with a grin. His tongue licked over his teeth and Steve had to lean over onto his knees. He knew what that tongue felt like and it was making him feel weak.

"Steve?"

His heart sank into his stomach as he heard Nancy's impatient voice. He turned and found her waiting on him. He turned fully and followed her out and around the side of the building. Nancy seemed confused as to why he hadn't met her that morning. He sighed heavily and pushed the subject of the previous night. He wanted more than anything for her to be embarrassed and say it was a mistake. That she was angry about something else and had taken it out on him. Anything that meant she did love him and it had just been a heat-of-the-moment mistake. He was even willing to accept blame himself. He had done something wrong but they could work through it.

She was confused and then indignant. She never took back the painful words and it felt like she'd just said them. The pain was almost unbearable but he swallowed it down. One of his teammates calling him back was a reprieve. He could walk away now and prepare himself for next time. He just wanted her to take it all back. For them to go back to before last night.

He walked back onto the court but he wasn't really in the game. He had hoped that he would just be ignored for the remainder but Billy had other plans. Steve just followed the ball blindly, not attempting to get it. Billy acted as though it were still a competition and continued to goad him. He seemed to thrive on Steve's frustration until it finally bubbled up enough that it was all he had on his mind. He became involved in the game again which only seemed to please Billy more. He seemed energised by Steve challenging him and he understood it was probably more satisfying to take something from someone when they fought for it.

The coach blew his whistle and told them to hit the showers. Steve took a moment to catch his breath as he realised that his uniform was sticking to his skin and his hair had become limp. He looked up to see Billy's attention fully on him making his stomach twist. The coach called Billy away and Steve moved quickly to get a shower. He moved to one of the showers at the back and stood under the spray letting it drown out all sounds and thoughts. He didn't know how long he was under there when he heard Tommy's voice cheering Billy on. He tried his best to ignore them as he washed his hair letting the water drown them out once more.

He moved back and lifted his soap just as Billy walked into his shower and hung up his towel. Steve stubbornly kept his eyes forward even as Billy turned back toward him putting his full body on display as a smile spread across his face. He didn't speak and soon the tension became too much and he glanced in his direction. Billy's smile grew wider. He moved closer.

"Good game Pretty Boy although I expected more from King Steve."

Steve continued with his shower letting the monotony of rubbing soap over his skin prevent him from looking at Billy. He was suddenly much closer. Steve shivered as his lips brushed his ear.

"Especially after last night…"

Steve turned toward him but before he could say anything Billy pulled him into a ravenous kiss. He wanted to push him away but his conflicted feelings over Nancy made him pull him closer. Soon he found himself being backed up against the wall behind him. He wasn't thinking about Nancy anymore when Billy's hand closed around his hardening cock. Billy didn't seem to possess any of the clumsiness that Steve had felt the night before. He was slowly turning to Jelly. Billy twisted his wrist and Steve gasped.

"Spread your legs for me Sweetheart."

He slowly spread his legs and braced himself against the wall behind him. Billy stroked him slowly before he felt a slippery finger pressed against him. He made a questioning sound.

"Trust me Pretty Boy, it'll feel really good."

The finger wriggled its way inside and he let out a shaky breath. Billy increased the speed of his hand which made him forget the strange stretch. He could feel his stomach and thighs tensing as he rapidly approached his end when Billy slowed down. He whined and Billy laughed as he slowly pushed in a second finger. He threw his head back and squirmed against the wall. Billy's fingers pressed in and crooked. Pleasure shot up his spine as he suddenly came all over Billy's hand. He took several deep breaths and fell back against the wall. Billy moved closer and pulled his gasping mouth into a bruising kiss.

Steve poured everything he was feeling into the kiss. His pleasure, his confusion and the neediness he felt at this moment. He knew Billy was going to pull away and at this moment he didn't want him to. Billy placed his hands on Steve's hips holding him in place as he brought his body close to Steve's until he could feel how hard he was. He manoeuvred Steve into place by turning him around to face the wall and pulling his ass up.

"Press your thighs together for me…"

Steve did as he was told. He shook when he felt Billy's cock slide in between his legs rubbing over his balls and against where he'd just been spread open on his fingers. Little sparks of residual pleasure spread out through his body as Billy started a slow and steady rhythm.

"Good boy."

Billy placed stinging kisses on his shoulder as he drove Steve crazy with every snap of his hips. The slow slide was almost too much for his overstimulated body. The sharp little shocks of pain from Billy's teeth only heightened the feeling. He started to press back, chasing the feeling causing Billy to hold him in place and increase his speed.

"B-Billy…"

A hand wrapped around his hard cock. He bit down hard on his mouth as it verged on painful but the fog flooding his mind wanted so much more. Billy left teeth marks across the top of his back before he pulled back and pushed the tip of his cock up against Steve's hole as he came. Steve followed a few seconds later, helped by Billy's hand and the feeling of his hard cock against him.

