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monocaelia · 4 months

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fragile.

' you have broken down my defenses, and i don’t really resent it. ' - vita sackville west

in which you really don't want to care about him and his careless attitude, but you always find yourself coming back to him. always. feat. diluc ragnvindr & gn!reader w.c : 5k warnings : childhood friends to lovers, diluc lore spoilers, minor angst but ends w fluff, diluc ragnvindr. note : happy new year! sorry for the delay hehe, but this is for @seraphiism's 2023 collab event !! please support the other authors and enjoy the fic ^^

your mother had always instructed you to stay close to her side, to never stray far away from her lest you find yourself in trouble with the master of the winery or the other servants working the orchards and tending to the land of the estate.

but with a beautiful land of ripe grapes and friendly staff greeting you as you rush past them, how could you ever just sit still beside your mother as she did her job around the winery?

the late summer breeze rushes past your face as you weave through the wooden stakes holding the wiry vines of grapes above you. the warm sun rays heat your skin as you leap over the small rocks that litter the passage leading into the main area of the ragnvindr estate. the wind whispers in your ear, making you grin as your little legs take you wherever it guides you.

you feel free, the wind pushing past your wings to lead you to your newest adventure around the manor.

your feet land firmly on the grounds behind the manor when you hear the gentle sniffles coming from behind a couple of barrels. despite your mother's warnings echoing in your head, you take gentle steps towards the sound as curiosity takes over.

you're not expecting to see a young boy with fiery red hair and matching eyes that hold the warmest, flickering fire glaring up at you with tears at the corner of his eyes and holding a bleeding knee.

"...are you okay?" you ask, kneeling down beside him. you begin to frown when he pulls his knee away from you and his glare deepens.

"i don't need your help," the young boy hisses at you and you roll your eyes.

"really? you don't need my help even though you're crying in a corner all by yourself?" you scoff at him. he doesn't say anything in retaliation and you take it as an okay for you to help him.

you pull a handkerchief from your pocket; nothing too fancy as your family couldn't afford the finest silks like the nobles could. it's cotton, white, and had a simple design of a little sparrow emroidered in the corner.

"i don't have any bandages on me," you mumble softly. your little fingers gently wrap the handkerchief around the young boy's knee several times before tying a small knot on it. without even blinking, you lean down to kiss the wounded knee.

"what are you doing?!" the young boy exclaims, yanking his knee away.

"kissing it better," you say as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "my mother always does that when i get hurt. she says it takes the pain away and makes it heal faster."

"that's stupid," the boy mumbles with a glare.

"says the one who tripped and fell and hurt himself," you argue back. you stick your tongue out when the boy shouts out a 'hey!' and roll your eyes.

"who are you and what are you doing here anyways?" you ask the young boy, kneeling beside him once more. he's still glaring at you, but it's less hostile than it was a few moments ago. "my mom said strangers aren't allowed to be here."

the young boys eyes are red, vibrantly so. the life in them burn brightly, reminding you of a fire as it flickers with warmth and a promise of a brighter tomorrow. like the hearth of a fireplace, the young boy seems to be the incarnate of warmth itself with the way he's filled with the flame of life.

"i live here, dummy," he quips back at you with a frown and your eyes widen.

"really? i've never seen you around, and i've been everywhere on this estate," you reply, bringing your thumb and forefinger to your chin as you remain deep in thought. truly, the only people you've managed to catch were all adults working for the master of this winery. never once have you seen a kid running along.

with a bright smile of your own, you lean towards the young boy. "we should be friends! since i don't know anyone else to play with here, we can play!"

the boy looks you up and down with furrowed brows, but he slowly nods. "...okay," he mumbles and you grin brighter.

"great! what's your name then? i'm-"

your name is shouted as hurried footsteps rush towards you. your mother pulls you aside as she looks at the young boy in front of you with panicked eyes.

"young master, i'm so sorry if my child said or did anything to hurt you," your mother says in a rush. she pushes your head down to bow in front of the young boy. she hisses something into your ear and you stutter out your own apology too, even if you did nothing wrong.

you find out the young boy you helped earlier that day was the son of the nobleman your mother works for, diluc ragnvindr. apparently, he's some big deal because he's the young master, but what kind of big deal hurts himself and hides between the barrels instead of asking for help?

you huff as you kick your feet sitting down by your bedside. because of the whole debacle, your mother had ordered you to stay inside to prevent even more debacles from happening even if you explained that the young master getting injured was not your fault. the sun shining from your windowsill feels so far away as you stare outside and ponder what to do.

until you hear a light pattering sound come from your window.

your curiosity is piqued as your small frame approaches the glass panes, wide eyes peeking over the wooden frame as your eyes scan the scenery.

the foliage of the trees surrounding your home cast shadows over your house with small animals running back and forth from the greenery above, causing the rustling of the leaves. the sun trickles in through the gaps of the leaves and your eyes settle on the boy with red hair standing outside your window, a small rock in his hand.

there's a proper bandage on his knee now as it was properly dressed, and his fiery eyes meet yours. he looks hesitant at first, but his brows furrow and his lips open to prepare to speak.

"...come outside and play with me," he tells you when you push open the window in your bedroom, a slight pout in his voice.

"you got me in trouble," you reply shortly, "and now i'm stuck inside because of you."

the young boy bites his lip, pondering what he could do or say to make things better. from the way he's thinking hard enough for you to see steam coming out of his ears, you could tell that he was trying really hard to think of anything to say.

"i'm sorry," he mumbles, kicking the dirt with his shoe.

"sorry, what was that?" you ask, holding your ear out.

the young master huffs, his cheeks puffed out in annoyance. he stomps his foot before-

"i said 'i'm sorry'!"

you smile at him smugly before crossing your arms on the windowsill. it was amusing to see the supposed young master like this; for such a renowned young boy, he was such a cry baby.

"okay, i can't go outside, but we can still play inside if that's okay," you tell him with a bright smile. "i'll let you in!"

"diluc..." he says, red eyes meeting yours. he reminds you of a fire with the way he's looking at you; so full of life but almost burning you if you get him too riled up. but the flames are tame now compared to the anxious flickers you saw earlier before he apologized.

"okay; i'll let you in then, diluc!"

ever since that warm summer, you and diluc have been inseparable; every afternoon is spent exploring the land of the winery but never straying far enough to get lost or end up on the other side of the lake where monsters lurk.

you were there the evening master crepus brought home another young boy around your age home; his blue hair reminding you of the blueberries your mother bought from mondstadt for you to eat. it was a bit of an adjustment with another young boy to play with, but soon you got along well with him as well.

his bright blue eyes always sparkling as you invite him to play alongside diluc and his little hand held in yours. he reminded you of the stars above with the way his eyes twinkle with youth and reflect the night sky above you when the three of you snuck out of your homes to stargaze with your hands holding onto each other until the morning sun began to rise over the horizon.

with your hands held tightly with diluc's and kaeya's, your youth together was only just beginning.

it's a cool morning where the early frost is beginning to melt as the sun continues to rise over the horizon, spreading her warmth and love across the fields of dawn winery. the young master has been gone for a couple days now; something about some sort of knight exam or whatever happening in the city of mondstadt. you would have gone with him, but your duties lie in caring for the winery whilst your friends head off to the heart of mondstadt to finish their training and hopefully become part of the knights of favonius that crepus ragnvindr had always encouraged them to be a part of.

you know having their father's praise meant a lot to your dear friends and you could only hope for the best for both diluc and kaeya as they were off doing their duties.

your ears perk as your name is shouted through the winery along with the sound of hooves rapidly against the dirt road. over in the distance, you can make out a red haired young man galloping over on his steed at near full speed. with wide eyes, you try to tell him to slow down before you get trampled and-

"oof!" you groan as a heavy body slams into you, both his weight and warmth tackling you to the ground. you're thankful that his arms cradled your head as you both go tumbling into the dirt road underneath you and the only pain was that of your body against the floor.

you don't even get to question why diluc had tackled you to the floor when he pulls his face away from you, giving you a clear view of his expression. he's smiling brightly, a wide grin on his face and his eyes of rubies twinkling brighter than any flame you've ever seen. the flames of his soul flicker brilliantly in his excitement and you can't help your own match his energy.

