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yinyuedijun · 1 year ago

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NIGHT FLOWER: part i

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

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

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

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

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

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

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

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

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

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re hiring me?”

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

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

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

“Kakavasha—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

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

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

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

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

“You're a shit liar.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

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

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

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

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

“Aventurine.”

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

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

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

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

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You can't know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

It gutted you.

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

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

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

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hated being an alpha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

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

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

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

“I’ve barely—”

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

“You really need—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

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

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

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

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

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

Both of you inhale sharply.

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

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

Fuck.

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

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

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

Something claws the walls of your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine is always afraid.

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—before he looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...oh.”

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

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

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

You only want him to feel safe.

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

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

He does eventually speak.

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

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

Aventurine breathes in.

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

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

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

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

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

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

“Although?” you prompt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

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

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

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

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

end part i

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

and thank you most of all to YOU! I appreciate you so much for reading this chapter. thank you so much for sticking it through.

additional end notes

#aventurine x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #cw.omegaverse #cw.slavery #cw.sa #dead dove

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samiligia · 9 months ago

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Tales of Forge and Fortune is a whimsical cozy fantasy tabletop roleplaying game that lets players create and take on the role of a budding blacksmith who sets out to forge a legacy, on their own or with friends! You'll explore lands, both near and far, to gather the resources required to craft countless wonders that you can keep for yourself or sell in your shop to the masses!

#cozy fantasy #artwork #ttrpg community #indie ttrpg #please add to wishlist #fat dragon #shark person #mechanic chair #smith #cozy vibes #cozy aesthetic

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arcanegifs · 1 month ago

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A lot of people don't seem to know about Riot Forge, which is basically a publisher for Riot's single player games set in the League of Legends universe. League has great lore, and I was really happy to see them develop a bunch of single player games.

If you don't want to play League (please don't and save your sanity from the playerbase lmao) Riot actually have a small catalog of other games. Here's a list of them:

CONVERGENCE: A League of Legends Story™

Genre: 2D Platformer Description: Traverse the sprawling city of Zaun as Ekko, a young inventor with a device to manipulate time, in this story-driven action platformer. Collect parts, craft gadgets, and unlock abilities—then rewind time to adapt your approach to every new challenge. Steam Link

Bandle Tale: A League of Legends Story

Genre: Cozy, Life Sim, Crafting Description: Bandle Tale: A League of Legends Story is a crafting RPG set in the whimsical world of Bandle City. After a party goes wrong, the portals that connect your home collapse and throw everything into chaos! Using your knitting magic and backpack house, restore the portals to reunite Bandle City. Steam Link

Song of Nunu: A League of Legends Story

Genre: Action Adventure RPG Description: Two best friends, one wild adventure. Join best friends Nunu and Willump on an adventure across the frozen wilds of the Freljord. Song of Nunu: A League of Legends Story is a single-player story adventure developed by Tequila Works. Steam Link

Hextech Mayhem: A League of Legends Story™

Genre: Rhythm and Platformer Description: In this fast-paced rhythm runner, every action has an explosive reaction and no amount of mayhem is too much. Take on the role of Hexplosives expert Ziggs as you rampage through the neighborhoods of Piltover! Personal Experience: If you like rhythm games, then this is for you. It's pretty much similar to a Mario clone, but you gotta time your actions to the music. I personally played it for a bit, but I was never good at rhythm games lol. Steam Link

Ruined King: A League of Legends Story™

Genre: Turn Based RPG Description: Rise Against Ruin - Unite a party of League of Legends Champions, explore Bilgewater and set sail for the Shadow Isles to uncover the secrets of the deadly Black Mist in this immersive turn-based RPG. Personal Experience: I've played this game and it's pretty good. If you like turn based games, their battle system is fun. The lore focuses mostly on Bilgewater with Miss Fortune and the Shadow Isles with Viego. Overall, a solid RPG. Steam Link

The Mageseeker: A League of Legends Story™

Genre: 2D Hack and Slash RPG Description: From Digital Sun, creators of Moonlighter, The Mageseeker is an action RPG in the League of Legends universe. Play as Sylas, a mage now freed from years in captivity. Wield the chains that once bound you and liberate Demacia from the Mageseekers' tyranny. Steam Link

Unfortunately, most of Riot Forge games didn't meet Riot’s profitability expectations, so they ultimately decided to cancel new game development.

You can still buy them on most platforms though. All of them have pretty decent reviews, except for Bandle Tale, as that game seems to be riddled with bugs.

And oh, wait for a sale. Imo, only Ruined King was worth full price for me, but that was because I enjoy turn based RPGs the most.

#if youre an arcane fan you should check out ekko's game #i didnt play it cuz i SUCK at platformers lol #wish i had time to play all of them but ive only played ruined king and hextech mayhem haha #its kinda depressing they axed the solo games ksdjfskdjf i rlly dont wanna go back and play LoL lmao #personal tag #league of legends #riot forge

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nebuladreamerrr · 1 year ago

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Holaaa can I request another Mbappe imagine where you’re married to Kylian but somehow his family never noticed that you don’t drink. While you’re at his parent’s house and his mom offers you wine you told her no thanks. And she got a mini heart attack thinking you were announcing that you’re pregnant😂

I hope you like it, sweetheart ❤️❤️❤️

Problematic beverage| Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: To commemorate you and Kylian's last night in France you decide to have a farewell dinner, but one drink will set off alarm bells among all the guests.

Warnings: English is not my first language, and I am not a doctor so some medical information might be wrong.

As I indulged in a tranquil shower and meticulously selected my attire for the upcoming occasion, a sense of gratitude washed over me knowing that the celebration would be held at my mother-in-law's residence. While venturing out to explore new culinary delights with Kylian was a beloved pastime, today, the allure of a cozy night at home held greater appeal.

Since the morning, I had been grappling with slight abdominal discomfort, but it was the violent expulsion of my breakfast that sent alarm bells ringing. A sigh escaped my lips, a reflexive response to the familiar discomfort that had plagued me since childhood. From a young age, I had endured sporadic bouts of stomach pain, often coinciding with stressful events like ballet competitions or pivotal exams.

My mother, recognizing the pattern of discomfort over time and the occasional severity of the pain, decided to seek medical advice. It was then confirmed by the doctor that I was suffering from chronic pancreatitis. Fortunately, this diagnosis did not thwart my aspirations nor impede my plans. Nevertheless, there were limitations imposed by my condition, one of them being the prohibition of alcohol consumption.

I vividly recall the bewildered expression on my face when the doctor delivered the news that alcohol was off-limits due to its potential exacerbation of my condition. Despite having never partaken in revelry or imbibed alcohol, I comprehended its central role in youthful socialization. I anticipated feeling excluded and feared it would hinder my ability to forge friendships. However, fortune smiled upon me as I found companions who reveled in diverse activities, such as leisurely picnics punctuated by impromptu art sessions and beach outings adorned with sunset photography. While occasional forays into nightlife did occur, they were infrequent. Moreover, my aversion to alcohol transcended mere medical necessity; it stemmed from a profound apprehension regarding its transformative effects on individuals, a sentiment that prompted a steadfast commitment to abstention.

I crossed paths with Kylian at a charity gala where young French athletes, each with an inspiring tale to share, were invited to engage with children and organize activities, with the proceeds earmarked for various charitable causes. His speech resonated deeply with me, capturing both his pride and underlying sense of unease at being in the spotlight. His exact words, etched in my memory, were: "It's in these moments that I often feel out of place because, despite many of you seeking wisdom from me, it's I who must truly learn from all of you and your resilience in the face of adversity." Fortunately, I also captured his attention. When my presentation concluded, he couldn't resist approaching me, ostensibly to delve deeper into my world as we leisurely meandered through the buffet arrayed by the gala's organizers.

His heart nearly skipped a beat when I declined his offer of wine, yet my reassuring smile assuaged his concern as I disclosed my health condition, explaining the potential ramifications of alcohol consumption. Eager to learn more about me, Kylian exhibited a genuine interest in every facet of my life: from my ballet classes and training regimen to the nuances of my medication routine and anything remotely connected to me. Thus, a swift friendship blossomed between us, evolving into a profound romantic bond over the course of just a few months—a connection I wouldn't trade for anything in this world.

Four years ago, when we embarked on our relationship, we were both young and full of energy. Kylian, in particular, made the most of his free time by hanging out with friends, often leading to lively gatherings. Despite this, Kylian maintained a sense of discipline and restraint when it came to alcohol consumption. Instances of indulgence were typically reserved for national festivities or significant triumphs for his team or the national squad. However, everything changed when he met me. Suddenly, I became his top priority.

Kylian's transformation was profound. He meticulously documented all of my medications in a calendar, ensuring that I adhered to my prescribed regimen. If he couldn't be present when I needed to take my medication, he set an alarm to remind me. Additionally, he curtailed his social outings significantly, and on many occasions, he refused to attend events if I couldn't accompany him. When we did venture out together, our excursions were brief, as Kylian was adamant about not subjecting me to any discomfort.

On our wedding day, Kylian solemnly declared that his every decision would revolve around me, promising never to take any action that didn't prioritize my well-being above all else.

Thankfully, my illness never prevented me from attending any of Kylian's games. He cherished my presence, considering me his "lucky charm." It was through these matches that I had the pleasure of meeting my in-laws, whom Kylian introduced me to after one such game. As the Ligue 1 season progressed, so did my relationship with his parents, and I couldn't help but feel blessed by the bond we shared. Kylian's parents took immense pride in their son's career, and when I mentioned my occasional ballet performances, they eagerly pledged their attendance at my next show. This promise was fulfilled a few months ago when I took to the stage, greeted by the sight of my partner and his parents in the audience.