He leaned forward trying desperately to catch his breath as Billy placed a few soft kisses over the marks he'd left on his skin. He then walked back to the shower and continued washing as if nothing had happened. Steve leaned back against the wall and watched him. He could feel Billy's come running down his skin making his stomach twist and his skin heat. Billy turned off his shower and barely dried himself before he turned to smirk at Steve.

"See you around Princess."

He walked away without a backwards glance and Steve couldn't believe he'd let his emotions let him make another stupid decision.

For the next few weeks, he found himself alone a lot of the time. Watching Nancy and Jonathan tentatively hold hands and share secret looks felt like a ragged wound that couldn't heal. One of the worst parts was that he couldn't suffer in silence because Tommy still hadn't forgiven him for choosing her in the first place. He loved to draw attention to what was happening which made everyone in the immediate vicinity look at him. It didn't take long for them not to need Tommy. He soon lost all respect from his peers because why would Nancy leave him for Jonathan unless there was something weird going on? Small towns were filled with gossip. Where there was smoke there was fire and people didn't need to know the truth to speculate about why something had happened. Those rumours eventually filtered through enough people that they became the truth.

He wasn't exactly welcome in his old friend group more Tommy than anything to do with Nancy. He stopped being invited to parties and ate his lunch alone. The rest of the school looked at him with pity or a sense of validation. They had a new king already. Billy had easily walked into Steve's old shoes and he couldn't blame the rest of the school. Billy was cocky, he was attractive, he was different and best of all mysterious. First impressions were important but in a small town like Hawkins, someone like Billy could make themselves into anything. Every time he saw him he was either with a member of the basketball team or a different girl. He hated that he noticed.

He'd been doing everything possible to avoid Billy too. He was too much of a temptation for Steve while he grieved his relationship and he knew that for Billy it was just a power play. It had been easier than he thought. Billy was everywhere at Hawkins high and Steve could feel his stare when they were near each other. However, Billy wasn't stupid and he had an image to curate. He couldn't avoid him at practice where every touch and whisper made his head spin but he never hung around after. He even took his showers at home and Billy was constantly mobbed by the team for his great performance.

Watching Nancy be so happy with someone else made his chest ache. He felt like everyone was looking at him and decided he needed some air. He only had two classes left and he didn't think he would be able to focus. He slipped out a side door and had only taken a few steps when he heard Billy's voice.

"School's not over Princess."

He turned towards him and found him leaning against the wall by the door he'd just walked through with a cigarette between his lips. He felt that now familiar twist in his stomach when dealing with Billy.

"Want some company?"

He walked closer. Like a moth to a flame. He couldn't help himself. Billy took one last drag before flicking his cigarette out into the parking lot.

"My parents aren't home."

A smirk spread across Billy's face.

"Lead the way, Sweetheart."

Billy wasted no time as soon as they walked through the door to his house. He pinned him against the door and kissed him passionately. Steve wrapped his arms around him and let all thoughts evaporate from his mind. It didn't take long for Billy to inquire about his room and Steve found himself half-naked on his bed. He felt butterflies in his stomach as Billy kissed his way down his body. Sharp bites made his heart quicken along with the words of praise Billy whispered into his skin. Billy drove him to the brink of insanity with his mouth while Steve squirmed on his fingers. He took him to the edge over and over until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Billy…please…"

Billy stroked over his prostate until Steve had to bite his lip to calm himself down.

"So impatient Sweetheart, you got somewhere else to be?"

His body fluttered around his fingers.

"Do you want me to massage your fingers all afternoon?"

Billy smirked at him before he started placing kisses on his inner thigh.

"Just want to get you nice and ready for me."

Steve shivered as Billy sunk his teeth into his sensitive flesh.

"I'm ready…"

Billy slid up his body and captured his lips in a passionate kiss. He wrapped his arms around him, wanting him as close as possible. He kissed him harder when he felt Billy press his slippery hard cock up against him. He pushed forward as Steve whined into his mouth until he bottomed out and then he waited. Steve squirmed as he adjusted and then Billy started a steady rhythm. It didn't take long for it to feel good and all his problems from that week melted away as Billy replaced them all with pleasure. It didn't take long for the pleasure that had pooled at the base of his spine to spread through his body. Billy had kept him on edge for too long.

"Fuck Princess you feel so good."

Billy groaned into Steve's neck as he felt his cock throb inside him as he came. He pushed forward letting his still-hard cock press up against Steve's prostate as Billy's hand wrapped around his cock. Steve panted into Billy's mouth as he stroked him to completion.