"i got in!" diluc says, his boyish smile growing wider. the small divots in his cheeks are cute and evidence of how hard he was grinning at the news. "i passed the trials got to do the oath swear and- oh, i wish you could've been there!"

despite growing up into a more mature-ish teen, it is moments like these where you're reminded that even as time passes and he grows taller than you, diluc is still the bright eyed boy that you've known since you were young. he looks so cute, in an endearing way, when he eagerly tells you all about his trials and how tough they were.

you really hope that the young master stays the same as he is now.

with a gentle hand, you reach up to ruffle his hair; it's soft to the touch and your eyes don't miss the way diluc pauses in his excitement as your fingers weave into his hair. you assume it's because he's not used to your praise and brush it off, even as he leans into your touch and waits for your words.

"why don't we head inside first? i want to hear everything that happened, but inside where it's warm and comfortable rather than on the dirt floor, diluc," you say to him, a slight lilt in your voice. you laugh softly when you see his cheeks flush a little in embarrassment before he gets off of you.

"i apologize, i was just so eager to tell you," diluc says softly, reaching down to offer a hand to you. you take his hand; you can feel the natural warmth emanating from his body through his gloves and, before you know it, you've been pulled up from the ground. his arm wraps around your waist to assure that you're balanced as you stand up.

"i just," diluc begins. you watch him as the young master of the winery averts his gaze briefly before he meets yours, warm rubies enveloping you with nothing but the comfort he holds for you ever since you were both younger.

"i wanted you to be the first person i told and to tell you."

a wave of something pleasant washes over you knowing that diluc, the heir of dawn winery and one of the most hardworking and talented man in all of mondstadt, rushed back home on horseback in the early hours of this chilly morning just to announce the news to you in person.

just so he could be your first in regards to his good news.

you laugh softly as something warm settles into the pit of your heart, squeezing his hand in yours as you tug him towards the main mansion of the winery estate with no intentions of letting his go for the time being.

even with the budding flowers of youth begin to bloom and the happiness that was promised to you has yet to come, you would have never expected for the spring of your youth to end so abruptly.

it happened all so quickly; crepus ragnvindr wielding a delusion, his death and the anger of diluc exploding, and the fall of your friendship with kaeya and diluc.

you weren't given the details of either one's situation, just a witness of a near death experience and the unforgiven apologies spewing from kaeya's lips as he held his injured eye in the midst of the rain washing down on them as if mourning both the loss of crepus ragnvindr and the wound wedged deep between the relationship of the ragnvindr brothers.

it was like in a mere second, the once warm diluc that would blush and hold your hand so delicately had been wiped away and replaced by a diluc grieving the loss of his father as the flames of his anger and betrayal of both his own brother and the knights of favonius for trying to brush the murder of his father under the rug explode and engulf his entire being.

he doesn't even give you a proper goodbye, leaving only a letter dedicated to you and his vision dimly glowing on his nightstand behind.

it feels like a fever dream when you hear the news of diluc finally returning after all of these years. you don't even hear it from the man himself; rather, from the whispers and excited chatter that the master of dawn winery had returned home.

part of you is excited at the news that he's alive; with no news of his existence after he ran from home in search of the truth behind his father's death other than the faint glow and warmth radiating from his vision clutched in your hands when you missed and worried for him, you were ecstatic knowing that he truly was home now.

that he's alive and breathing and still with you.

and yet, another part of you twinges in pain that he didn't come to you and announce that he was home. he had left you without even a single goodbye, not even bothering to visit you and explain his situation before leaving you questioning whether or not he even cared about how you felt about him.

of course, you aren't entitled to being the first to know, but after growing up together and usually being the first to know of everything in your youth, your heart aches knowing you were one of the last to hear of this at the winery.

it doesn't help knowing that you have not even caught a glimpse of diluc after his supposed return.

so imagine your surprise coming home one evening, the cool night air biting against your skin as you return home after a long day's work, seeing a figure leaning against your home.

at first, your blood turns cold as your heart races in your ears; it couldn't be anyone bad... the winery is a safe place and any suspicious figures are dealt with accordingly before they even step close to the winery grounds. you don't even have anything to defend yourself against if they did happen to be someone with malicious intent.

you take a step back to turn tail back to the estate but freeze when you begin to recognize the figure outside your door; red curls resembling that of flames flickering in the air and warm ruby eyes that you could recognize anywhere. despite standing in the dim evening light and having only the glow of the lantern outside of your home, you could make out the injuries through his dark clothing.

just what did he get himself into?

you hesitate at first, but eventually let your instincts take control as you begin to walk over to your home. it's as if you were both in the blooming stages of your youth again, bringing diluc home to mend his wounds after training for the knight exams.

caring for him was like muscle memory to you, even after all of the events leading to him leaving you in the dust.

you don't say a word as you open the wooden door and guide diluc in, pulling out a chair by the fireplace. wordlessly, he sits in it as you leave to prepare to clean his wounds.

your fingers shake ever so slightly as you remove diluc's coat from his shoulders, the heavy fabric falling to the floor with a thud. you apologize softly as you begin to unbutton his shirt and, as each button is undone and reveals more of his skin, your fingers begin to flinch every time your skin brushes against the skin of his chest.

his breath is warm, you can feel it against your skin as you slide off the remaining clothes on his torso. his chest is bare to you, and normally you would be gawking at how much he has physically changed since you were younger. but you cannot help but stare at how much he had been injured in the last few years you have seen him.

aside from the scratches from the most recent scuffle which led him to your quaint home beside his manor, scars litter his chest and arms. although most of them are healed, the damage that he had experienced was still evident on his skin and you hold back a gasp at how deep some of them had been; there's a huge scar that runs diagonally from the top of his chest to his stomach and you could already feel your stomach churning at the pain.

you couldn't imagine having to sustain those injuries for so long, and being alone through it all.

and, now, you hope that the injuries currently on his body heal faster knowing that he isn't alone this time. not when he has you by his side.

diluc's eyes burn holes into your skull as he watches you dip a towel into the bucket of warm water at your side; you pretend to ignore him. twisting the soaked cloth to rid it of the excess water, you gently begin to clean the wounded man in front of you.

a man you consider an old friend, but you fear he doesn't hold the same sentiment. not anymore.

it's quiet, the only sound shared between the two of you being the occasional sound of the towel dumped back into the bucket and the crackling of the fireplace in your living space. the moon casts her illuminating rays through the window of your home, but her light is nothing compared to the comfort of the fire in your home.

the comfort of the man in front of you, even if you didn't want to ever admit it to him now.

the glass jars containing the disinfecting ointment for diluc's wounds clink gently as you open them to spread over his skin.

"why are you helping me?" his voice breaks the thick silence between you two. his sudden question makes your hands pause, but you don't raise your head as you think of something to reply.

"and let an old friend bleed to death outside my door? you think i'm that heartless, diluc?" you ask him. your fingers resume their previous job of slathering the medicine over his new wounds. "i could say the same to you, why show up to my house like this?"

another silence follows your words and you assume he's done interrogating you for your kindness to him.

"i had nowhere else to turn to," diluc says after a while. your eyes catch his fists tighten on his lap as he takes another breath. "you've shown me nothing but kindness even after i was so cruel to you."

you exhale softly at his words. of course he thinks dealing with his own problems this entire time was the worst thing he could do to you. if you were being honest, it did hurt when he seemingly pretended you didn't exist or pushed you away when he had returned home from whatever he was dealing with away from mondstadt.

you had hoped for a joyful reunion, one filled with tears as you finally welcome home your old friend. but he never announced when he was coming home and you only figured out through the grapevine. he was never home when you looked for him and when you finally caught a glimpse of him, your eyes would meet for barely a second before he rushed off elsewhere and leaving you in the dust.

according to kaeya, his brother whom you've kept in touch with throughout the years. diluc had changed even more ever since his return; he kept his feelings to himself and his face remained 'constipated,' as per kaeya's words, due to his inner turmoil.

but from everyone else, he had always been so kind to them. the old women in the city would always praise how gentle the young master was, helping them walk across the city or carrying their groceries if they needed it. the young women also constantly swooned over how mysterious, yet warm-hearted diluc was; seemingly cold in nature but treating children and animals with such tenderness.