The decision to depart from France proved to be a challenging ordeal for both of us. It was a place that held significance for each of us individually; for Kylian, it was where he found trust and unwavering support, particularly during his darkest moments. Likewise, for me, it served as the backdrop for my personal and artistic growth, particularly in my beloved pursuit of ballet. However, I was acutely aware that leaving France would entail a narrowing of job prospects, given that few other nations accorded dance, especially ballet, the same level of priority.

Thus, when Kylian broached the idea of a modest gathering to mark the conclusion of a significant chapter in our lives, I couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Initially slated to unfold at a private restaurant in the heart of Paris, a venue Kylian frequented with his friends and where he once celebrated his maiden PSG paycheck, the plans swiftly shifted. Sensing my discomfort on the eve of the event, Kylian promptly altered course, opting instead to host the gathering at his mother's residence—a more proximate locale to our abode. Here, I could seek respite in the guest room if my discomfort intensified, shielded from any prying eyes or unwelcome scrutiny.

With a sense of urgency, I hastened to complete my preparations, summoning Kylian to assist with the delicate task of fastening the gray satin dress adorning my frame. His admiring whistle upon beholding me in the garment, accompanied by the endearing epithet "my beautiful woman," served to ignite a flutter of warmth within me, intensified by the tender kiss planted upon my collarbone.

As we stepped into my mother-in-law's abode, she greeted me with an exuberant embrace, sharing how she had procured my favorite appetizers and guiding me toward the others, while Kylian grumbled behind me, visibly "irritated" by his mother's preference for embracing me first. In response, I couldn't resist playfully sticking out my tongue.

Upon crossing the threshold onto the terrace, Kylian's friends extended warm welcomes. Kylian, ensuring my comfort and safety, opted to leave me engaged in a delightful conversation with Melissa and his mother.

"How are you, y/n? I was genuinely concerned when Kylian mentioned you weren't feeling well," Fayza remarked, her tone laden with worry.

"I've been better, but thankfully, at the moment, my discomfort is limited to stomach issues, so things are more or less manageable for now," I responded, seeking to allay their concerns.

"Well, y/n, do tell us. Have you managed to secure a place with any academy or instructor for your inaugural performance in Spain?" Melissa inquired eagerly.

"I've reached out to several, but I've had to turn down many options because they weren't the right fit for me. They seemed more interested in my relationship with Kylian than my craft. However, in recent days, I've connected with one that genuinely seemed invested in me, so let's hope this one pans out."

"Sweetheart, can I get you a glass of wine while you continue telling us about the move?" Fayza asked, retrieving a bottle from an ice bucket.

"No, it's okay. I can't have wine because of my condition," I replied with a smile, which quickly faded when I noticed everyone falling silent and Fayza dropping the bottle to the floor.

"When were you planning on telling us?" Ethan teased his brother.

"Telling us what, exactly?" Kylian asked, attempting to lock eyes with me for an explanation, but my cluelessness only heightened his concern.

"That y/n is pregnant," Fayza blurted out, barely able to overcome her shock.

"What?!" Kylian and I exclaimed, unable to shake off our bewilderment at his family's confusion.

"Yes, it all makes sense now: y/n's frequent vomiting, her occasional dizziness, her abdominal discomfort, and her abstaining from alcohol," Melissa exclaimed excitedly, envisioning her children having a cousin to play with.

"What? No, no, there's been a misunderstanding. I can't drink because of my illness, and Kylian and I... no, we're not planning for a baby right now," I explained nervously, seeking Kylian's confirmation of my statement.

"Exactly, as she said, for now, we won't know for three weeks," Kylian chimed in, attempting to lighten the mood with a joke, but his attempt fell flat when met with my glare of disapproval.

Gradually, the atmosphere returned to normal as Fayza apologized to both of us for her reaction. It wasn't that she didn't want grandchildren; she simply thought we had chosen to keep it a secret and would find out through the media when her son was abroad.

And so, we savored our final evening together, cherishing the memories to bring comfort in times of homesickness. However, Kylian couldn't help but hope that the next time we entered that house, it would be to announce a pregnancy.

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian x reader #mbappe imagine #mbappe psg #mbappe x reader

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felassan · 1 year ago

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EA Press Release. [source link]

"Unite a Team of Heroes to Defeat Rampaging Elven Gods in Dragon Age™: The Veilguard Arriving in Fall 2024 June 09, 2024 Meet the Most Captivating Companions in the Franchise with New Cinematic Trailer; Official Gameplay Reveal with More Game Details Coming Tuesday, June 11 REDWOOD CITY, Calif.--(BUSINESS WIRE)-- Electronic Arts Inc. (NASDAQ: EA) and BioWare premiered a new cinematic trailer showcasing a brand new cast of companions who will join players in their journey through Dragon Age: The Veilguard, an all-new single-player fantasy RPG experience coming to PlayStation®5, Xbox Series X|S and PC in Fall 2024. Dragon Age: The Veilguardbuilds upon the pillars the iconic series is best known for, delivering a bold and heroic adventure guided by rich storytelling, fluid and strategic combat, companions and fellowship, and choices that matter. Tune into the official gameplay reveal of Dragon Age: The Veilguard featuring more than 15 minutes of gameplay from the opening moments of the experience on Tuesday, June 11 at 8:00 a.m. PT at the Dragon Age YouTube channel. In this next chapter of the critically-acclaimed saga, players will step into Dragon Age’snewest fully-customizable hero, Rook, battling on the front lines alongside an extraordinary cast of heroes known as the Veilguard. Fellowship is central to the experience of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, with each companion entering the fray with their own storylines, motivations and skill trees. In this tale that will decide the fate of Thedas forever, Rook must rise up, rally a team and forge relationships to become the unexpected leader others believe in. “Dragon Age: The Veilguardfeatures some of the deepest companion storylines in Dragon Agehistory, navigating romance, tragic loss and complex choices that will affect relationships with players and the fate of The Veilguard,” said John Epler, Creative Director of Dragon Age: The Veilguard. “BioWare’s storytelling roots shine through every chapter of this adventure, and we are incredibly excited for Dragon Age fans as well as those new to the series to experience this crafted, character-driven narrative that is so intertwined with our studio’s DNA.” Each companion in Dragon Age: The Veilguard brings their own expertise to the field of battle, summoning the grit to stand together and face impossible odds. Throughout their adventures, players can mix and match different team combinations of two of the game’s seven total companions at a time, to adapt to certain challenges and link powerful combinations that can turn the tide of any battle. The game’s cast of companions includes: Bellara, a creative and romantic Veil Jumper obsessed with uncovering ancient secrets. Davrin,a bold and charming Grey Warden who has made a name for himself as a monster hunter. Emmrich, a necromancer of Nevarra's Mourn Watch who comes complete with a skeletal assistant, Manfred. Harding, the dwarven scout, returns to the fray as a companion with her big heart, a positive outlook, and a ready bow – as well as unexpected magical powers. Lucanis, a poised & pragmatic assassin who descends from the bloodline of the House of Crows, a criminal organization renowned throughout Thedas. Neve, a cynic fighting for a better future, both as a private detective and a member of Tevinter's rebellious Shadow Dragons. Taash, a dragon hunter allied with the Lords of Fortune who lives for adventure and doesn't mind taking risks. Fans can add Dragon Age: The Veilguardto their wishlists on PlayStation, Xbox and PC via Steam and Epic Games Store. For additional information and to stay up to date on Dragon Age: The Veilguard, visit the official website, like Dragon Ageon Facebook, follow the franchise on Discord, TikTok, Tumblr, Instagram and X (formerly Twitter), and subscribe to its YouTube channel."

[source link]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost

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thefrogdalorian · 1 year ago

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Rest

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: Despite how often you have pleaded with Din to stop and rest, your calls have gone unheeded. Your stubborn Mandalorian will not stop and take care of himself. So, when he arrives back from his latest job with the New Republic utterly exhausted, you take matters into your own hands and ensure he gets the rest he so desperately needs. Word Count: 3.1k ✯ Rating: General ✯ Content Warnings: None, pure fluff! ✯ Author's Note: I was talking with a friend earlier about how Din would go to the ends of the galaxy for those he loves and it finally got me to finish a little idea I'd been sitting one for a while. His determination and protectiveness is one of my favourite things about him, but the threat of burnout would be real! He would desperately need a rest and someone there to make sure he gets it, because you know he'd never rest himself. Anyway, thank you @suresnips for inspiring this in some way. I hope it cheers you up a little 🤍

✯ My Masterlist ✯

One of the most difficult things about sharing your life with a man whose face was near-permanently hidden, was that you were unable to spot the tell-tale signs of fatigue that were surely present on his features until things reached a crisis point. The helmet that he wore in accordance with his Creed shielded so many of the expressions which were distinctively Din Djarin from the rest of the galaxy. You thought it was a shame that they were denied the privilege of seeing the handsome features and expressive brown eyes which belonged to the Mandalorian whom you loved so dearly. Then again, it meant they were entirely reserved for you, and the little green child who completed your Clan of Three.

You had first encountered Din in the aftermath of his mission to retake Mandalore. There had been whispers that one of the Mandalorians who had helped to save your homeplanet of Nevarro from a band of diabolical pirates had taken up residence by the lava flats. You were not inclined to believe rumours and had been stunned when you had seen the gleaming unpainted beskar, dazzling in the afternoon sunlight as he made his way through the marketplace one day.