He was surprised when Billy wrapped him up in his arms and pulled the bedclothes around them. All his energy drained Steve found his eyes sliding closed.

He awoke a few hours later alone in his bed. He tried to find some solace in the fact that Billy had made sure to wrap him up in the blankets before he left. He knew Billy didn't owe him anything but it didn't make it hurt any less. He had assumed that would be the last time he'd see Billy on his own but he was wrong.

It had been a mild night and Steve decided to sit by the pool. He couldn't help thinking about the past when his parents weren't home. Tommy and Carol loved the pool. They would throw each other into the water where they'd push each other under the water before they disappeared inside the house. Steve usually had his date and this was the perfect time to get them alone. It had been a long time since he'd spent time by the pool with anyone else. Bittersweet memories usually kept him away but he needed some fresh air.

It had been an uneventful week. He was still lonely but his heart was slowly healing and seeing Nancy in the halls of Hawkins high was getting easier. He found himself discreetly searching for Billy during the day even though he knew he would never acknowledge him. By now Billy had cemented a reputation amongst his old friends and he was even more popular than Steve had been. He wasn't just popular with the other jocks but with the girls too. Every time he saw him he had a different girl on his arm. He couldn't help thinking back to his dating life before Nancy when he'd felt the pressure to always have someone new.

He lay back and watched the moonlight play across the calm water of the pool. It gave him a strange feeling of comfort. He contemplated turning on the lights and heat and going for a swim but he was enjoying the tranquillity of the moment too much. He jumped at the sound of someone coming through the gate at the side. Billy stood with a cigarette dangling from his lips, he was wearing his favourite jeans and his skin looked silky and soft under the red shirt that was barely buttoned. He looked as though he had dressed with purpose. As though he wanted to look effortlessly good. He smirked at Steve as he came closer.

"Why are you sitting alone in the dark?"

Steve shrugged. He didn't have an answer. At least not one that Billy would be interested in hearing.

"Thinking about going for a swim."

He stood with his heart racing and pulled off his sweater. Billy's smile widened as his eyes roamed over his body.

"It's a bit cold isn't it?"

Steve moved over to the door and slid his hand inside to flip the switches for the heat and lights.

"What's wrong, haven't you acclimatised to Hawkins yet? Maybe if you buttoned more than a third of your shirt."

Billy quickly pulled off his jacket, setting it on a chair beside him before his shirt joined it. Steve felt his breath catch at how beautiful he looked with the moonlight accentuating his smooth golden skin and muscles. His eyes shone as though he had his internal light and his smile looked happy yet mischievous. He felt that familiar flutter in his stomach that he ruthlessly tried to push down. He slid off his jeans and then leapt headfirst into the water trying to fight against the feeling that he was drowning already. A splash behind him and then he felt Billy's warm hands wrap around his waist and pull him back against him. Soon he was lost in lingering kisses and soft touches until they finally gave in to the siren call of a warm bed and each other.

Soon Billy was at his house so much that it felt like he was never alone. It began with him arriving in the evening and things would progress naturally from there. Steve found himself waiting anxiously for him to arrive. As the months progressed and the days grew lighter and warmer Billy turned up earlier and earlier. They spent so much time together that their touches grew less urgent and more lingering. Sometimes they just sat together in companionable silence. Sometimes Billy would rummage through the kitchen and make them something to eat. In those months he learned a lot of small details about Billy. He could tell the difference between when he was annoyed versus trying to annoy him. He knew what songs he liked, how he ate his eggs and how important the necklace he always wore was.

The worst times were when he'd turn up later than usual with a wild look in his eyes but silence on his tongue. Steve usually talked his way through any anxieties he was feeling. It was like he was full of conflicting emotions and he felt like he would explode if he didn't get them out. Billy became very quiet and very still. There was a strange tension about him that felt like a bomb was about to go off. Steve would become stiff watching him desperately wanting him to tell him what was wrong. Billy was too lost inside his head. So he learned to adapt. He pushed away how he was feeling and just sat with him. Let himself become a comforting presence in the room. A silent companion who would never judge and be here to lend strength.

It didn't happen overnight. It was a long slow process but finally, a small crack appeared. It had been holding back an avalanche. He let it wash over him, all the pain, frustration and fear. Billy couldn't look at him so he took his hand instead. Something changed that night. Everything between them became more charged but also more familiar. Butterflies filled his stomach. His heart raced every time Billy smiled at him. He dreamt of holding his hand in the halls of Hawkins high. His heart ached for all the things he couldn't have. He dug out Amelia's books and let himself get lost in the past. He had wanted a fairytale romance, someone who would love him unconditionally and without question. Everything would be perfect, they would never argue or be cold towards each other. Their home would be warm and full of laughter.