"it did hurt knowing you were ignoring me," you confess as your fingers begin to unravel the gauze to wrap over his wounds. "even if you wanted everyone to think you've changed and have become cold and guarded, i know you're still the same caring boy i've known since we were young. i hope so, at least."

his skin is warm to the touch, another feature you realize has never changed about your old friend. with bated breath, you lift your head to let your gaze finally settle on diluc's own. just as you predicted, despite the physical changes, you can still see the diluc you once knew within the scarred and older man in front of you.

diluc has definitely gotten older; the baby fat on his face slimming down slightly to reveal a more defined jaw and the bags under his eyes were evidence of his restless nights away from mondstadt. there are light scars on his face, nothing too deep to keep from his princely demeanor but are definitely proof of a troubling journey, and he has grown taller than the last time you had seen him in your youth.

but one thing that has never changed is the fire the lights up his eyes. so red and warm, you're tempted to hold his face in your hands to get a closer look. they're so vibrant, alive like the embers that flicker in the fireplace that lights your home, as they stare back at you in anticipation of your next words.

"you would never intend to hurt me on purpose. so if i should have to wait forever for you to be ready to come to me like you've had in the past, i don't mind doing so."

diluc's stoic expression wavers at your words. a sliver of guilt shines in his eyes and he looks away briefly as he digests the words you've spoken to him.

he couldn't tell you the reasons why he always kept you at arm's length; was he wary of your intentions for always being kind to him despite how he treated you or was he so used to people close to him lying to his face that he feared you were also pulling a facade?

or was he scared of you sharing the same fate as his family should he loved you with his heart on his sleeve, a fate of being held in his arms as he feels the warmth that once comforted him when you were young fade away like the embers in the hearth of a fireplace?

diluc did not want to know and he did not need to know, not when you're looking at him with such trust and compassion that he finds it hard to even hold any distrust towards you.

his dear friend from his youth who was always there to pick him up when he fell.

you did not break through the walls shielding diluc's heart for you had already found your place beside it, holding he's life with your gentle hands and protecting his soul's flames with your faith in him.

"i'm sorry," diluc apologizes to you, looking into your eyes. one of your hands is grabbed to be held by him, rough and scarred and so calloused as it held the memories and grief of what he went through to become like the man in front of you, the gauze held in your other. his warmth seeps into your skin, heating up your skin as the flames of his heart grow and encase your entire being within its embrace.

your lips part to say something, but he continues to speak.

"i thought keeping you away would benefit us both," he takes a breath as his eyes scan over your own features, taking in all that has changed since the last time he saw you in your adolescent years; how much you've grown both physically and emotionally. you look so much more mature than the naughty child who ran around breaking their mother's rules just to play with him or the dear friend who would bicker with him endlessly during their teenage years.

the years of their beautiful youth, years that he wished so dearly he could go back to and live in that peace for eternity.

but while the winds continue to blow and move time along, you've continued to stay the same despite the change.

you're still so kind, so inviting to someone like him.

you treat him like the friend you've remembered in your adolescence, even if his hands were bloodied with vengeance and his heart is scarred and wounded from betrayal and deceit.

he is still diluc, just diluc in your bright and beautiful eyes; he always had been.

his hands squeeze yours tightly, hoping that he has the courage to say what he wants to say.

"i don't deserve your kindness, or your love. but if i imagine a life where i have succeeded in pushing you away and we no longer talk," diluc begins, the fire in his eyes wavering as they hold your gaze.

"i don't think i would ever want to live a life where you're not in it."

diluc's words shake you to your core; it's something you wouldn't expect him to say now after all these years. as much as you want to immediately forgive him and push back the years of agony, waiting for any sign that he was alive while leaving his vision behind, or even watching as he ignores you despite being home after all these years, your heart aches knowing knowing he even did this to you in the first place.

"how can i know that you won't leave me like you did?" your voice is small despite being so close to him. in fear of having him see how much his actions have affected you, you face tilts down to your lap to avoid his gaze. "i can't just wait for you forever, it hurts sitting here all these years with a promise i don't even know if you'll keep."

you take a shaky breath as you speak again.

"you didn't even say goodbye."

your voice breaks as you say those words and you can feel the burning sensation as the tears threaten to spill over your eyes.

there's a moment of silence between the two of you before you hear him gently call out your name. his free hand reaches up to cup your face, tentatively guiding you to face him. he says your name again, softly as if even saying your name too harshly would cause you to break, and you hesitantly meet his gaze.

there's a tenderness that you recognize deep in those fiery pools in his eyes, one that flickers like the hearth of your fireplace and suddenly you feel like you're experiencing the most beautiful yet fleeting moment in life once more. diluc's thumb gently presses against your cheek to wipe away any tears that overflowed from your already wet eyes.

his pinky links with your own, a childish thing to do but one that you still hold dear to your own heart.

a promise between the two of you bathed in firelight and your youth reflected back at you in the shape of the young man sitting before you.

#diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #genshin x reader #diluc fluff #diluc fics #didi writes #seraphiism'23 #events !!#this was fun!!#sorry this is really late TT life is life-ing o(-(#n e wayz; i do think diluc would b such an annoying kid LOL #b r a t to the core #but he mellows out and all that fun stuff later #happy new year everyone ! i hope you enjoyed my (late) work !!

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if-loves · 2 months

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win it all.

// Yandere Aventurine

sum: Aventurine thinks he knows what love is.

wc: 753

warnings: 2.1 main story quest spoilers, perhaps OOC aven

a/n: likes & reblogs appreciated! asks are more than welcome ❤️

Aventurine knows his worth. Sixty Tanba, no more, no less.

He has sat in cages for days, months, years, on end, left to the throes of his mind, starvation and thirst his only partners.

He has stood in front of slave masters and the IPC, gambling opponents and planet heads fearlessly betting his life each and every time. After all, what good is a life worth only sixty Tanba?

Aventurine never hesitates. Bets wait for no one, and even a millisecond of hesitation could spell the end for a gambler like him. All or nothing, both feet in the door or none at all. He’s not one to make half-assed decisions.

When he sees you on a planet he can’t seem to remember the name of, he already knows he wants you whole.

Aventurine is more than happy to wager his life to wrestle back the planet for the IPC. He sees the cocky smile on your leader's lips, and he already knows he has won. Overconfidence is the best monster, he had come to realize many, many years ago.

It’s no surprise when he comes out victorious once more, a calm smile on his face as he watches your leader drown in their anger and disbelief. As a personal reward, he takes you for himself; the IPC and Diamond could care less about a single person. To them, you’re worthless. To him?

He dresses you up in the finest gold the universe has to offer, wraps the fluffiest coats around your body. He clips on the prettiest aventurines he can find, decorating you head to toe in gifts. He watches as hair stylists comb and style your hair, watching in satisfaction as you look up to him, manufactured adoration in your eyes.

To him, you are his love, his darling, his dearest. From what little of love he can remember, he swears he feels it again when he looks at you.

Aventurine holds you close, like he’s afraid someone Katicans would steal kill you; like he’s afraid you’ll disappear just like everyone else has from the slightest blow of the wind. You wouldn’t, would you? No, of course not. Aventurine would never allow it.

Sometimes, he wonders if he’s becoming like those who tormented (torments?) him. He wonders if he is no better than the slave master who bought him for only sixty Tanba, but when he sees you sleeping peacefully in his arms, the finest silk pajamas hugging your body, he knows he is better. No master would pamper their slave with priceless jewels and clothings like he has.

You are his lovely sparrow, his most precious prize, and he has merely… given your wings accessories. Yes, that’s right. He’s not caging you, he’s not hiding you away, he’s protecting you. Who knows what would’ve happened to you after the IPC took over? Subjected to grunt work with no hope of ranking up? Aventurine can’t stand to entertain the thought. What matters is that you’re in his arms, safe and loved.