The first time you and Din had a conversation, as he bought wares from the market stall you owned, the connection had been evident. With his deep, gravelly voice and understanding, patient nature, even when you tripped over your words as you peddled your wares, you found him constantly on your mind. Over the next few months, your paths had crossed enough times for it to become evident that the feeling was mutual.

Now, you were fortunate to reside in the little cabin that Din owned by the lava flats of Nevarro. Your home was a little slice of heaven that the two of you had carved out together alongside Grogu. When you saw how hectic and chaotic Din’s life was, you were grateful that he had allowed you to get close to him. You wondered how he had managed before he had forged a life with you and how he had looked after himself before you were around to share some of the burden. Your heart ached to think of Din alone, neglecting his own needs at the expense of others. He was selfless and devoted to those he loved by nature, but sometimes Din needed taking care of himself.

Happily, now the two of you had found each other, you were a true partnership in every sense of the word.

On your worst days, Din was there to pick you up and brighten your spirits, just as, in turn, you were there for him. You celebrated each other’s successes when times were good, too. Which, fortunately, was the case more often than not. Life with Din was always exciting; even when he was away from you, he always took the effort to keep in touch.

You were stunned when you first met Din and he regaled you with details of recent events in his life, that he had not allowed himself to rest on his laurels and enjoy the glory after completing such an arduous task as retaking Mandalore. Instead, he had taken jobs with the New Republic and turned his former bounty hunting skills to helping to keep the galaxy safe. It was relentless, exhausting work. But his determined nature meant that he was only too eager to lend his services to them whenever a job came up.

Monitoring Din for signs of fatigue was particularly difficult when the best visuals you got was a grainy few minutes of his helmeted form visible on your holoprojector, or a few moments of audio on your comlink whenever his schedule permitted. You had been begging Din to rest for several weeks now, but he had not heeded your requests. Since you had moved into the cabin with him and were able to care for Grogu, it had allowed him to take more dangerous jobs that he would have felt uncomfortable with Grogu accompanying him on, such as the most recent job that he had agreed to. You had been frustrated when he informed you about another assignment. You were deathly afraid that he would work himself into the ground if he wasn’t careful. Your pleas for him to postpone the job and rest had been unheeded.

If Din wouldn’t take care of himself, it fell on your shoulders to keep an eye on him. So, this time, when he returned from his latest job, you resolved that you would not be so easy on him.

This time, Din Djarin would rest.

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The rumble of the N-1’s engines as the Nubian starfighter descended through the Nevarrian atmosphere was a welcome sound in the stillness of the night. For hours, the only sounds audible in the cabin had been the faint snores of Grogu from his room and your racing thoughts. Now, the distant growl of the engines, which turned into a roar as they grew nearer, signalled your favourite Mandalorian’s return from his most recent mission.

You were up like a shot, racing towards the door and out into the night to greet Din. Yet, any excitement you felt soon dissipated when you saw how sluggishly he moved. The man who often so energetically leapt out of the cockpit, as though it were no effort at all, was now a lethargic figure in the darkness. As he leapt onto the volcanic surface of the planet, he barely managed to regain his posture after bending his knees in a smooth landing. Instead, he leant back against the body of the N-1.

You shook your head as you approached him, frustrated that he had been so stubborn and ignored your protestations when he informed you about his latest mission. A time for scolding him would come later, though. For now, you walked across the ground, closing the distance between the two of you.

Instinctively, Din had held his arms out in preparation for you to step into his embrace. Even in his fatigued state, his exhausted body still knew that he wanted you in his arms. You smiled as you nestled your head into the crook of his neck and wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling his warmth between the cool plates of beskar.

“I missed you,” you whispered into Din’s cowl.

“I missed you too, cyare,” Din replied, his voice low and husky as he rubbed circles into your back with his large hands.

“Let’s go inside,” you insisted as you stepped away from his embrace and took his hand in yours, leading him towards the cabin. Towards home. Towards rest.

You hoped that the child you had finally managed to see settled in his cot had not awakened at the sound of the engines. Getting Grogu to sleep had only proved successful after several hours of tantrums when you had forbidden him to stay up past his bedtime to greet his father. It was probably harsh, but you knew that Din was keen that his son maintained a regular sleeping schedule. Which was ironic, considering how little he respected his own needs for rest.

Din's stubborness and insistence that he was fine meant that ensuring Din had some much-needed rest was a burden which fell squarely on you. If the way he had strained as he leapt from the N-1 had not been proof enough, his heavy footsteps as he trudged back to the cabin by your side further indicated his need for rest.

Unfortunately, as soon as you stepped through the entryway to the cabin, you were greeted by a certain child and his pleading brown eyes. Grogu had not missed his father’s return and he wanted attention. Din was never one to begrudge Grogu’s needs, and without hesitation, he pulled his helmet off and crouched down to scoop his son up. You silently cringed as you noticed the way he grunted thanks to the exertion of such an action. He desperately needed to rest.

But Din Djarin was a stubborn man.

“Din, let me put Grogu to sleep. You need to rest,” you reminded him as he took Grogu into his arms.

“I’m fine,” he shrugged off your concerns once again, “I'll put Grogu to sleep.”

As the two of them disappeared down the small hallway and into Grogu’s room, you sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration. Then, you took a deep breath and in an attempt to ensure your anger did not get the better of you. If there was one common thread that ran through Din Djarin's every action, it was his absolute devotion to his son. Nothing in this galaxy would ever stand in the way of him and Grogu. You knew Din would do anything for his son, even at the expense of his well-being.

Fortunately, you knew you were there to take care of Din. So you allowed him his precious time with his son and resolved to be there for him afterwards and take care of his weary mind and fatigued body. You padded down the hallway towards the room you and Din shared, pausing briefly outside Grogu’s room. You smiled at the sounds you could hear through the door. You could hear the heartwarming sound of a child’s giggles and the familiar rasp of Din’s husky voice as he recounted various stories from his recent mission to his son.

Satisfied that Din had not fallen asleep on top of Grogu at the very least, you entered your room and set about gathering the most luxurious pyjamas he owned. You had already changed the sheets to the softest silks in the galaxy in preparation for his return, hoping that once he felt them against his skin he would not fight you when you insisted he rest. You lay the pyjamas on the sheets and perched on the side of your cot to await Din’s return. You were content to give him some alone time with his precious boy.

Finally, leaden footsteps sounded at the door, indicating that Grogu was asleep. Now, it was time to ensure that Din finally rested.

“Hi,” Din sighed, with a smile that did not quite meet his exhausted eyes.

“Hi,” you breathed.

As he stepped towards you, you noticed how deep the wrinkles on his face had become. You always loved the lines and grooves present on his face. They complimented the greys apparent in the smattering of facial hair across his strong jawline. You thought such features made him look distinguished and handsome, rather than old and exhausted. Tonight, though, their appearanced alarmed you. They were deeper than usual. You had never seen Din look so exhausted. His usual bright, warm brown eyes were dulled and dark. They were slightly bloodshot, too. Your heart ached at the sight of him.

“You look exhausted,” you observed.

“I’m fine,” Din insisted.

“The bags under your eyes suggest otherwise.”

At your comment, Din’s ungloved hands balled into fists at his sides. He sighed through gritted teeth. You hated the way he shrugged off your concerns so nonchalantly and your observations

“Din,” you sighed, “You are allowed to rest sometimes, you know?”

“I know.”

“Well then, why don’t you let me take care of you? Why don’t you sit on the new silk sheets that I put on, especially for you, and let me take your armour off?”

“I can do it,” Din shook his head and averted his gaze.

“I know you can, but I want to help you,” you nodded as you pushed yourself off the cot and stepped towards him. “You do so much for me and Grogu. You do so much for the entire galaxy. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” Din repeated. This time, hearing those words caused something to snap inside of you. You had reached the end of your tether.

“Din, you look like you haven’t slept since you left a week ago! You’re going to run yourself into the ground!” you exclaimed forcefully, voice a little louder than you intended.

You both stopped and looked in the direction of Grogu’s room, panic-stricken that you had awoken him. Fortunately, there was no noise. Grogu still slept soundly. At your outburst, when Din’s dull eyes met yours again, you noticed that a flicker of recognition had set across his features now. He understood that resting was not a sign of weakness.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” you apologised, instantly remorseful.

“It’s alright,” Din reassured you.

“Please let me shoulder some of the burden, Din. Please don’t fight me on this,” you pleaded.

“Okay,” Din nodded and took a seat on the edge of the cot.

You busied yourself with the various intricate fixtures that attached each piece of Din’s armour to his body, placing them on the floor at his side with as much care as you had observed him pay towards them. Din would stack them properly come the morning. He was meticulous and particular about the way they fitted on each shelf of the cabinet that was fixed into the wall for the very purpose of storing his armour. Even if you stacked them yourself, Din would do it again tomorrow. Better to preserve your energy and make sure he rested first.

By the time you had finished removing his armour, Din’s head was slumped to one side and his eyes were closed. Your heart soared at sight, and the small sounds of his soft snores. Before you could even finish undressing him, he had drifted off to sleep. Finally, the creases in his face looked less terrifying. He looked so peaceful that you hated to wake him. But sleeping in his flightsuit would not be comfortable and the garments you had laid out for him were of the most luxurious material in the galaxy. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Din, I’m sorry to wake you, honey,” you said apologetically, lips against his forehead.