Yet he had learned recently that fairytales weren't true. He wanted all the messy things that made you love another person. He wanted their happiness, their sorrow and everything in between. He had been dreaming for so long that he hadn't let reality in and that had been the death knell for every relationship he had. He wanted to tell Billy these things but although they had grown closer Billy still seemed to care about his reputation. Steve understood especially with everything he knew now but it didn't make it hurt any less. He stopped looking for Billy in the halls. He tried not to think about him outside of the times they spent together inside his house. It was easy to get swept up in his feelings there. He could even pretend they were reciprocated by the look in Billy's eyes and how desperately he clung to him.

His time at school was coming to an end and everyone seemed to have moved past what happened. He didn't get as many pitying looks and people started to acknowledge him again. Even Tommy had started to seek him out from time to time. They weren't where they'd been before but they had too much history to never speak again. Parties for the seniors started to pick up as the clock ran out and Steve found himself being invited. He had reservations until Tommy cornered him after lunch on Friday afternoon to make sure he was going. He wanted so badly to move past everything that had happened that he agreed.

That night he spent way too much time on his outfit and hair. He didn't even know who he was trying to impress. He felt nervous like he was back in middle school and attending his first dance. Yet when he arrived it felt as though he'd never left the popular crowd. Members of the basketball team engaged him in a light-hearted drinking contest. Tommy was trying to make up with Carol and used him as an icebreaker. A few cheerleaders cornered him with questions about what he was doing after graduation. He felt at ease in their presence for the first time since Nancy told him the truth. Everything clicked into place and he felt relaxed and happy for the first time in a long time outside of his time with Billy. He looked around the party when he realised that Billy wasn't there. He had briefly brought the party up in conversation after he was cornered by Tommy but he'd seemed very noncommittal.

Tommy dragged him out the back of the house to watch other members of the basketball team attempt the keg king record. He lied about his parents needing to be picked up in the morning from the airport so he didn't have to take part. Tommy had made fun of him for it but there was a warmth to it that had been missing. Tommy's attempt was disastrous but he'd never been able to hold his drink. When he inevitably failed he stumbled after Carol after she rolled her eyes and walked away. Steve wandered back into the party and came face to face with his worst nightmare.

Billy was standing near the drinks table with a beer clenched tightly in his fist. He was in his usual blue jeans and a white shirt that only had a few buttons done. His hair was styled in a way that Steve knew took a long time to get just right but looked as though he'd just rolled out of bed and finger-combed it. He looked good but effortless. The way he always did, especially when going on a date. Standing beside him looking up at him as though he'd hung the moon was a blonde cheerleader called Tracy. She was petite with large grey eyes and a delicate doll-like face. Steve knew her vaguely through Carol as they'd bonded over their shared dislike of history. She lived in his neighbourhood and he knew his mom liked her mom. They sometimes had coffee together when their husbands were at work. She leaned closer to Billy and wrapped her arm around his. Billy took a sip of his beer and barely acknowledged her. Steve felt his heart sink.

Is that what he looked like when they were together? He would never get to be in public with Billy, not while they were in Hawkins. He thought about another place and time when it would be acceptable. Would Tracy be standing where he was now thinking about how pathetic Steve Harrington looked as he mooned over Billy? He knew Billy had a reputation to uphold but while Steve could feel himself falling over the cliff of his feelings he couldn't tell where Billy was. He kept coming back but was that only because Steve was convenient? Nancy's angry eyes flashed through his mind and he felt a pain in his chest as he imagined Billy doing the same. Billy laughed at him for thinking it was more than sex. Billy grows angry and cold. He could feel that itchy feeling in the back of his throat. His eyes stung until his vision blurred. He discreetly wiped at his eyes and looked around him. No one was paying him any attention. He took a deep breath and walked out the door.

He walked briskly towards his car but just as he pulled out his keys he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Leaving us so soon?"

His heart was hammering in his chest as he unlocked the driver's side door.

"Yeah, I have to go. Early start tomorrow."

"Want some company?"

"I wouldn't want to take you away from the party."

"What about what I want?"

He couldn't bear to hear that mischievous tone in Billy's voice. He took a steadying breath and turned around.

"Just go back inside Billy."

Billy's smile slid off his face. He moved closer. His body straightened.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just want to be alone."

"Bullshit."

He licked his lips nervously. It was better to just say it out loud. It would be painful but at least he'd leave with some dignity.

"We can't do this anymore."

Billy moved closer. His eyes grew wide as though he were trying to take everything in.

"Billy let's not draw this out…it was good while it lasted but…"

Billy pinned him against the side of the car and kissed the words right out of his mouth. He resisted for only a moment but knew he was powerless against what he wanted. Billy pulled back slightly but pressed his face into Steve's throat. His breath tickled his skin as he spoke.

"Is this really what you want you're the only thing worth a damn to me in this whole town and if it's something I've done or said tell me now."