Penacony is perhaps the first time in a long time that he’ll leave you behind. He’s reluctant, but he also knows that bringing you would only spell disaster for all parties involved, and he doesn’t like the idea of seeing even a single hair of yours out of place - keeping you out of this was out of the question.

He tells you this with a heavy heart, a somber expression, he lays himself bare but all you do is stare into him with the same artificially soft smile, just wide enough to satisfy the crowd (and satisfy him). There’s a silence, and no one says anything, not until -

“I wish you safe travels, and another successful gamble.” Your eyes do not change from the start to the end, even though your smile turns sad, even though you lean into him and take his hands in yours, even though you act like you care.

A bout of silence passes, and another, and another, and another -

“Would you bleed for me?” The words leave his lips before he can truly think them through, but he finds that there’s an aching curiosity in his heart for your answer. He thinks he already knows.

“Of course.” There’s no hesitation, no doubt in your voice. He hears your confidence, assuredness, feels your hands on his cheeks, yet he dares not look into your eyes. There’s an uncomfortable feeling in his chest.

A beat of silence passes. The clock ticks.

“I love you.”

Nothing speaks anymore.

#aventurine #yandere aventurine #yandere hsr #hsr #yandere honkai star rail #honkai star rail #aventurine x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #yandere x reader #hsr aventurine

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tadpolesonalgae · 4 months

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 13

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: team long-hair Eris or team short-hair?

word count: 6,921

-Part 12- -Part 14-

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“Eris,” you groan weakly, staring at the plate of food set before you.

“Have you made any progress?” He asks absently, not even bothering to look up.

“It’s been three days,” you say, staring at him as you lean back in your seat, head tipping back to try and distract from the rich scent that’s taunting you. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, stomach cramping with hunger as you try to think of something other than food. It’s been so long since you’ve had to consciously draw your attention away from starvation, you’re lacking the discipline. Before, it would have been a case of chopping wood, or counting the grains on different floorboards, but now your focus darts about like a crazed sparrow.

For three days he’s withheld food. Three days he’s set you down with a meal. Three days of being instructed to summon something—a spark, of some kind—and you can eat. A day of boredom, a day of listlessness, and now a day filled with ravenous hunger. Again, your stomach rumbles, carving aches through muscle, teeth gritting together.

The room is large—cavernous. A tall window is to your far right, Eris sat at a large desk before it while his pen scratches away on parchment. The great four-poster bed is at your back, with you sat glumly atop the chest at its foot, staring at the plate laden with simple but lovely food. Not even fully out of reach, but entirely off limits. Instead, you attempt to peer beyond, gold and amber flame flickering wildly within the fireplace, burning free of logs, sustained entirely by his magic, constantly chipping away at the steady accumulation of strain so as to keep himself intact.

“How am I supposed to do anything if I don’t have fuel to feed off?” You ask absently, enraptured by the wicked dance of the fire, mind beginning to buzz dully, eyes losing focus. “Show a spark of magic, and you can eat until you’re full,” he replies, glancing at another sheet of paper before redirecting his attention. “This is torture,” you mutter, managing to shoot him a glare, unwilling to shift your body too much in case the aches spear up into your ribs. “What a wonderful life you’ve had,” he murmurs, before neatly scrawling something on a spare sheet. You deepen the intensity of the glare, wishing to cast a tiny spark of his own flame against the stacks of dry, crisp paper.

His pen comes to a halt, and he looks up, peering at a clock on the wall—midday. Perfectly on schedule, he sets the paper to the side, standing fluidly from his desk before reaching for the outer layer he’d discarded on the back of his seat, pulling it on over the width of his shoulders, pulling his hair from between the back of the clothing and his spine. Hair as smooth as silk, coming to his waist, burning like the flames he commands. Your eyes drag back to the fire, heavy and tired.

“Up,” he instructs, walking briskly across the floor, boots lightly scuffing against the boards in sharp, elegant steps. Wearily, you clamber to your feet, following behind him as he leads you on the trip that will take the two of you to the crisp air of the outdoors, appearing not entirely opposite from a jewel-toned painting. A sharp, brutal kind of beauty. Today, it’s all you can do to keep up with him, quietened from hunger, tired from starvation as you walk at his side, entering into the dense forest that surrounds the palace.

“What’s the point of this?” You ask quietly, watching as you take step after step, lightly frosted leaves crumpling beneath your feet. “That’s up to you,” he replies, leading you deeper into the woods, taking a different route from the stroll he’s chosen the past two. “So there isn’t one,” you mutter, shifting as you usually do to walk behind him, simply following the trail of footsteps, one after the other. “If you spent half the time you do sulking actually putting your mind to training, you’d have found something by now,” he returns, keeping up the pace. “So inspiring,” you mumble, wishing to lie down, but the cold bites at your throat with every breath, so you push on.

“What are you here for?” He asks sharply, your ears twitching from the ice in his tone. “You tell me,” you mutter, “you’re the one who’s supposed to know everything, after all.”

“Not quite everything,” he replies wryly, and you can practically imagine the sharpness to his mouth. “You’re here because you wanted to learn how to control your magic.”

“You’re starving me,” you reply, with a little more bite than is appropriate.

You lift your head, staring tiny needles between his broad shoulders, hair soft as silk as it breezes in the wind, matching the fiery ambers and citrine yellows of the brutal landscape, moss like emeralds clinging to the bark of the trees. The forest is so thick you can’t make out its end, and you wonder how deep the trail is going to go before circling back to the palace. You don’t like forests. All manner of things could lurk inside, no longer restricted to wild deer or rabid wolves.

“Funny, that,” he says quietly, a whispered hiss slicing beneath the edge of his words, hairs rising at the back of your neck. “I’m certain you’ve figured the kitchens are nearby, yet you haven’t so much as taken a single step toward them.” A twig snaps in the distance and your skin prickles into gooseflesh. “Nor have you even attempted to pick at the meals you’re given,” he remarks, ignoring the strange sounds in the distance, pulling you deeper into the density of the enchanted forest. “What’s your point?” You ask warily, the back of your neck beginning to itch, feeling an invisible weight licking up your body. Your eyes dart between the trees, but there’s nothing there. Even the noise of other life has dwindled to a stop, you realise, as if trapping you in a great glass bubble.

“You say you’re starving, yet seem content to remain that way,” he murmurs, absently, moving on silent feet. It’s mildly unsettling how he can move with such stealth. “What are you suggesting? That I just eat the food and lose any sort of motivation to find something?” You reply quietly, subconsciously having lowered your voice to whisper, to avoid being heard. By Something.

“If you understand why your food is being withheld, why are you complaining so frequently?” He murmurs back, the wind dying out, hair resting stilly at his back. “I don’t know if you’ve ever lived in poverty, Eris,” you whisper sharply, “but starvation isn’t an enjoyable pain.”

“An unenjoyable pain suggests the existence of pleasurable pain,” he replies, paces slowing as he peers around the wood. “No wonder you favour the Shadowsinger.”

“What are you talking about?” You sigh exasperatedly, marking a triptych of claw marks on a nearby tree.

But he’s come to a stop, turning preternaturally still, as if frozen in time. So still, he looks like a painting. You wonder briefly how Feyre would choose to render him. You doubt she’d want to paint him at all.

Silence falls thick and heavy. Tension crawling through tendons, threading its way tight through your skeleton, until you’re strung taut, poised to smash like ceramic upon concrete. “Eris?” You whisper, not even a breath, syllables contained within the space of a blink. “What’s happening?” You move to take a step forward, but he holds his hand up, attention remaining forward, piercing into something you’re unable to see, or even smell. Whatever it is, is utterly undetectable to your senses.

And by the moment you can pick it out, it’s already too late.

Hundreds of pounds of weight and muscle slam into you, sending you careening across the ground, the very earth trembling as paws thunder forward, a single arm larger than your whole body. Rock cracks against your spine, and the air is shoved from your lungs. Lips part on ghostly breaths, air rattling in and out as your nails split beneath the pressure of biting into rough stone. Paws shake the ground either side of you, large, ivory tusks curling around a blunt snout, snorting and huffing hot breath in moist tendrils.