Din continued snoring softly. It seemed a more drastic gesture would be in order. You leaned down and pressed your lips to his, smiling softly at the way his moustache tickled your upper lip. It was slightly longer than he usually kept it which was unusual for Din, given his fastidious nature. His latest job had been so hectic that personal grooming had fallen by the wayside.

Fortunately, the kiss had the desired effect and Din’s eyes flickered open momentarily. You seized the opportunity.

“Din, why don’t you stand up for a second so I can help you into your pyjamas?” you whispered into his dark brown curls.

“Hmph,” Din grunted in response, his eyes still shut.

“It’ll be worth it, you’ll be comfortable then,” you suggested.

Din opened his eyes, bleary thanks to your rude interruption of his peaceful slumber, and nodded slowly. You steadied him as he stood to his feet on shaky legs and helped him as he removed his final garments. With the pesky flak vest and flightsuit discarded, the final barriers to Din and some much-needed rest had been removed.

Now clad in his luxurious silk pyjamas, you pulled the top sheets back for Din to clamber into the warmth and sanctuary of your cot, which he did without hesitation. In the time that it took for you to turn the light out and round the cot to join him, the quiet snores had resumed. You shook your head and smirked at the further proof – as if any more were required – of just how exhausted Din had been. You sighed in contentment as you took your place behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You rested them against his body, enjoying the warmth which radiated from his body. Sleeping in the cabin without Din felt cold and lonely, now he had returned and that contrast was even more stark.

“I love you, Din,” you whispered into the nape of his neck, watching as your breath caused the dark brown curls which lingered there to flutter slightly. “Even when you’re stubborn,” you added.

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The sensation of warm lips as they pressed a soft kiss to your forehead awoke you from the sleep you had drifted off into. Your eyelids fluttered open. In the golden light of a Nevarrian morning, you were finally able to see the warm brown eyes of the man you loved beyond comparison gazing at you adoringly.

“Good morning,” Din rasped before he claimed your lips with his in a languid kiss.

“Morning, Din,” you sighed when you finally parted. “How did you sleep?”

“I slept well, thank you,” Din nodded.

“Glad to hear it,” you murmured as you stretched your arms out.

“Thank you for last night,” Din sighed against your lips. “I’m sorry for being so pigheaded.”

“It’s alright, Din,” you smiled in gratitude that he was aware of his stubbornness. “I know being taken care of is a new experience for you.”

“It is,” Din confirmed as he rolled off you and came to rest at your side. “But I appreciate your concern.”

“I know you do,” you nodded. “Which is why you’re going to take another nap, while I wake Grogu up and prepare some breakfast for us.”

“But–”

“Ah!” you said, raising a finger to his plush lips which were currently positioned in an adorable pout. “No fighting me on this, let me take care of you. Okay?”

“Fine,” Din huffed.

“Awww,” you cooed and stroked his cheek affectionately. “You’re pretty adorable when you’re grumpy, you know?”

“I’m not adorable,” Din sulked.

“You are,” you giggled at his ridiculousness. “Now, roll over and let me hold you again until you fall asleep.”

Din turned over wordlessly, settling into position in preparation for a nap. Your arms found their position around his waist once more and you pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, which produced a rumble of laughter from somewhere deep within him.

“I love you, Din. Even when you’re stubborn,” you whispered into his ear, repeating the words that he had not heard the previous night.

“I love you too,” Din replied. “Thank you for putting up for me.”

“Of course, honey,” you nodded. “I’m stuck with you now.”

“Thank Maker. I don’t know how I ever managed before our paths crossed,” Din sighed sleepily as you placed your hands underneath his shirt and traced soothing circles into the warm expanse of his belly.

“I don’t know, either,” you chuckled at the thought.

But the time for worrying about how differently the respective courses of your lives could have taken, were it not for that chance meeting at the market on Nevarro all those months ago, would come later.

For now, it was time for Din Djarin to rest.

#din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fluff #pedro pascal characters #my fics #this is seriousl Y SO SOFT AJJGHJHH AND CALLING DIN HONEY MAYBE ILL RIP MY HAIR OUT!!!!!!#i love him i love hiM I LOVE HIM

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nodusomnis · 1 year ago

Text

title: ending scene pairing(s): aventurine x gn!reader word count: 8.6k+ synopsis: a perfect ending, a moment divine. two souls entwined, their destinies aligned.

In the wake of the debacle that unfolded within the confines of Clock Studios Theme Park, Aventurine found himself clashing with a torrent of memories, cascading upon him amidst the tumultuous clash with The Nameless. The encounter with the Emanator of Nihility, Acheron, added another layer to his introspection. He had not anticipated a meaningful exchange with her, let alone receiving the answers to the questions that had long haunted his thoughts, yet remained unspoken.

His mind had been consumed by his mission, driven by a desire to unearth the truths obscured by The Family's clandestine ploys. Yet, beneath it all, lay a vulnerability he had concealed, encased within layers of self-preservation.

Aventurine was a fragile soul, shielded by layers of barriers against the insecurities coursing through his veins. Each layer seemed meticulously etched into his being, a defense mechanism designed to protect his fractured self from further harm. It was as though he had been molded by circumstance, destined to endure until the end.

The specter of Death had loomed large, a tantalizing prospect of liberation from the shackles binding him in place. However, it appeared that fate had other designs, offering him a reprieve, albeit bittersweet. Aventurine had exhausted every resource, staked his final chip and his very essence, to grasp the one elusive prize he coveted above all else—freedom.

The sensation was intoxicating, a long-denied elation flooding his senses as he bid farewell to his former self, Kakavasha. With measured steps, he approached the yawning abyss, a void of darkness and uncertainty where his final gambit awaited. Here, amidst the unknown, his destiny beckoned, and it was within his power to seize it, to forge a new path toward the life he yearned for.

True death, once a tempting prospect, now held no sway over him. He had relinquished its grip on his destiny, opting instead to embrace the unknown with resolve, prepared to confront whatever trials lay ahead on his journey to redemption.

As Aventurine's resounding footsteps echoed through the cavernous space, punctuated by the gentle splashes of water with each step, a voice resonated within his mind, disrupting his thoughts like a sudden thunderclap in the silence.

"Do you believe your luck will never wane?"

Aventurine froze in his tracks. The voice, hauntingly familiar, sliced through the stillness, dredging up memories of chance encounters and shared moments in the Land of Festivities.

It was you, the enigmatic figure he had crossed paths with amidst the opulent walls of a Penacony casino, where the allure of chance beckoned like a siren's call.

In a rare departure from his relentless pursuit of his mission, Aventurine had allowed himself a fleeting indulgence—a dalliance with Lady Luck amidst the glittering lights and frenetic energy of the gambling den. The thrill of the game, the towering stacks of chips exchanged like currency in a high-stakes dance, held him in thrall.

Seated at the poker table, surrounded by fellow players, each with their own tales of triumph and despair, Aventurine reveled in the stimulating blend of risk and reward. The round table, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of fortunes, bore witness to his calculated gambit, his skillful manipulation of the odds.

For Aventurine, winning was not merely a possibility—it was a certainty, as innate to his being as the very act of breathing.

As Aventurine boldly wagered half of his towering stack of chips, each worth a staggering million, the atmosphere around the table crackled with disbelief, leaving his fellow players astounded and speechless. Unconcerned with the monetary value or potential rewards, he sought only the thrill of risk, a sensation that coursed through him like a tempestuous tide, simultaneously exhilarating and unnerving.

Confident in his own luck, he staked his fortune on the game, even with a modest hand of two pairs. Trusting in the whims of fate and the calculated odds, he remained poised, concealing the tumult of anxiety that churned within him beneath a mask of stoic composure.

Yet, beneath the veneer of confidence, Aventurine grappled with the relentless pounding of his heart, the palpitations echoing the intensity of his emotions. Clutching a single chip beneath the table, he clung to it as if it were a lifeline, a tangible anchor amidst the rumpus of uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm him.

"That is an audacious wager, Mr. Aventurine. Are you unequivocally committed to this course of action?" inquired the individual seated across from him, their voice tinged with apprehension.

In response to the incredulous query from his fellow player, Aventurine offered only a sardonic smirk, a silent affirmation of his resolve. "I am certain," he replied, his voice laced with a quiet confidence. "This is but the grand finale of our game—a conclusion befitting of our stakes."

"Is he not one of the Ten Stonehearts of the IPC? The individual notorious for his gambling addiction?"

"Yes, indeed. His name is rumored to be Aventurine."

As murmurs rippled through the crowd, whispers of his identity as one of the Ten Stonehearts of the IPC—a figure rumored to be consumed by the allure of gambling—reached his ears. He’s not surprised if they know him. After all, the influence wielded by the IPC was not to be underestimated, its reach extending across the cosmos, its prominence ensuring the preservation of its power and prestige. Therefore, rather than shying away from the scrutiny, Aventurine embraced the spotlight, reveling in the recognition bestowed upon him by the throngs of onlookers.

With a subtle shift of his gaze, he surveyed the faces of his fellow players, noting the flickers of trepidation that danced across their features. It was a sight that brought him a perverse sense of satisfaction, a reminder of the raw essence of gambling—the interplay of anxiety, anticipation, and despair—that fueled his very existence.

As the tension peaked and the moment of truth arrived, Aventurine and his adversary revealed their cards to unveil identical two pairs, setting the stage for a climactic showdown. However, it was Aventurine's hidden ace that tipped the scales in his favor, securing his victory in the final round and solidifying his reputation as a master of chance.