He placed a lingering desperate kiss on Steve's pulse that he could feel beating against his skin. His heart was racing. His stomach ached. A relieved laugh bubbled up his chest.

"We're both idiots."

Billy lifted his head. His eyes stared intently at Steve until he smiled at him. Billy's expression softened.

"As long as we can keep being idiots together."

Steve leaned forward and captured his lips in a soft kiss. There was nothing he wanted more.

[bogleech]

Lately I keep thinking about environmental campaigns since roughly my childhood had to play up rainforests as these bright, shiny, heavenly fairy-tale utopias in order to get people to care about them. But in older media they're like dark, terrifying, brutal primordial deathworlds, the "SAVAGE UNTAMED JUNGLE!!!!" to the point that we still call the same exact thing a "jungle" in media if it's supposed to be more dangerous and exciting, even though there's really no technical distinction there. The reality though is that both are simultaneously true. I keep going on this rant lately but everything scary, painful, disturbing or dangerous about nature IS beautiful and wonderful and awesome!!! It fucking sucks that the majority of people only want to care about nature if they can comfortably hike it in their jorts and their crocs and only care about animal species if they're pretty to look at, useful or cuddle-able. "Rainforests" are absolutely kickass brutal primordial deathworlds. They're beautiful and precious and fantastic but they are also places where leeches will rain down on you from the trees until all your clothes are bloodstained and stinging ants the size of your thumb will make you feel like you're burning to death with a sting and one scratch from that adorable little monkey can torture you to death with sepsis. You'd never even guess, from how rainforests are portrayed on TV, that the thick canopy means they're actually dark as shit 24/7.

We get told piranhas actually aren't scary and that's true! The dreaded candiru is also so unlikely to attack humans we still don't know for sure if it really happens! But you don't hear about the Amazonian catfish, the size of a piranha, and incidentally also sometimes called a "candiru catfish," that convergently evolved with a cookie cutter shark and comes out at night to bite big round scoops of flesh from unsuspecting thighs:

I would love to meet all of these terrible awful things and I want them all to thrive forever and ever. Please love nasty things. We are nasty things. We're the nasty things planet and it rocks.

[verreprincesse]

Disney Couple Cinderella and Charming

By GFantasy92

[dotster001]

Waking Him up with a Kiss

Summary: Malleus/Silver/Jamil x Gn!Reader. You wake your lover up with a kiss.

Requested by an anon. Fuck you, Tumblr.

CW: Jamil is kinda sus but I wouldn't be doing him justice if he wasn't.

Also! Always get consent from your partner before kissing them in their sleep! That's a cool kid thing to do!

He'd been hinting at this for a while now. All his life, Lilia had regaled him with fairy tales where the sleeping prince or princess was woken with true love's kiss. Malleus had always been a hopeless romantic, and, damn, did he want that!

He'd left the books out when he slept over. He made sure that if he knew you would come looking for him, he'd nap on his back. He sighs dreamily (and loudly) whenever he rereads those fairytales next to you. He waxes on and on about how romantic being awoken with a kiss is. He knows he's dense. But he thinks you're worse.

Lilia giggles and says to be patient, Silver says to just tell you what he wants, and Sebek says to just banish you for the treason of making him sad. He decides that Lilia has never steered him wrong before, so he decides to be patient.

And one day it happens. He's dreaming of you, walking through a meadow, hand in hand. You turn to him, your radiant smile glowing brighter than the sun of his dreams. You press your lips to his, gentle as a cloud, and it feels so real that he doesn't want to wake up.

But he does, and he moans a little as he regrets losing the dream world. But the feeling of your lips doesn't fade. Light as a cloud, gentle as a dove, a feeling that makes him feel so full inside he thinks he'll burst.

His eyes flutter open, and there you are, on your knees in the grass, smiling softly as you push one of his dark bangs away from his eyes. He smiles sleepily, putting together that his dream came true.

“Now that you've given me a taste, I hope you know that I am insatiable,” he said, his voice still husky with sleep. You giggled, as though you thought he was joking.

Oh, you sweet little human.

He is not joking.

He has told you this on many occasions. If you are hanging out, and he falls asleep, do whatever you need to to wake him up. He originally tried to be chill about it, but eventually he let on just how much it distressed him when he missed time with you. He didn't want to miss out on any time with you. Yes, it was partially for you. But if he was honest, it was mostly for him. It hurt his chest to think about losing time with someone he loved. Being around the fae taught him every moment mattered.

Usually, you try everything. You shake him, you steal his pillow, you bang a pot, you set three alarms to go off at the same time. But today, you tried something different.

Silver blinked his eyes open, only to be met by your uncertain ones staring back at him, your face hovering a few inches above his.