Sweat beads on your brow, wide eyes locking with wild aggression, a bellowing roar whipping the hair away from your face with the force of its fury. The beast rears, pushing up onto its hind legs, front paws peddling forward in the air, watery sunlight glinting off steel-like claws, poised to shred down on you.

Hands rise without a second thought, as simple as breathing, and for a fraction of a second, the wall on your power cracks. Shorter than a breath, quicker than a blink, pure magic detonates through the forest, a wave of searing heat blazing through your skin as the pulse finds the beast, knocking thick trunks down as it goes. Wood splinters, earth raining down from the sky, twigs and sticks and logs smashing into the ground, crunching upon rock. Snapping like bone.

You stare with wide eyes at the creature, an awful screaming sound coming from its lungs, paws strung taut and kicking wildly, as if attempting to run. The piercing tang of iron spears through the clearing, clumps of fur falling loosely, slabs of skin sliding off its still-kicking carcass. The squealing dies to choked splutters, wet crunches sounding with each breath as the body pulses weakly, heart still pumping as blood leaks from skinned muscle.

The tubes of your stomach spasm, clenching and retching, trying to haul something up but you’re utterly empty. Eris isn’t as fortunate. While saliva drips from your lips, thick and slimy, he’s upending everything just behind a tree, as if having lost control of his own body. Deep, spasming breaths hiccup in and out of you wetly, needing something to regurgitate.

Already you can feel that burning heat singe at your flesh, sizzling just beneath the surface, flushing beneath your clothes as if sat directly before a bonfire. Perhaps even inside one. A sharp pain pierces through your lungs, feeling as if a needle is pressing into your side with each inhale, having to quickly shallow the breaths. Aches blossom through your temples, colours growing in intensity, parts of your vision looking as if someone burn a hole in them, lids feeling like they’re made of stone, so heavy and tired.

The sickening tang of iron is the last thing you remember before collapsing forward, exhausted from the volatility of the detonation, feeling blessed to be being swept under so promptly. Provided with such a swift relief from the pain.

————

The smell of pleasantly flaky pastries wafts from beneath your door, bringing with it the sweetness of cream and berries, apparently a breakfast favourite, here.

Bleary eyes crack open, aches thudding dully across your forehead, just above your brows. The room is a little hazy, white spots dancing, the edges of your vision blurred with strange colours, as if you’ve stared directly into the sun for too long. Foot steps pass somewhere through a wall, and you try to blink dully, but your skin is itching, the dimensions of your chamber shifting with each breath, nausea fluttering up your throat.

Wilfully, you close your eyes, once again passing over into unconsciousness.

————

You’re pulled up into the world by pain, a sharp spear piercing through your chest, tiny needles flung carelessly into your anatomy then closed in, so you have to live with the prickling pain creeping beneath every movement. Skin is damp with dew and the clothes stick to your body, rising and falling with every breath, a chill icing across your torso.

The door swings open silently, and you blink blearily, struggling to recognise the tall, male figure with hair like the rising sun. Amber eyes pierce into you, and he comes to a stop beside your bed. “You’re awake.”

Your brows knit together tight, the noise sending a pulse of pain through your mind, but you manage to sit up, the blanket pooling around your stomach. “What happened?” You mumble, pressing the length of your cold fingers to join across the hollow of your eyes. He sits down in a chair you hadn’t noticed, nor remember, resting his arms atop the supports either side. “What do you remember?”

“I remember the forest…” you murmur, brows still pulled tight, but the aches are beginning to recede. “And…being hungry again. And…we were walking…then everything went quiet…” You close your eyes, tugging at the memories, but the pathing seems to fade into nothing. “There was…something…” Hands press over your face, rubbing either side the bridge of your nose, digging deeper.

The eruption hits you all over again, fresh shock washing through your body like you’ve been thrown into an icy river in the middle of winter. You inhale sharply, air pinching at your lungs, coughing. Pressure throbs through your mind with the force, before retreating gently, slinking back into the darkness where it came from.

“It should come easier to you now,” he says, breaking the buzzing silence. “What will?” You ask groggily, deciding to keep your eyes closed for a little longer. “Your magic,” he reminds.

You stiffen, listening to the heavy thud of your heart against your ribs.

“I’m not doing that again,” you whisper, hands still pressed over your brows, as if able to lock yourself up away from the world. To keep it at bay so you don’t have to continue living through it. Content to reside peacefully away from everything, quiet and alone. In your own safety. “I’m—… I can’t.”

Your heart continues its dull thud, quiet stretching between you, feeling like a chasm slowly stretching wider, and wider, until you can hardly see him at all.

“You should eat,” he says at last. “It’s been four days since you last had a meal. You’ll feel sick for a bit, but it will help.” You swallow dryly, prying your tongue from your teeth. The last thing you want to do right now is eat. Eris sighs, standing from the seat. “Wash too. You’ll feel better once you’re clean.” He turns, heading for the door on silent feet.

“Did you ever experience this?” You ask hoarsely, not looking up—you know he’s heard. Eris pauses at the threshold, and you wait in a whirlpool of silence. “Only a few times,” he replies quietly, “but my magic is different from yours. It will react in different ways.”

You don’t have to hear the door close to know he’s left after that, and you spend an unknown amount of time marinating in the sheets. Thoughts buzzing dully, your mind feeling as the air does before a storm.

Static, and prone to sparking.

————

You manage to clean yourself up easily enough once the shaking subsides. There’s still a slight ache whenever you move your eyes too sharply, but you’re working around it. A spare set of sheets is in the small closet at the foot of the bed, and you feel better once they’re changed. But then it’s the task of eating, and you feel worse from the thought alone. He’d said you would feel better, and you know you will, but that’s hard to get through when you feel on the verge of upending your stomach on the floor.

Slowly, one small mouthful at a time, waiting periods in between to make sure you won’t bring it back up, you manage to get through most of the meal. The small chunks of meat had been the most difficult, now not only charged with memories from the hut, but also from furry flesh sliding… You push the thought away. You had done that. You’d taken its life. Had Feyre ever felt that sense of dirt beneath her nails? Palms now not only itching, but lightly tingling too, as if you’ve rubbed your hands through tree sap, and now they’re clogged and sticky.

Eris finds you again in the evening, in better condition, with a little life in your eyes. He marks the now empty plate, something flickering through his gaze, but you don’t pay enough attention to it to figure what it is. “Feeling better?” He asks shortly, sitting in the chair, and you shift the volume from your lap. “A bit,” you concede, sat cross-legged on the mattress, clean sheets pulled over your lap politely. He nods to the book, “bored out of your mind yet?”

“Only by your charming company,” you reply, forcing your lips to quirk at the edges, desperate to rediscover that familiar rhythm between you. Where you can forget some things for a bit, and float through time peacefully.

His brows narrow, but his eyes glint. “You clearly could have gone longer without the meal,” he says, displeasure in his tone that has your lips quirking further. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“What do you mean next time?” You ask warily, leaning back into the wall, pulling the sheets higher around your waist. He rolls his eyes, and you’re surprised by how familiar the gesture is; how normal. You wonder if he’s doing it intentionally. “Your control is incredibly poor,” he remarks. “It’s almost as if I don’t have any, and this is something entirely new to me,” you mutter, reaching for the book. He gives you a pointed look, and you stiffen, realising you walked into that one.

“I’m not going back into those woods again,” you say cautiously, eyeing him, feeling the comforting weight of the volume in your lap. All that knowledge, condensed into paper and writing. The edges of his mouth sharpen, and wariness intensifies in your stomach. “I think you’ll much prefer the new approach,” he concedes, leaning back in the chair, body relaxed as he watches you. “And what is your new approach?” You ask, already looking nervous, worry etched into your features. “I don’t know if you remember our first polite conversation,” he muses, “but you became rather animated over that little orrery.”

“I remember…” you reply, frowning at him. What does that have to do with anything? “So we’ll try evoking your magic through positive emotion, rather than through fear, or withholding a vital ingredient.”