The audience erupted into gasps of awe and scattered applause, their reactions serving as testament to Aventurine's extraordinary luck and skill. Their admiration only added to the weight of his legend, reinforcing the notion of his seemingly boundless fortune.

“Do you believe your luck will never wane?”

Amidst the flurry of excitement, Aventurine's gaze intersected with where he heard the voice. There you stood, a stoic figure amidst the throngs of spectators. Your expression, devoid of the fervor that gripped the crowd, exuded a palpable indifference that set you apart from the sea of adulation.

For Aventurine, accustomed to the praise and criticism that accompanied his every move, your silent scrutiny held a weight far greater than the cacophony of voices around him. It was as if your gaze alone bore the gravity of a thousand judgments, casting doubt upon his invincible facade.

As you gracefully departed from the scene, gliding through the crowd with an effortless poise, Aventurine felt a fleeting impulse to pursue you, to unravel the mystery behind your statement. Yet, before he could act upon his impulse, the dealer's call snapped him back to reality, redirecting his attention to the present moment.

With a final glance in your direction, Aventurine reluctantly tore his gaze away, refocusing his attention on the game at hand. Though your departure left a lingering curiosity in his mind, he knew that the cards had been dealt, and it was time to play his hand.

The following day, Aventurine ventured once more into the hallowed halls of the casino, his gaze wandered across the expanse of the venue, alighting upon a figure seated at a poker table amidst a horde of eager players. In an instant, recognition dawned upon him, for there, amidst the sea of faces, sat the individual he had encountered the day prior.

Without hesitation, Aventurine strode purposefully towards the table, his curiosity piqued by the unexpected reunion. Never had he anticipated crossing paths once more with you in a city as vast as Penacony.

As he approached, he observed the scene unfolding before him—the table abuzz with the energy of the game, the players immersed in the pursuit of fortune. However, amidst the dissonance of chips clinking and cards shuffling, his attention was drawn inexorably to you, seated with an air of composed indifference despite your apparent lack of chips.

It was the same familiar insouciance he’d seen in your first meeting. How funny.

The mocking taunts of a fellow player echoed through the room, directed towards you with a mixture of derision and amusement. Despite your depleted reserves, you remained unruffled, your countenance betraying none of the desperation that typically accompanied such circumstances.

"It appears fortune has yet to favor me," you remarked casually, your tone devoid of any hint of concern.

A ripple of laughter emanated from your adversary, his jeering palpable as he sought to goad you into yet another round of play, urging you to replenish your dwindling supply of chips. Yet, you met his jests with an inscrutable gaze in the face of his provocations.

Aventurine, with a knowing glint in his eye, couldn't help but chuckle softly at the scene. He was well acquainted with the minds of these gamblers, their intentions transparent as glass. It was clear they sought to deplete your remaining resources, confident in their ability to emerge victorious. Indeed, in their minds, the prospect of claiming more rewards danced tantalizingly.

"They will engage in further play," Aventurine interjected, his voice slicing through the air, commanding the attention of all present, including yourself. The seasoned gambler spared no glance for your fellow players; instead, his focus lingered keenly upon you, a fact not lost on the others.

Interrupting any potential protests, he spoke before you could voice your objections.

"Since it appears they lack anything of value to offer, why not allow me to play on their behalf instead? Care to oppose?" The challenge issued by Aventurine lingered, met with smirks and laughter from the assembled men, their eyes alight with greed.

"Well, well, well... I admire your audacity, lad. The more stakes, the merrier, isn't that right?" Their laughter cascaded like a chorus, oblivious to the fact that in Aventurine, they faced a master amongst masters in the art of acquisition.

"How naive..." you muttered under your breath, earning only a gentle touch from Aventurine atop your head, his actions eliciting a look of incredulity from you.

"Regardless, shall we proceed?"

With the deal struck, the game unfurled as the dealer meticulously distributed cards to each player. You observed with keen interest, your gaze occasionally drifting toward the blonde gentleman seated beside you. Sensing your scrutiny, he met your eyes briefly before offering a sly smile, his actions enigmatic yet intriguing.

Furrowing your brow in silent inquiry, you sought to discern his intentions, but he merely pressed a finger to his lips in response.

"Remain composed and observe," his silent directive seemed to convey.

Resigned to his inscrutable demeanor, you acquiesced, allowing him free rein. As the game progressed, the man who had thus far dominated proceedings wore a self-assured smirk, placing a bid worth half a million credits. The others hesitated, yet one figure, the notorious gambler seated beside you, sees this as an opportunity.

"Ah, now we're truly delving into the heart of the matter," Aventurine chuckled, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes as he adjusted his tinted glasses with a light touch. "Since you seem to relish in the thrill of risk-taking, my good sir, why not elevate the stakes even further?"

His words trailed off, drawing the attention of all present once more, including yours, earning him a quizzical raised eyebrow. You couldn't fathom what he had up his sleeve, but a sense of impending audacity pervaded the atmosphere.

"If fortune favors you," Aventurine continued, his tone laced with a hint of challenge, "I shall generously double all the chips you currently possess."

Gasps and murmurs break through the assembled spectators at the grit of his offer, whispers swirling with tales of his legendary gambling prowess. But, to you, his proposition came as no surprise. You were well aware of Aventurine's penchant for daring wagers, although the sheer magnitude of this gamble caught even you off guard.

"But," Aventurine's voice lowered, carrying an air of quiet authority, as he plucked a single chip from his side and deftly flicked it across the table to the stunned recipient, "should fortune favor me..."

The chip landed in the bewildered man's grasp, his expression a mix of confusion and apprehension as he gazed back at Aventurine.

"You will forfeit all the chips you've amassed from this individual," Aventurine concluded, his gaze steady and unwavering.

Your eyes widened in disbelief at his bold proclamation, a protest bubbling at the edge of your lips.

"Hey—"

"I am the player at present, am I not?" Aventurine's tone brooked no argument, his gaze met yours, a silent reminder that he held the reins of the game.

With a resigned sigh, you bit your lower lip, restraining yourself from interjecting. After all, you weren't a participant in the game at this moment, merely an observer. And within the confines of the casino, such displays of audaciousness were not uncommon. Still, the realization that Aventurine was willing to go to such lengths to aid a stranger only added to the ever-growing meter of outrageousness you held for him.

The atmosphere crackled with anticipation as the man across the table digested Aventurine's audacious proposition. Initially met with disbelief, a subtle transformation overtook his countenance, the contours of his features twisting into a sinister smirk. A chill of foreboding gripped your senses, a premonition of impending turmoil settling like a shadow upon your consciousness.

Amidst the mounting tension, your gaze darted toward Aventurine, seeking solace in his unwavering composure. His demeanor remained calm amidst the tempestuous currents swirling around you, offering little insight into the hand he held concealed beneath the veil of his cards. With bated breath, you awaited the revelation that would determine the outcome of this high-stakes gamble, each passing moment fraught with palpable suspense.

"Very well, let us lay bare our fortunes," the old man declared, his tone laced with arrogance as he motioned towards the deck. With a flourish, the cards were revealed, their secrets laid bare for all to see.

In a swift and decisive move, Aventurine emerged victorious, his triumph resounding with effortless grace. The cocky facade of his adversary crumbled in an instant, replaced by an expression of bitter defeat as he clutched his head in despair. With a rueful sigh, he relinquished the spoils of his ill-fated gamble, returning to you the chips that had once slipped through your fingers like grains of sand.

As you and Aventurine exited the confines of the casino, the weight of gratitude settled upon your shoulders like a heavy mantle. Despite the reckless nature of his intervention, you couldn't help but feel a surge of appreciation for his timely assistance. Yet, beneath the surface of your gratitude lurked a nagging sense of wariness, a reminder of the perilous waters into which you had unwittingly waded.

"Thank you for your help back there," you offered sincerely, the words heavy with genuine appreciation. Aventurine responded with a disarming smile, though his subsequent words bore the weight of underlying intent.

"Do not misconstrue my actions as mere altruism. I acted with purpose, not without consideration for my own interests," he remarked, his tone tinged with a subtle edge that sent a shiver down your spine. "Surely, you are aware of who I am."

Closing the distance between you, Aventurine's imposing figure loomed over you, his gaze piercing and inscrutable. You felt the telltale twitch of your eyes and the tightening of your fists at your sides, a reflexive response to the palpable aura of danger that surrounded him.

"This is precisely why I avoid entanglements with individuals like yourself," you admitted, your voice laced with a mixture of resignation and apprehension.

Aventurine's laughter rang out, a melodic sound that grated against your nerves. "But in this instance, you have no choice but to engage, do you not? Now, onto the matter at hand – I seek answers regarding your cryptic statement from yesterday."

Your eyebrow arched in bemusement at his unexpected inquiry. "There was no deeper meaning to my words. I merely commented on your inherent luck, having observed your exploits within the casino since your arrival in Penacony."

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you cursed inwardly at the unforeseen repercussions of your offhand remark. Aventurine's scrutinizing gaze bore into you with unsettling intensity, seemingly searching for any trace of falsehood within your composed demeanor.

"Very well, if that is indeed the case, then I have another proposition for you," he declared, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. Your heart quickened at the implication of trouble brewing on the horizon, yet you met his gaze with steely resolve.

"And what might that be?"

"Be my eyes and ears here in Penacony," Aventurine proposed, his smirk widening into a grin that sent a chill down your spine.