He gently lifted a hand to his lips, the ghost of your kiss lingering. He may not have been fully awake for it, but he knows it happened.

His mind was immediately transported to a moment in his youth. He was sitting by his father, sniffling sadly because he fell asleep during Lilia's birthday party. 

“Ah, my sweet son,” Lilia said with a warm smile, gently nuzzling his cheek against Silver's. “I know it's not your fault. Even doctors have told you you can't help it. I am not upset at all.”

“But it's your birthday,” Silver sniffled. “I feel like I must be cursed.”

Lilia's eyes widened in understanding.

“That must be it!” He said excitedly. He ran to the nearby bookshelf and pulled off a book, before nodding sagely.

“Yes, that must be it, look,” he flipped to a page in the story, pointing to a picture of a sleeping princess being kissed awake by a knight in shining armor. “I know this curse! When you find true love, perhaps their kiss will save you!”

Silver excitedly nodded at the picture, his eyes wide.

Lilia snapped the book shut, authoritatively. “But until then, I don't want you to be sad when you fall asleep. Your hero will save you one day. And they might be sad that they took a long time to save you. So if you are less hard on yourself, it might help them feel better. Promise?”

Silver nodded happily.

Lilia is a menace, filling his son's heads with fairytales. /Affectionate

In the present, Silver smiled softly.

“Did you kiss me awake?”

“Sorry, I know I should have asked, but I figured when you said wake me up however I can-”

“That's correct. I could have said it plainly, but this is definitely what I pictured when I said that. But in case you need me to verbally say it, yes, please continue to wake me up like this. I think I will wake up every single time.”

You smiled at him, still hovering over him, making him long for your kiss again.

“You know, I wasn't awake for the last one. Would you please kiss me again?”

You giggled, then leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

“I feel like I need more ways to show my love for you,” you said thoughtfully. Jamil sat next to you on your bed in Ramshackle, reading over your report, and checking for mistakes.

“And what makes you say that?” He hummed in amusement.

“Seriously? You do everything for me! And I'm just kinda here!”

“I'm perfectly satisfied with that. In fact, I'd rather do all the hard stuff so that you have the energy to shower me in affection when I'm done,” he snickered to himself. If anything, a small selfish part of him liked the idea of you feeling like you had something to prove. It made you a very physically affectionate lover to “make up for it”. And while he was easily flustered, he very much liked the gentle caresses, warm embraces, and hungry kisses you gave him.

“Tell you what,” he hummed, handing you back the marked up report. It would take you hours to make the corrections. He loved you, but you were at a disadvantage when it came to college courses in the laws of magic. “I'm going to take a nap. When you finish, I'd really feel loved if you kissed me awake.”

He laid down, resting an arm over his eyes. 

“You could just stay the night if you're that tired,” you said in that tone of voice that only came when you were pouting.

“Can't. Kalim has a test tomorrow, and I need to make sure he wakes up for it.”

You grumbled something, but he was already out cold.

He felt…warm. He softly sighed, as he felt your kiss deepen. Still not opening his eyes, he wrapped an arm around your neck, and continued sleepily kissing you. Yeah. This is the life he wanted. To be rewarded for his hard work with your affection.

He finally opened his eyes with a scowl when you pulled away.

“I didn't say to stop. This is about expressing your love, right?” He snickered.

You pouted. “I miss when every single thing would fluster you.”

He scowled and stood up, stretching away the sleepiness as he prepared for his trek back to his dorm.

“I don't.”

You smiled sweetly, then reached out for his hair.

“Luckily,  I can still make you all blushy when I play with your hair.”

Tag list- @shytastemakerthing @eccedentesiast-sapphic @leoll @stygianoir @pikeru565

“Good night love,” he scowled as he stormed out of the room.

....

[jo-com]

Charles jealous and possessive please 🔥 Smut. Thank you so much ❤️

₊˚⊹♡ ➛ le mien

Charles Leclerc x Fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Mine

Genre: DARK fic.

Word: 2.03k words

TW: baby trapping, p and c penetration, possessiveness, jealousy, branding, manipulation, obsessive behavior, bit angsty, corruption, brainwashing, wrap it before you tap it folks and overall messed up shit. This is not proofread and there are some grammatical error also google translated french. if uncomfortable minors do not interact!!

─────── ─ ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ ─ ───────

Y/username just posted!

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Y/username Happy 4th Anniversary Mon amour!

Charles_Leclerc i love you so much darling!

Y/username i love you more💋💋💋

Carlossainz55 Stay strong guys!

User1 Cutest Couple ever🙈

User2 JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY

User3 Agreed😍

Y/bff The cutest fr

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❤️ liked by charles_leclerc and author

…

Despite all the love you share on social media, nothing can compare to the real truth that exists beyond the internet.