“At least you’re aware of what you were doing,” you reply dryly, grimacing as you remember the cramps that had twisted through your stomach.

His eyes slide over you analytically, and you try to shy further into the wall, imaginary hackles rising. “Do you have some more…appropriate attire?” He asks, and you scowl at him hard. “For what?” The answer is probably no either way. “For being within the public eye,” he elaborates, as if it’s obvious. “You can’t be out and about in the clothes you’ve donned these past days.” You bite back your reply, having not thought anything wrong with them. They’re modest, well-fitted, and warm.

They’re probably lacking diamonds dripping from the sleeves, knowing him.

“I’ll take that as a no?” Eris remarks, noting the sullen set of your mouth. He sighs, “understandable. I shouldn’t have expected you to have the foresight to plan for this.” Your lips part, brows pulled together as you stare with disbelieving outrage. “You’re much more likeable when you’re not talking. Maybe try it more often,” he adds when you’re unable to form a response, a gleam in his eyes. You blink, shaking your head slightly. “Just adding insult to injury…” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “I could have died to that creature, you know.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No thanks to you.” An unnervingly amused expression relaxes his features, lips softening at their sharp edges. “No thanks to me indeed,” he remarks quietly. “You fought for your own life. I didn’t think you had it in you,” he croons, a faint glint in his amber eyes.

Your features shift, swirling from mild irritation to quiet loss. Brow curled in the centre of your forehead almost imperceptibly as the words register across your skin. Shoulders slump, breath floating away, spine sloping against the wall, peering at your hands in your lap, crumbling and lumpy. “I didn’t, either,” you murmur. So softly he almost doesn’t catch it. But he sees the way you’re looking at your palms, a mix of disgust, and wariness.

“I wanted to live,” you whisper, brows furrowed. And it’s the look of doubtful perplex that has him pulling his eyes away.

“You sound surprised,” he says quietly, after recollecting himself. But you shake your head dully, still watching your hands. “After living with it for so long…” you say, “being on the verge of it for years…” You trail off, leaving him wondering what marks it might have left below your skin.

You clear your throat, looking up but not quite able to meet his eye. “What happened? To the…the creature?”

“I had it burned,” he replies simply.

“Was it…had it died quickly?” You ask softly. Amber eyes mark the slight tremors in your fingertips, the room still save for the tremble of your hands.

“Yes,” he answers, able to hear the whisper of breath that leaves your chest. The faint look of guilty relief in your expression.

It doesn’t for a second cross your mind he could have lied.

An untruth would serve him no benefit.

————

For the first time in a long time, a curse sits on the tip of your tongue.

“Have you changed?” Eris asks, boredom heavy in his tone. “I’m not wearing this,” you whisper hoarsely, staring at the way the riding trousers grip to your legs, curving in at your waist, wrapped around your calves. You don’t even dare look at yourself from behind.

The iron rings hiss as he pulls the curtain back, and you spin around, stumbling back into the mirror. “Eris. Get out.” He raises a brow at the sharp tone, mildly surprised by the abrupt venom, but he knows you’re harmless. For now.

“They fit perfectly,” he states, features remaining in a bland but analytical set. “What’s the problem?”

“Are you—? They’re trousers,” you hiss, already searching for something to pull over yourself. “I don’t care how many wonderful things might await me, I will not wear these things.”

“There are a plethora of other subjects for you to work yourself up over, and yet you choose this one,” he muses, and you press yourself tighter to the mirror. “Get out.”

He offers a skeptical look, and your brows narrow, skin beginning to crawl. You feel so bare. So on display. The shapes of handprints begin to itch over your hind, and pressure builds at the forefront of your head, between your brows. “I’m serious. Get out.” Eris regards you quietly for a moment, head angled slightly as he observes, before turning for the exit. “I suppose the colour doesn’t quite suit you,” he says idly. “Next one.”

The curtains again hiss shut, and you ply your lungs apart with oxygen. Heart racing in your chest. Heat builds behind your eyes, but you push it back if only to ward against the painful prickling sensation it brings forward. With shaky fingers, you manage to push the rigid material down your thighs, folding them neatly and discarding the shirt that had been set out with it. Swiftly moving to the next piece. With some conscious effort, you’re able to shift your mind to what lies ahead: he’d mentioned attempting to stimulate your magic through positive emotions rather than fear, which had your interest piqued. Though part of you worries what he might think of as worthy of positive emotion.

The itch to your skin hasn’t quite faded, and your hands have gotten worse since the forest. Bumps are more pronounced on the tops of your knuckles, scabbed over but still raw. The pressure in your head has again receded, but remains, throbbing lightly whenever you raise or lower your head. To make everything unimaginably worse, you’d spotted the beginnings of your cycle this morning, and had nearly cried. You’d secretly hoped the amount of strain your magic has been putting on your body would be enough to relieve the horror, but it seems not. You’d also found more than a few bruises littering your skin, but those will hopefully be healed and gone by the day’s end—they’re only light from when you’d hit the rock.

Thinking back on it, you’re surprised no bones were broken.

“Do you make a game out of taking years to change, or are you simply that slow?”

Your demeanour instantly drops further, a scowl settling between your brows. You finish tying the bodice up, then walk to the curtain, gently pulling one aside. “I’d like to see you attempt to tie yourself up in one of these dresses,” you mutter, arms automatically folding self-consciously across your torso, one hand wrapped over your waist, the other settled below your shoulder. “There are too many strings to do up.” “Turn around,” he says, ignoring you completely.

Pulling back on the scowl, you turn in a circle. “Saying a please or a thank you every so often wouldn’t turn you to stone, you know,” you remark as you move, eventually having gone full circle. “Is this one good enough, your sourness?” You ask, dipping into a provoking curtsey.

His lips remain pressed in a disapproving line, but his eyes gleam. “It’ll do.”

————

You’d been folding your previous clothes back into your small closet, wondering about where he was about to take you. Curiosity wandering through your mind. If he tries to take you so much as a step towards that forest again…

You close the doors softly, turning for the door, going to meet him when your eyes pass over the small desk, pushed tight to the walls. Just beside the volume sits the small, deep blue gift box. You pause, gaze shifting from the door to the desk. Fingers raise to thumb at your earlobes, stroking absently.

Before you can doubt yourself, you walk over to the box, opening it up, peering down at the pair of earrings, understated but refined. Plain, generic jewellery.

You slide the gold in, pearl droplets hanging pretty from delicately pointed ears.

Again, fingers skate over your lobes, this time pierced and weighted. It’s probably the only time you’ll feel brave enough to wear them. A dull ache rubs through your heart, but you push it away, hands falling to your sides as you walk briskly for the exit, out to find Eris.

Leaving the small box open and gutted on the desk.

————

It’s about three in the afternoon, and the crisp breeze cools your skin, playing about your hair and fluttering across the fabric of the dress. Luckily, most of the finely sewn material is concealed by a an earthy orange cloak, dusty but warm coloured. A few wisps of hair tickle the edges of your mouth, and you push them away irritably, wishing to pin it back. You wish his hair bothered him the way yours does.

“Is there anywhere in particular I’m being taken, or is this another mindless stroll?” You inquire, keeping a step or two behind him, trailing along as you peer at the stalls, set up in the courtyard of the palace. “None of the walks have been thoughtless,” he corrects, keeping on his leisurely path, “there are a few things I’m in need of, but you should be looking about on your own.”

“What do you mean ‘looking about on my own’?” You ask, brows furrowing lightly.

“I don’t know what you like,” he replies, as if it’s obvious. You blink, then nod, mostly to yourself. “Right.”

“You do know what you like, don’t you?” He asks seriously, glancing at you briefly from over his shoulder. “Of course I know what I like,” you return, meeting his piercing gaze. “Do you? Or are you always so busy with work you have no time for fun?”

“You have interests in things that serve yourself?” He redirects, skepticism more prominent than before as he makes his way effortlessly through the people. “Nothing that might benefit that family of yours?”

“They’re as much family to me as you are with yours,” you reply thoughtlessly, not a single beat passing.