The story of your unlikely alliance with Aventurine had begun. If ever the unexpected news circulated amongst the circles of Penacony, many would find it incredulous that someone of his stature, a member of the esteemed Ten Stonehearts, would place trust in a mere stranger. Indeed, to the uninitiated observer, the notion seemed absurd – a contradiction in terms that defied logic and reason. But, for Aventurine, such trivial matters held little sway over his calculated decisions.

To him, trust was a commodity to be traded with caution, its value contingent upon a myriad of factors that extended far beyond surface appearances. In his world, betrayal and deception were the currency of every world, woven seamlessly into his existence. And so, when he extended his offer to you, it was not born of blind faith or naivety, but rather a calculated gamble rooted in the certainty of his own capabilities.

He knew, with certainty, that even if you were to betray him or fabricate falsehoods in his presence, he possessed the keen intellect and astute intuition to discern truth from lies. In his eyes, you were but a pawn in his grand scheme – a pawn whose movements he could predict with precision, regardless of the facades you chose to adopt.

However, to his surprise and consternation, you defied his expectations at every turn. Despite your initial reluctance and the aloof demeanor you projected, you proved yourself to be a reliable ally – one whose resourcefulness and ingenuity surpassed his own assumptions.

How did you gather your intel, he wondered? Was it through mingling with the citizens of Penacony, ingratiating yourself into their midst to extract information like a skilled puppeteer manipulating marionettes? Aventurine pondered these questions with a mixture of intrigue and frustration, unable to fathom the depths of your strategy.

Perhaps it was a sense of indebtedness that drove you, he mused. The desire to repay a perceived debt hanging heavy upon your conscience, compelling you to fulfill your obligations despite your reservations. Or perhaps, you were simply averse to owing favors, unwilling to be beholden to another soul, even one as formidable as Aventurine.

Whatever the reason, Aventurine found himself grappling with the mystery that was you – a puzzle whose pieces refused to align neatly within the edges of his understanding. And though he may never unravel the mysteries of your motivations, he couldn't deny the undeniable truth: in you, he had encountered a force to be reckoned with – a fool, perhaps, but a fool whose strength lay in the depths of your unfathomable resolve.

In the bustling streets of Penacony, amidst the cacophony of laughter and music that permeated the air, you continued your clandestine endeavors as Aventurine's trusted confidant. With practiced discretion, you navigated the labyrinthine alleys and bustling marketplaces, seamlessly blending into the tapestry of everyday life in the Land of Festivities. To the casual observer, you were but another face in the crowd – unremarkable, inconspicuous, and utterly forgettable.

Yet, beneath the veneer of anonymity, you carried out your duties with unwavering dedication and precision. Gathering tidbits of information like shards of broken glass, you pieced together the intricate puzzle of Penacony's underworld, all the while maintaining a facade of normalcy to ward off any suspicion that may arise.

Aventurine, ever the astute observer, commended your efforts with a rare display of generosity, treating you to rounds of soulglads despite your persistent protests. You rebuffed his gestures with firm resolve, adamant in your refusal to be indebted to him once more. Yet, despite your best efforts to maintain a facade of detachment, Aventurine possessed a knack for circumventing your defenses, his genuine concern and camaraderie slipping through the cracks of your stoic exterior.

For Aventurine, whose existence had long been steeped in solitude and mistrust, your presence offered a rare glimpse of authenticity amidst the sea of duplicity that surrounded him. Though he wore the mask of manipulation and trickery with practiced ease, there lingered within him a kernel of genuineness – a flicker of humanity that defied the confines of his carefully constructed facade.

Trusting others had always been a precarious endeavor for Aventurine, a vulnerability he was loath to embrace. To him, every word spoken and gesture made was a calculated maneuver, a chess move in the intricate game of deception that defined his existence. Yet, in your company, he found himself traversing uncharted territory – a realm where sincerity and trust held sway, however fleetingly.

As days transitioned into days, and days into weeks, the bond between you and Aventurine grew stronger, shaped within the crucible of mutual understanding and respect.

The vibrant hues of dawn painted the skyline of Penacony's skyscrapers in surreal brilliance, you stood alongside Aventurine at the Dream's Edge, marveling at the breathtaking spectacle unfolding before you. The scene was surreal, almost otherworldly, for how could there be a sunrise in the Dreamscape—a world where reality and dreams intertwine?

However, amidst the awe-inspiring panorama, a sense of anticipation hung in the air, tinged with a hint of uncertainty. Why had Aventurine summoned you to this ethereal realm, away from the hustle and bustle of waking life, with no other souls in sight?

As you gaze upon Aventurine's countenance, a wave of surprise and intrigue washes over you, for the sight before you is unlike anything you've ever beheld. The ethereal glow of the sun caresses his features, casting a radiant halo around him, as if nature itself conspired to illuminate his presence.

His visage, once adorned with the mischievous curve of a smirk, now wears an expression of profound introspection. Those eyes, usually dancing with mischief, now reflect a depth of emotion you've never witnessed before—a blend of serenity and sorrow that tugs at the strings of your heart.

Gone is the cocksure grin that was his trademark, replaced by a solemnity that seems to weigh heavily upon him. It's as if a veil has been lifted, revealing a side of Aventurine you never knew existed—a side that is raw, vulnerable, and achingly human.

Aventurine stands amidst the whispers of the breeze, his silhouette a portrait of contemplation against the canvas of dawn. His golden tresses dance in harmony with the wind, a silent symphony of nature's serenade. But it's not just the tendrils of his hair that sway; there's a subtle dance in his demeanor, a rhythm of emotions that ripple beneath the surface.

In the soft glow of sunlight, his features are painted with an ethereal hue, casting shadows that play upon the landscape of his face. There's a longing, a yearning, etched in the lines of his brow, as though he's searching for something beyond the horizon, something elusive yet tantalizingly close. His eyes, windows to the depths of his soul, betray the secrets he guards so closely, each flicker and glimmer a testament to the complexities hidden within.

You've been tethered to his side, bound by a debt that intertwines your fates in a dance of obligation and intrigue. Yet, despite the proximity, the enigma of Aventurine remains veiled in mystery. He is a man of many facets, a puzzle with pieces that shift and rearrange with every passing moment. Cunning and unpredictable, he defies easy categorization, a riddle waiting to be unraveled.

Through numerous interactions, the two of you have maintained a strictly professional relationship, focused solely on exchanging gathered information. Neither of you delved into personal matters, content with knowing only the basics about each other. This engagement is a singular occurrence, with no desire to complicate matters further. There's a firm boundary between you, each respecting the other's space and avoiding unnecessary entanglements.

In the midst of a tranquil moment, punctuated only by the soft whispers of the breeze, his voice broke the silence, drawing your focus away from the horizon. Without turning to meet your gaze, he posed a question that seemed innocuous on the surface but hinted at a deeper curiosity.

"What brings you to Penacony? Is it for leisure or some other purpose?"

Your response, delivered with a casual nonchalance, betrayed none of the complexity brewing beneath the surface. "No particular reason. Just wandering, as wanderers tend to do."

As you drew closer to him, mirroring his contemplative stance.. But it was his next words that stirred something within you, a recognition of the carefully guarded boundaries you both maintained.

"You're an enigma," Aventurine mused, his tone betraying a hint of curiosity tinged with respect. "I know nothing of your origins, your affiliations, or even the world you call home. You exist as a blank canvas against the backdrop of the universe."

His observation prompts you to turn towards him, a faint grimace touching your features. It's clear that his words have struck a chord, stirring a sense of curiosity within you that matches his own.

"You went snooping into my background?" Your words cut through the air with a sharpness that catches Aventurine's attention.

"And the idea of me discreetly digging into your background never crossed your mind?" Aventurine's tone carries a hint of amusement.

"I had my suspicions, especially considering your ties to the IPC. Knowing you, you always manage to dig up information to give yourself an edge. But I'll give credit where it's due; at least you're forthright about it, even if it does irk me."

"Right now?" Aventurine raises an eyebrow, his amusement growing.

"Yes, right now.”

"But why can't I detect any anger in your demeanor?"

"Because I'm not one to wear my emotions on my sleeve. I prefer to keep them under wraps," you explain, a sense of guardedness creeping into your voice.

Aventurine's laughter rings out at your refusal, his amusement evident in the glint of his eyes. "Unfair, isn't it? You hold all the cards, knowing who I am, while I'm left in the dark except for a mere name and your claim of being a wanderer. But how about a little game?"

Your expression twists in disdain at his transparent attempt to glean information. You see through his ploy and have no intention of playing along.

"I won't indulge your little charade just to satisfy your curiosity about me. Nice try," you retort firmly.

Aventurine's grin widens as he deftly flips a coin through his fingers, the metallic glint catching the light before he catches it effortlessly.

"Such a shame.”

Once more, silence descends between you, a tense pause punctuated only by the soft rustle of the wind. Then, Aventurine breaks the quiet again with a pointed question.

"So, perhaps you know my origin?"

As you locked gazes with Aventurine, a subtle shift in his demeanor didn't escape your notice. His voice, usually laced with confidence and bravado, now carried a hushed tone, tinged with an underlying tremor that uncovered a vulnerability you had never before witnessed in him. It was a nuance that spoke volumes, revealing a depth of emotion that contradicted his stoic facade.

In that moment, as the weight of his unspoken words hung heavy in the air, your gaze was drawn to his features—the striking contours of his face, the subtle symmetry that bespoke a beauty both rare and captivating. It was a beauty that bespoke his heritage, his lineage tracing back to the long-lost race of Avgins, a people now consigned to the annals of history.