People don't see the things he does behind closed doors—all those emotional abuse, obsessive behavior, and possessiveness. Never, even once, do people know that it's happening between the two of you.

All they know is the sweet words you guys share in each other's posts and the way you act whenever there are people around you two—all sweet and loving like one of those fairy tale romances you read. But behind all that, they don't see how hurt you are mentally. It was happening constantly, and you were so used to it that you became numb and just succumbed to the growing pain you feel inside. 

To the point where you act like his puppet—doing everything that pleases him, and acting the way he wants you to.

You never once complained, thinking that it was just how love goes.

You were a fool. A fool blinded by "love".

...

"Hey y/n/n, are you alright? Me and mom have been worried about you; you haven't been going to our usual family gathering." your sister asked over the phone.

It was true; you haven't been going to those gatherings for a while now, only because Charles said, "It's not safe to go outside," and of course, like the sweet girlfriend doll you were, you followed his words.

You stared blankly, your mind wandering off. You tend to get lost in thoughts nowadays, and you're not sure why. Maybe it's from the stress you've been feeling, but you just brushed it off like it was nothing.

"Yeah, I am good. I've just been busy lately, you know? Keeping the house safe and everything," you chuckled dryly. 

"You know I can tell when there's something wrong, right? So just tell me."

Before you could answer, Charles walked into the room. With one hand holding Leo, he was snuggled up nice and cozy in his embrace. His eyes roamed around the room searching for you; his gaze then fell prey on your meek figure—you sat there holding the phone in one hand while the other rested on the softly fabricated couch. You looked angelic, as if untouched by any form of evil. 

Then again, Charles wasn't just any form of evil; he was the reincarnation of the devil himself, and he wanted nothing more than to corrupt your innocence.

With a soft smile, Charles walked to where you sat, sitting beside you and settling leo down on his lap. 

"Who are you talking to poupée (doll)?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Oh, just my sister; we were just catching up on things." You muttered, your voice quivering slightly; you don't know whether you were scared or just have some sore throat that made your voice crack.

Charles looked at you in disbelief, his eyes narrowing with skepticism, and simply turned his attention back at Leo. "Hang up the phone," he said bluntly, not even sparing you a glance.

"But baby, we were just talking." You tried to argue with him, telling him that you just wanted to chat with your sister, but as usual, he blocked your words of plea and glared at you—he always does that, looking at you as if he were judging your whole soul.

His eyes have always been your weakness; they both scare and pleasure you at the same time. Charles knows that, and he uses it to his advantage every time.

The atmosphere in the room was heavy; you could feel it weighing down and crushing your spirit.

Sighing defeatedly, you had no choice but to end the call with your sister and not further complicate things.

"Hey, uhm, sis, I'll just call you back, okay? Something just came up."

You didn't even let your sister respond before hanging up the call. Charles hummed contentedly and patted the seat next to him. At that very moment, you felt angry with him, but you knew that you couldn't do anything about it, so you sucked it up and sat beside him. Leaning close to his embrace.

"Bonne fille, ma chérie (good girl, my darling)," he mumbbled softly, kissing the roof of your head.

...

Charles gripped your waist tightly, his jaws clenched, and hands balled up to a fist. He half-ass smiled at the man, trying to compose himself—fighting back the urges to beat the shit out of the guy in front of them.

He saw the way he looked at you; his eyes scanned each and every part of your body like you were some kind of art on display. fucking disgusting. 

You, on the other hand, held on to him, almost ripping the fabric of his clothes with your tight grip. You paid no mind to the guy he was talking to and just stared at the bustling room; in there, people were having fun, dancing, and drinking with others. 

At that moment, you didn't care about Charles or who he was conversing with; all you wanted was to spring free from his embrace and just party wild with others. Was that too much to ask for?

For him, it was. If it was legal, he wanted nothing more than to lock you up and live the rest of your lives together. So, having that idea was just wishful thinking—it never hurts to dream, though. 

"I'll see you around, yeah?" The man asked, earning a subtle nod from Charles as an acknowledgment.

"Quel putain de cinglé (what a fucking weirdo)," he mumbled under his breath, his accent making the words sound more spiteful and venomous.

You didn't hear him say that. You were too busy to admire people's enjoyment and bask in the laughter and smiles that surround you. How could people be as care free like that? The ache on your heart only grows fonder. Oh, how you wish you could do the same. 

With your head up in the clouds, you didn't seem to notice the angry monegasque that stood beside you, cursing you in any language he knew. The next thing you felt was a harsh sting that rested on your jaw.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? I've been trying to talk to you! What are you even looking at? Are you cheating on me, Chienne (Bitch)?" he yelled, not even caring anymore if people heard him.

Your breath hitches, eyes widening, and heart racing fast.