The words register in your mind, at once tasting foul and horrid. How ungrateful you sound, guilt beating against your still-bruised flesh. Shame heats your skin, eyes drifting down to the neat cobbles. You hadn’t meant that. “I mean…family’s a particular word,” you mumble, pearls hanging heavy from your lobes. Thumbs brush over them—should you even be wearing such a gift? Thoughtless, perhaps…potentially intended. Holding great beauty, while plain and generic. Are you worthy of that?

“You seem to assume I am not close with my own,” he speculates idly, perhaps with more lightness than you’re accustomed to. You suppose you don’t spend much time around people…maybe the differences stand out more because of that. Less habits to familiarise and attune yourself to.

You swallow, gaze skipping to dance over stools: herbs and spices, dried plants and trinkets, small glass bottles filled with gem-coloured liquids, tiny circular things that look like they’d taste sweet, gleaming jewels that wink up at passersby, thread so thin it’s like hair or cobweb. A jewellers stand catches your eye, not through the nature of the craftsmanship, which is admittedly fine, but the table holds a modest assortment of rings, and you’re for some reason reminded of the ones Rhys sometimes adorns his hands with. Wrought in sterling silver, small details welded to the solid bands, showcasing its sturdiness and elegance simultaneously. Like dancers.

Silver flickers at the back of your mind before vanishing, hastily doused before second-thoughts begin swarming.

“Are you?” You inquire with equal lightness.

“They are my family,” he says, “proximity won’t change that.”

A natural quiet settles between you, filled only by the background chatter of other voices, other people with their own lives; their own victories and losses. Other problems, with or without solutions, continuing on with life, because times is ceaseless and everlasting, ticking by coldly, peacefully, sometimes with devastating fluidity, others with painful leisure. Perhaps it’s not time at fault, but yourself. Time isn’t cruel, nor is it kind, it simply exists as it is, unable to deviate from what it started as and unable to shift from what it will become; what it will remain to be. Time is a precious constant, one of the few certainties that will persist no matter what.

The sun will rise and fall, as will the moon. The stars will move through the sky as the planet spins, and life will continue with much more grandeur than such small, short things should acquire. Even immortality will crumble before time—your kind of immortality at least. Endlessly, consistently living, until life is taken away.

You had thought you’d made peace with your mortality as a human, yet you suppose each day you still got up with your sisters, still washed and spoke and persisted, still set one foot in front of the other, even if you weren’t conscious of it. Then the other day something like a drop opened up in your path, something that would require more than one foot in front of the other, and you had found yourself jumping.

You had not walked off that ledge; one foot in front of the other hadn’t sufficed.

For less than a minute, the desire to be had been brimming from your fingertips, glowing through your skin and filling you to the point of overflowing. For little less than sixty seconds, you had been confronted with an end, and had moved accordingly. For a few brief moments, absence had loomed before you, dark and terrifying, and you had no want for it.

Where does that put you?

You’d been thrown into a river, and found yourself swimming.

For what?

What was it for?

Peace had been made, acceptance reached, yet sparks had flown, and another life had been taken in place of yours.

Your eyes raise to the sunset orange of his hair, the broad shoulders, the assured and unfaltering strides that carry him forward. The doubtless weight of steel that is set at his hip, the fire that burns in his veins, pure and hot, the sharpened blades that sit readily on his tongue, protected on all fronts. Strength incarnate.

“For someone without flames to harness, you’re burning a hole in the back of my neck fairly well.”

You blink, pulled away from the conflicting whirlpool of thoughts, unaware of the intensity you’d been regarding him with. “I zoned out,” you mumble, attention shifting to the tall walls rising on either side, and you realise he’s led you away from the marketplace. “Where are we going now?” You ask, at last noting the faded noises of other people, now only distant drones. “I told you there are things I am in need of,” he repeats, not looking back, forging onward, so certain the world will not fall out from under his feet. “And these things are down a dark, suspiciously quiet alley?” You ask skeptically, speeding your paces, remaining less than a step behind him. “One of them is,” he answers, leaving it there.

Wariness settles across your bones, eyeing him doubtfully, but continuing on his heel. It’s not like you have anywhere else to go, so you might as well stick with him, within the realms of relative safety.

Eris turns another corner, narrower than the last street, and you even out your breaths. Nobody would do shady exchanges at three in the afternoon. Right?

Doubt unspools in your stomach as you come upon a door in the wall, one that he enters without knocking, and you keep close in the now dim light, a latch clicking behind you. While there is no obvious difference, you get the distinct sense there’s a decline in the pathway, leading deeper into the ground until the tunnel-like walkway opens into a room, lit by flaming braziers. Few things are held within the room, as if constantly on the move and requiring the ability to make an easy exit, should it be needed.

The exchange is over and done with swiftly, a fluid passing of a weighted pouch with a small box, one that Eris pockets seamlessly, turning and leaving without a word being spoken, not even a nod of recognition before you’re following him out again, the hair at the nape of your neck rising with wariness at the strange sequence of events.

Sound returns when you walk out into the air, less menacing than before, open and inviting with its refreshingly crisp bite, and it reminds you slightly of the fresh air of Velaris—its cool nippiness that washes through lungs to pump its users full of freshened life. Life people are desperate to live, taking breath after breath, hauling it down obsessively.

You suppose even if your held your breath, you would eventually find yourself fighting for it, your own choice or not.

Again, your attention drifts to his back, assured and certain. Steady and secure.

Knowingly or not, questions have been sparked within you, questions you’d prefer to understand before being knocked from the world. Questions that will require action on your own part, no longer sitting passively but searching—not in the way you had in the libraries, nor in the ways when you had been trying to summon your magic back in the House of Wind. It would require a fundamental shift in your outlook, one that had only begun to take root in your mind after years of dull buzzing. You’ve always had a fondness for them: questions. Answered or not, the act of seeking more, searching for more is beloved by you. It’s a skill you’ve been practicing, training, sharpening unknowingly but consistently throughout your life. And now, the intrigue and fondness for learning, the desire to understand and develop will now be harnessed inward, the intent aimed at yourself, poised to unravel, learn, and discover.

All over the simple yet surprising act of defence—to protect and preserve. The fight to continue. Breath after breath, one foot in front of the other. The relentless push of life itself. Aware or otherwise, he’s started you down a new road, one that will likely wind and divert, but it’s your duty to stay on track and not fumble.

It’s enough your steps falter, pausing as the market place once again comes into view.

“You said I should be looking about on my own,” you say, not quite a question, but lacking the certainty of a statement. Eris glances over his shoulder, coming to a stop. “If you’d like,” he answers blandly, but you’re too preoccupied by the hurtling path of your own thoughts to wonder at the tone. “There was a stall that caught my eye,” you say cautiously, unsure of what’s coming out of your mouth.

He nods, eyes raising far above, where a large clocktower gazes down upon the courtyard. “Be back here in twenty minutes,” he replies, and you nod, already searching for the way you’d come. “And for the gods’ sake, don’t blow anything up,” he mutters under his breath, just as you pass by.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

Breath after breath, one foot in front of the other. No footsteps to follow after.

Pushing forward on your own. Seeking what you want.

Gold and pearl hanging heavy from your lobes.

Too heavy.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

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#azriel x reader #azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #cbmthy

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webkinztournament · 11 months

Text

#Landrace Pig #Silk Sparrow #tournament poll #poll #POP2023 #POP2023R1

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heaveninawildflower · 2 years

Photo

Peony and Sparrow (early 19th century) by Oda Kaisen (Japanese, 1785–1862).

Ink and colour on silk.

Image and text information courtesy MFA Boston.

#peony #sparrow #Japanese art #silk painting #Oda Kaisen

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owlespresso · 2 months

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the golden ivy which clings

omega!luocha/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is more interested in you than you'd like. tags: blackmail, coerced intimacy done as a part of @lorelune's a/b/o collab.

Your legs ache. Your muscles twitch with the extended exertion. The last five hours spent on your feet are catching up to you. It’s a trapping of the occupation. Being a courier on the Luofu means you regularly bounce up and down its many layers and areas, rushing from district to district, from the boughs to the canopy. After three years, you’ve long memorized the thin corridors and hardly beaten paths, mapped every vein and pipe and ligament in your seemingly endless pursuit of planning the optimal delivery routes.