The knowledge of his origins colored your perception of him, for you understood the burden he bore as one of the last of his kind. Avgins, known for their exquisite beauty and mesmerizing eyes, had long been subjected to discrimination and extinction, their very existence a reminder of a bygone era fraught with prejudice and fear.

You couldn't fault him for his choice to conceal his eyes behind tinted glasses, for you knew all too well the scrutiny and suspicion that awaited those who carried the unmistakable mark of their ancestry. In every world where difference was met with disdain, Aventurine's desire to shield himself from prying eyes was not born of vanity, but of necessity—a means of self-preservation in a society quick to judge and condemn.

And yet, even as he sought refuge behind his carefully constructed facade, there was a rawness to him, a vulnerability that transcended the barriers he had erected. In his eyes, you glimpsed the echoes of a lost heritage, the silent lament of a people erased from history, and in that moment, you found yourself drawn to him in a way you had never imagined possible. For beneath the mask of his bravado lay a soul as fragile and ephemeral as the dawn, yearning to be seen and understood in a world that had long since forgotten of the adversity.

"Yes, I do..." Your admission lingers in the air, carried away by the wind that brushes past, stirring the stillness that settled over the conversation. Aventurine's reaction is subtle, a scoff followed by a nonchalant shrug, his gaze shifting towards the towering skyscrapers that dominate the skyline.

"Not surprising," he remarks dismissively.

As you watch him, a faint blemish mars the pristine image you've always held of Aventurine. It's a glimpse of vulnerability, fleeting yet unmistakable, like a small blotch of ink on an otherwise clean canvas. It catches you off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless.

But just as quickly as it appeared, the vulnerability vanishes, replaced by Aventurine's usual composed facade as though nothing had transpired.

His sudden question jolts you back to the present, breaking the silence once more. "Do you think life is meaningless?"

It's unexpected, a departure from the usual banter and guarded exchanges between you. For a moment, you're caught off guard, searching for an answer devoid of pretense or artifice.

"Well, if you ask me, maybe it is, maybe not." Your response carries a sense of introspection, reflecting the uncertainty that comes with a life spent wandering the vast expanse of the universe without a clear destination. "I've been traveling aimlessly for many years, letting my feet guide me wherever they please. In essence, I suppose you could say my existence lacks a defined purpose. So perhaps life does seem meaningless."

You pause, considering your next words carefully. "But then again, don't we all have something we yearn for, even in the midst of aimlessness? Whether it's something grand or seemingly insignificant, there's always a longing, a desire to attain or achieve something. And perhaps, in the pursuit of that something, we find purpose."

Aventurine regards you with an inscrutable expression, his eyes betraying nothing.

"What if that something is death?" he poses, his question hanging heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the conversation.

You allow the silence to envelop you, granting it the space to linger between you before offering your heartfelt response.

"If one desires death, shouldn't they cease struggling to stay alive, to preserve themselves? Why endure the effort of self-preservation if death is the ultimate desire? It seems contradictory."

You continue, your words measured yet earnest. "Self-preservation, in itself, suggests a desire to continue living, to pursue something beyond mere existence. And in that pursuit, even if it leads to death, there lies purpose. For what is life, if not a series of pursuits, desires, and aspirations?"

As you continue speaking, Aventurine's attention remains fixed on you, though his mind is a hurricane of conflicting emotions. He finds himself grappling with a sudden surge of questions, an inexplicable urge to peel back the layers of his carefully constructed pretense and lay bare the vulnerabilities he so meticulously conceals.

The landscape before him, though undoubtedly breathtaking to most, elicits a different reaction in Aventurine. Instead of wonder or awe, he feels a deep-seated unease, a gnawing sense of unworthiness that claws at the edges of his consciousness. It's as if he's an intruder in a world to which he doesn't belong, a sentiment reinforced by his own self-imposed exile from the beauty and splendor that surrounds him.

For Aventurine, the harsh realities of his upbringing on a barren, unforgiving world have left an indelible mark on his psyche. He's accustomed to a life of scarcity and struggle, where survival is earned through grit and determination rather than basking in the luxuries of a privileged existence. The opulence of his surroundings only serves to highlight the stark contrast between his own perceived inadequacies and the perceived perfection of those around him.

And yet, despite his inner turmoil, Aventurine's gaze remains fixed on you, drawn to the radiant warmth that seems to emanate from your very being. In your presence, he feels the weight of his self-imposed limitations pressing down upon him, a reminder of the vast chasm that separates him from the world above.

As you stand bathed in the golden glow of the sunlight, Aventurine can't help but feel a pang of envy, a longing to inhabit the same ethereal orbit where you reside. But deep down, he knows that such aspirations are futile, for he is bound by the shackles of his own insecurities, forever consigned to the shadows while you soar amongst the stars.

He is nothing.

He ushered you to this secluded spot, not for another mission or strategy session, but to bid you farewell. The contract that bound you together, the alliance forged through countless endeavors, has reached its natural conclusion. Every detail meticulously arranged, thanks in no small part to your invaluable insights. Now, standing before you, he prepares to embark on the final leg of his journey, a path long contemplated and now irrevocably chosen.

Meeting you, sharing in the trials of your joint mission, has been a rare pleasure. Your presence, marked by spirited banter and unwavering determination, injected vitality into the often grim landscape of their pursuits. Despite the looming risks and the gravity of his objectives, he couldn't help but relish the moments spent in your company.

As he extends his farewell, he acknowledges the uncertainty of future encounters. Though he harbors a wish for another meeting, circumstances dictate otherwise. Your captivating insights and spirited exchanges will be dearly missed, yet he remains resolute in his chosen course, prepared to confront the perils ahead, come what may.

"Well, thank you for your answers. Anyway, I brought you here to let you know that our meeting has reached its conclusion. You've fulfilled your role as my eyes and ears, and now you're free to go about your business," Aventurine stated, slipping back into his old mask—his facade.

You blinked a few times, absorbing his words. Finally, this chapter was over.

"Is that so? I'm finally free," you sighed in relief, stretching your arms with a smile. "Being around you was quite draining."

"It seems I've been a handful, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have. You're insufferable. So, you're ready to part ways then?"

"I do tend to be insufferable, I won't deny that. And to answer your question, yes I am. Thanks to your intel, my plans are set. You've proven quite reliable, considering you're a wanderer."

"Well, being a wanderer does have its advantages. I can gather information without raising suspicion since I blend in with the crowd," you remarked, nonchalantly shrugging.

"You do seem rather ordinary, so you blend well.."

"Excuse me?"

As you leveled a sharp glance at Aventurine, expecting defiance or retort, you were instead met with a sight that stirred a strange sensation within you. His countenance, usually guarded and conniving, softened into an expression of genuine warmth. His eyes, usually veiled with caution, now held an openness that caught you off guard. It was as though a veil had been lifted, revealing a side of him you had never seen before.

His words, spoken with a sincerity that resonated in the air. "How I'd love to be one. To be ordinary," he uttered, his voice carrying a weight of longing and acceptance.

You found yourself speechless, unable to respond to the exposure he laid bare before you. Despite the complexities of his past and the challenges he faced as an Avgin working under the IPC, his desire for normalcy spoke volumes about the inner turmoil he grappled with.

Your own internal conflict is mirrored in the clenching of your jaw, rendering you unable to articulate a response. Yet, amidst the silence, a silent understanding seemed to bridge the gap between you. Aventurine's earnest gaze conveyed more than words ever could, laying bare the vulnerabilities he harbored beneath his mask..

Driven by an impulse you couldn't quite comprehend, you took a step closer to him, closing the distance between you. With a gentle touch, you extended your fingers and playfully poked his forehead, eliciting a look of surprise and astonishment from him. But what followed was even more unexpected—an expression of genuine tenderness gracing your own features, a smile that reached the depths of your soul and offered solace in its warmth. In that fleeting moment, barriers fell away, and you realized that beneath the surface, you and Aventurine were not so different after all.

"You know, if you really wanted to, you could just blend in and be ordinary like everyone else," you murmured gently, finally tearing your gaze away from him. Aventurine, startled, snapped out of his trance.

"Oh, is that right?" Aventurine chuckled.

"Yeah, it's an option," you replied nonchalantly. "Anyway, I should get going."

"So soon?" Aventurine turned to you, surprised.

"Yeah, got some other stuff to take care of, and my debt to you is settled," you explained.

"You wound me," Aventurine feigned hurt, gesturing dramatically. "Our last day together, and you're leaving so soon?"

"You're not seriously trying to guilt-trip me into staying, are you?" you teased.

Aventurine smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Alright then," you said, increasing the distance between you two as you walked away. Glancing back over your shoulder, you smirked. "Once you're done with your mission, let's meet here again."

"What?" Aventurine was taken aback, still processing your words as he watched you walk away. You stopped, meeting his gaze.

"Didn't catch that? I said, let's meet again after your mission.” you said firmly, facing away from him as you delivered your final words, arm raised in farewell.

“All you need to do is survive.”

As Aventurine watched you depart, his mind swirled with contrasting emotions. Your parting words lingered in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the connection he feared he might never experience again. Despite the gravity of the situation, he remained silent, resigned to the path he had chosen, knowing that his decision to face his final gamble in Penacony was irreversible.

In the depths of his thoughts, a sense of acceptance settled within him. He chuckled softly, a wistful acknowledgment of the irony of his predicament. The weight of his impending fate bore down on him, yet a flicker of defiance burned within his soul.