His hands were now on your jaws, gripping them with sheer strength. You didn't know what was going on or why this was  happening to you. You were always so nice and never did anything to cause harm, so why?

All those questions in your mind made your vision go blurry and your head spin, causing you to black out on the spot.

...

You woke up the next day with a pounding headache and only bits of memories of what happened that night. "Ouch," you winced, massaging your head to try and ease the pain. 

As if on cue, Charles walked in with medicine on his left hand and a glass of water on the right. 

His face lit up, seeing that you were now awake. He softly smiled and walked towards your shared bed. The matress dipped down as he sat next to your sitting body.

"Are you feeling better, mon amour?" he asked. His hand was about to stroke your cheeks, but out of reflex, your body flinched at his sudden movement. 

That made Charles frown. You know how bipolar his mood has been; that's why you've been extra careful not to ruin it. You were expecting him to be mad, but what happened was the opposite. He only sighed deeply and lowered his head. 

"I am sorry, Mon cœur." Your being shocked was an understatement; in fact, you were flabergasted at his words. You never knew that hearing him say that would make you want to tear up.

"Hey, baby, it's okay. I know you didn't mean for it to happen," you assured him, and rubbed circles around his arm. 

And just like that, Charles once again got you wrapped around his finger. You were way too easy to convince and so naive that you'd fall for anything he said.

He slowly lift up his head and gave you a light smile.

You then melted at his expression, it was silly of you to think that a face like that could ever harm you. he would never do that.

...

"Fuck, Charlie, put it in already, please," you begged, your eyes watering from the overstimulation. His hands gripped your waist tighter—muscles flexing in the process. 

"You're so needy for my cock, mon amour," he breathes out. 

The two of you have been at it for half an hour now, both out of breath and with marks made by one another. Your bodies were sticky with each other's bodily fluids, but you guys paid no mind to that. Only focusing on reaching the pleasure you both wanted so badly.

Without wasting a second, Charles huridly inserted his dick into your aching core. Your eyes widened from the sudden sensation between your thighs; you could feel how he was stretching you, and the need for him to satisfy you only increased. 

"Move, please" you said, your voice quivering and hands scratching his back to let out some of the pain.

Your legs instantly rested on his lower hip, wanting to keep him as close to you as possible. You don't know why you're acting like that, but you suddenly got the urge to mount him and fuck him till dawn. 

"Shit baby, you're always so tight," he chuckled, his left hand settled in the headboard while his right hand played with the nub of your tits.

His hips clashed with yours, making the two of you a moaning mess. Charles then dove down to your breast and licked it, biting and teasing them. He made sure to leave plenty of marks. 

"Oh god, i..i am about to come," you gasped, your toes curling from the rush of adrenaline coursing through you. 

"Just come for me, baby," he said, continuously pounding into you, your flesh crashing at each other and making a loud, smacking sound.

His hand then snaked up to hold onto your ankles, lifting it up. Shifting his dick into a deeper position.

With the new found position, your vision started to go blur; now only seeing nothing but stars. Your mind then turns hazy, and hands gripping tightly on the duvet sheet that scattered on the bed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck" was the only thing you said before collapsing on the matress, your body convulsing with pleasure as your juices slowly fall down your flush tighs.

"Damn, all that for me, ma chérie?" Charles laughed, licking his lower lip at how ravishing you look; fucked out and cockdumb for him.

He continued to rut his hips to your overstimulated cunt. "Fuck, Je veux mettre un bébé en toi (i want to put a baby inside you)" he mumbled, not minding your state and carried on fucking you into an oblivion.

"I'ma fill you with my cum, make you a mama and the fill you up again....fuck" he rambled, his hips never stoping, not until he reach his high.

And after a few more thrust, he finally came inside of you— his eyes rolling in the back of his head with satisfaction. He continued to rut into you; not wanting to spill his cum and then coating your walls with his white seed.

You were sure to get pregnant by that and after that, you two are going to be tied forever, just like he planned.

...

yeah that was pure filth, hope you guys like it though! My requests are always open.

[yinyuedijun]

NIGHT FLOWER: part i

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

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

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

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

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

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

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

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

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

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re hiring me?”

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

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

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

“Kakavasha—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

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

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

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

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

“You're a shit liar.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

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

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

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

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

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

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

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

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You can't know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

It gutted you.

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

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

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

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hated being an alpha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

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

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

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

“I’ve barely—”

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

“You really need—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

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

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

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

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

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

Both of you inhale sharply.

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

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

Fuck.

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

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

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

Something claws the walls of your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—before he looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...oh.”

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

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

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

You only want him to feel safe.

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

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

He does eventually speak.

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

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

Aventurine breathes in.

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

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

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

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

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

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

“Although?” you prompt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

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

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

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

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

end part i

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

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additional end notes