With a shake of his head, he banished the doubts that threatened to cloud his resolve. This was his moment, his grand finale, and he would meet it head-on, whatever the outcome. As he stepped forward into the yawning chasm of uncertainty, he braced himself for the challenges that lay ahead, knowing that his ultimate gamble would redefine everything.

Survival or death—there was no middle ground. And as he prepared to face the unknown, Aventurine steeled himself for the ultimate test of his mettle.

Let’s meet again, (Name).

Aventurine's eyelids flutter open, a groan escaping his lips as he gradually regains consciousness. The world swims into focus, the familiar surroundings of his hotel room greeting him with muted hues and soft shadows. Yet, despite the comfort of familiarity, a dull ache permeates every fiber of his being, a lingering reminder of the ordeal he endured in the depths of his subconscious.

As he gingerly shifts his weight, Aventurine feels the weight of exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket, each movement a testament to the toll exacted by his nightmarish journey. It's as if his very essence has been drained, leaving behind a shell of his former self, battered and bruised by the trials of his own mind.

With trembling fingers, he reaches out, tracing the contours of his hand as if searching for reassurance in the solidity of his own flesh. It's a small gesture, but one imbued with profound significance—a tangible reminder of his resilience in the face of adversity, a testament to his survival against all odds.

As the realization of his newfound freedom dawns upon him, Aventurine can't help but feel a surge of disbelief coursing through his veins. To think that he has emerged from the depths of despair, liberated from the shackles of his past, is nothing short of miraculous. With his ties to the IPC severed, he stands at a crossroads, poised on the precipice of uncertainty, yet emboldened by the promise of possibility.

But amidst the uncertainty, one thing remains clear—Aventurine is free. Free to chart his own course, to forge his own destiny without the constraints of fate or expectation weighing him down. And though the path ahead may be fraught with challenges and unknown dangers, he faces it with a newfound sense of determination, ready to embrace whatever the future may hold.

Aventurine's body protests as he pushes himself upright, the sharp pang of pain shooting through him like lightning. Yet, despite the discomfort, he manages to muster the strength to survey his surroundings, his gaze landing on the figure nestled on the sofa. At first, his mind struggles to comprehend the sight before him—a flicker of disbelief mingled with a hint of incredulity.

But as recognition dawns upon him, Aventurine's eyes widen in astonishment, his breath catching in his throat as he realizes that it's you who occupies the space in his room. The realization sends a surge of diverging emotions coursing through him, a mixture of surprise, confusion, and a strange sense of comfort.

He watches you in silent wonder, your form bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, your features serene in the embrace of slumber. It's a sight that both perplexes and soothes him.

Aventurine's mind races with questions, each one vying for his attention as he grapples with the inexplicable presence of your presence in his room. Did you wait for him? Why are you here? And most importantly, why him? The answers elude him, shrouded in a veil of uncertainty that only serves to deepen the mystery surrounding your unexpected reunion.

Despite the barrage of inquiries swirling in his mind, Aventurine finds himself unable to suppress the tender smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. In this moment of exposure, your presence serves as an anchor of solace, a comforting reminder that he is not alone in this vast and unforgiving universe.

Nevertheless, Aventurine expressed gratitude towards you. Despite your indifferent demeanor towards him and your aversion to getting involved in troublesome situations, you found yourself in his room, patiently awaiting his return, even though the odds of survival were slim.

Aventurine watches as you stir from your slumber, your movements hesitant yet purposeful as you rise from the sofa and approach him with a sense of urgency. His heart quickens at the sight of you, a mixture of relief and apprehension coursing through him as your eyes meet in the dimly lit room.

Your sudden appearance catches him off guard, the lines of fatigue etched into your features a stark contrast to the serene calmness of your slumber. But, despite the weariness that hangs heavy in the air, there is a palpable sense of anticipation, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that binds you together.

As you draw nearer, Aventurine's breath catches in his throat, his gaze fixated on your every movement as if trying to decipher the thoughts racing through your mind. He waits with bated breath for you to speak, but the silence stretches on, punctuated only by the soft sound of your footsteps echoing in the room.

Unable to bear the quiet any longer, Aventurine breaks the tension with a gentle smile, his voice soft yet filled with warmth. "I didn't expect to see you here," he murmurs, his words hanging in the air like a delicate thread connecting them in the darkness.

You remain silent, your expression unreadable as you stand before him, your eyes searching his face for answers that remain elusive. Aventurine's smile falters slightly at the lack of response, a flicker of uncertainty clouding his features as he waits for you to break the silence that hangs heavy between them.

"Are we just going to have a staring contest?" he jests, prompting a weary sigh from you.

"You're finally awake," your voice was calm but tinged with concern. "How are you feeling?"

Aventurine blinked. "Like my entire body's cramped up, and my head's splitting in two. So, basically, like crap."

"That's because you've been out for weeks. You need to rest."

"Do I really have to when I've basically been sleeping for the whole duration of my coma?" he scoffed, earning another sigh from you.

"What I meant was rest like a normal person. Sleep in a proper bed, not in this decrepit bathtub. It's different when you're not in the Dreamscape," you explained matter-of-factly, rolling your eyes. Aventurine chuckled at your bluntness.

"Are you worried?" he asked.

"No," you replied flatly.

"Really? Then why are you here in my room, sleeping like a log?" he teased, and you grimaced at him.

"I'm only here to keep my word."

"Your word?" His eyebrow arched in confusion.

"When I said we'd meet again."

Aventurine's laughter rings out, breaking the weighty silence that had settled between you like a heavy fog. It's a sound filled with incredulity and a touch of irony, a reflection of the tumultuous emotions swirling within him as he grapples with the gravity of the situation.

For him, the realization is nothing short of staggering—that you, of all people, had placed your trust in him, believing in his ability to survive against all odds. It's a notion that borders on the absurd, given the precarious circumstances that had surrounded your parting, but one that now takes on a profound significance in the wake of your unexpected reunion.

As your gaze locks with his, drawn by the unexpected sound of his laughter, Aventurine finds himself at a loss for words. How could he have ever doubted the sincerity of your intentions, the faith you had placed in him even when all hope seemed lost?

"What's so funny?" you asked, puzzled by Aventurine's sudden burst of laughter.

Aventurine's laughter subsided, and he regarded you seriously. "I never expected this. You always manage to surprise me. Are you that determined to ensure our next meeting?"

Your expression twisted in disgust at the thought, which only served to fuel Aventurine's amusement. He laughed even harder at your reaction.

"It seems you're back to your usual self now," you remarked between laughs. "Well then, I suppose I'll be on my way."

But just as you turned to leave, Aventurine caught your wrist, halting your steps. "Oops! Just kidding. You really don't have much of a sense of humor, do you?"

You shot him a glare in response, but he seemed unfazed, his gaze softening as he spoke with a newfound seriousness. His words carried a weight that belied their simplicity.

"You know, I want to become a wave and run anywhere," he confessed, his voice tinged with a wistful longing. "Because even if I get swept away and get lost, I'm free."

There was a vulnerability in his words, a raw honesty that laid bare his innermost desires. It was a sentiment that resonated with you on some level, stirring something deep within your own heart.

"Even if you get lost again," you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper, "you still will know your way back. You know it yourself, after all, you're still breathing up until now."

Aventurine's gaze softened, his eyes searching yours with a depth of understanding that took you by surprise. And then, almost coyly, he made a request that seemed to hang in the air between you like an unspoken promise.

"Could you stay here a little longer?" he implored, his voice tinged with a vulnerability that debunk his usual confidence.

Aventurine's touch on your wrist sent a shiver down your spine, his thumb tracing a delicate path that seemed to awaken a flurry of sensations within you. Despite your initial instinct to recoil from his unexpected gesture, you found yourself captivated by the gentle caress, unable to tear your gaze away from the intensity of his eyes.

As you met his hypnotic gaze head-on, you couldn't help but acknowledge the sheer beauty that radiated from within those mesmerizing orbs. Up close, Aventurine's eyes were a breathtaking kaleidoscope of colors, each hue dancing in the light like shards of precious gemstones. It was a sight to behold, one that left you momentarily spellbound by its sheer magnificence.

"What? Why do you want me to stay?" you asked, your voice betraying a hint of confusion.

For a moment, Aventurine remained silent, his gaze never wavering from yours as if searching for the right words to convey his thoughts. And then, with a quiet sincerity that took you by surprise, he spoke.

"Have you already forgotten?" he responded, his voice a soft murmur that seemed to envelop the space between you. "You were the one who encouraged me to speak my mind, weren’t you? I simply followed your advice. But truthfully... It's because I desire your company. It's strangely... comforting."

You sighed, feeling the tension in your shoulders dissipate as you contemplated his request. "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to indulge your request occasionally," you relented, a subtle smile playing at the edges of your lips. "I'll grant you some leeway, considering you appear to be like a patient in bed."

Aventurine's laughter filled the room once more, a melodious sound that seemed to echo with a sense of amusement.

"How lucky I am," he remarked, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he savored the moment. It was as though he reveled in the serendipity of your encounter, finding solace in the unexpected connection that had brought you two together.

As the laughter subsided, he couldn't help but be curious about the circumstances that had led you to his room.

"So, how did you get in my room?"

Your expression turned thoughtful for a moment, as if pondering how best to explain. "Oh, I met this Doctor called Veritas Ratio.”

As Aventurine chuckled at the absurdity of it all, he couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the unexpected twists and turns that had led you to this ending scene, here and now, with you by Aventurine’s side.

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