Faces blend together in your line of work. You doubt your clients remember much anything about you. You’re a muddy sparrow flitting from branch to branch, a bee gliding from flower to flower, as nameless as any other customer service worker. You earn more than most of your peers, but that’s mostly because you’ve extended your services to stations and ships beyond the Luofu orbit.

…And also because of your status as a perfectly even beta, liberated from the debilitating symptoms of heats or ruts. You have no need for bimonthly off days, and needn’t fear the voracious gazes or grasping claws of wayward alphas. No one is likely to notice a lone, scentless courier, even in areas where the Cloud Knights frequently patrol.

Today’s business sees you on the far ends of Aurum Alley, where night has slipped over the artificial skies like silk over skin, streets steeped in deep shadow. You stick to the walls, underneath awnings and through narrow side paths. Silvery moonlight dapples through a canopy of sunset orange leaves, touching the aged stone path, the askew benches next to the food stalls.

On the furthest side, mist billows from the waters and onto the red wood docks. Quiet, still. Hardly a customer to be seen. It’s been the very same every other time you’ve visited. The only people you’ve seen have been members of the IPC. They’re surely thrilled at the minimal returns the businesses here are receiving. Filthy hawkers, intent on contaminating every locale unfortunate enough to make contact with them. You hope they never see another coin in their entire lives.

Not that it’s any of your business. You’re just a courier. It’s in your best interests to keep your head down and keep your eyes from wandering, lest you attract their attention… or the attention of any other governing body who would disprove of the wares you ferry from place to place.

Near the docks, where the wind churns the briny waves, stands the blond man. A repeat customer, a man you’ve come to know as ‘Luocha’.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” is the first thing you say to him, adjusting the straps of your heavy bag. Your shoulders have started to ache from the strain of the day's long treks. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures you. He has a delicate kind of beauty, the kind you see in fairytale picture books or depictions of soft omegas in gravure magazines. His cheeks are thin, set of his nose regal. His lips are soft rose, petals curled into a winsome smile. His lashes, thick and blonde, fan against his cheeks every time he blinks. It’s all at odds with his imposing height and strange, cold aura. “Shall we head inside?”

“It’s whatever you want,” you reply drolly.

“Inside, then. You look... tired. Have you been on your feet all day long?” Luocha’s hair sways when he turns and bobs which each sway of his hips. Dim lantern light catches on the ornamental pin which holds his strands in place. Just as striking as the rest of him. You really don’t know how he’s come this far without finding a mate. He surely turns the head of any alpha who catches a whiff of him. Even with your muted sense of smell, you still detect undercurrents of that delicate sweetness. Frosted finger cakes and clean face powder. It’s buried under something bitter and medicinal—only able to be caught in the tender hours of the night. After his work is long done.

“That’s just the job. It doesn’t bother me,” you assure him. The apartment building is darkly lit and nondescript. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in all his whites and golds, pristine and put together and perfectly pressed.

“Still,” he glances back at you. “You won’t be able to do your job at all if you don’t get enough rest. And I would hate to be deprived of my favorite courier’s company.”

You don’t know what kind of face you’re making, but he takes one look at you and laughs quietly.

“My apologies. Given my occupation, it’s practically second nature for me to be concerned about these sorts of things.” He says with a small shrug. You don’t reply, lips nettling into a frown. If you were kinder, perhaps more naive, perhaps you would have mistaken the sentiment to be genuine.

He doesn’t live in the hollow apartment he leads you to. It’s too ramshackle, mostly undecorated space with a couch, a table and a mismatched arm chair when you walk in. He’s dressed too nicely to tolerate moth-eaten curtains and layers of dust.

“Pardon the state of this place—I don’t actually live here. If it were up to me, we would hold our meetings in a nicer place.” he sighs. You don’t know why he feels the need for small talk. He hasn’t always been like this. During the first few months of serving him, the only words exchanged between you both were basic greetings and fleeting formalities.

“It’s fine. ‘S not like you live here,” you wave him off and deposit your bag onto the leather. It’s an earthy green, the color nearly the same as the worn upholstery. It squelches at the impact, and you tug it open by the zipper. The vacuum of created space is chilled around your arm, goosebumps rolling over your skin. A square package wrapped in plastic, off-worlder medicine banned aboard the Luofu, favored by certain members of Sanctus Medicus.

“Are you a member of Sanctus Medicus?” you’re not sure why you ask.

“Oh? I can’t recall you ever asking me such a personal question,” Luocha observes, a mote of mischief in his voice. “Why? Would you dislike it if I was?”

“No. It’s not my place to police anyone's beliefs—but the members I’ve met seem…” you trail off. It isn’t like you to give your opinion so freely, but you can’t imagine someone so discerning falling in line with those quacks.

“Sanctimonious? Self-righteous? Gullible?” Luocha lists for you, leaning against the back of that dowdy couch. He doesn’t move to accept the package, even when you pointedly zip the bag back up. His smile is unreadable.

“All of those things,” you agree, making the three steps it takes to reach him. “Though, I can’t really blame them.”

“And how could you? The long-lived of the Luofu will be roaming the galaxy and enjoying its many fruits hundreds of years after they’re dead and gone. It’s only natural to pursue that which they feel has been hoarded from them.” Luocha plucks the package from your waiting hands, eyeing it with mildly fond intrigue.

“I suppose,” you hum. You’ve already spoken too much. This isn’t a discourse you should be involved in. Sanctus Medicus, despite their incompetence, is still a faction of individuals with enough outreach to meddle in your business, should this conversation get back to them.

Long fingers wrap around your wrist. Your eyes blow wide as you stumble into his chest—sturdy, so different from what you’d expect from someone so beautiful, built well beneath his layers. There is no presage, no forewarning.

Underneath the chamomile slides forth the tender, ambrosial scent which betrays his status as an omega. Your pulse hums in your ears, body frozen stiff—but you remain unblemished by the adrenaline.

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

“So steady, even now,” he observes with infuriating tenderness, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I suppose I should have expected that from an emanator of Harmony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, unable but to be proud of how steady your voice remains. Every meeting you have ever had with him replays in your head, rolls by all at once like jittering strips of old-timey film as you pull them from the rusty bank of your memory. What could have given you away in the brief moments you’ve shared together? What in the way that you’ve handed him his contraband belied your true nature? Nothing, you’re sure. He’s discovered this piece of you on his own, and that worries you the most.

“Come now,” Luocha coaxes, the euphony of his voice slipping into something softer and sweeter. “You can be honest with me. We’ve already shared so much with each other, haven’t we?”

“The only thing I’ve ever shared with you are the poisons you order,” you inform him, hands braced against his chest. He tuts at you, and his scent grows all the sweeter. Even you can recognize the excited pheromones he pumps into the air. Your senses are replete with him, tongue made sticky by the devious croon of his voice.

“And you give so much of yourself with that alone,” he insists. “Your willingness to pass illicit drugs into the hands of your customers tells me far more about you than any small talk ever has. A shame, really. You have such interesting thoughts, whenever you deign to share them.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask flatly. Your eyes narrow with undisguised suspicion.

“A great many things, but to start...” His fingers tap a gentle drumbeat atop your shoulder. You shrug him off. A contemplative sound hums deep within his chest, quiet but loud in the dusty still of the room. “Share more of your thoughts with me, Courier.” he beseeches. “You’re always so quiet, when we’re together. I think we’ve known each other long enough to hold better conversations.” His hands slide off of you, smooth and quick as oil slick. It’s a concentrated effort to not bolt out of his reach like a startled fawn.

His gaze bores into your back as you take several measured, extremely normal and calm steps over to your abandoned bag, zipping it back up with renewed zeal.

“I think that was extremely inappropriate.” you share generously.

“I apologize. I only meant to tease, but it seems I’ve pushed too far,” he confesses, genuinely contrite. There is something else about his inflection. Something which sparks alive the long distant urge to soothe. “I don’t often forget myself like this. You must bring it out of me.”

You frown. The feeling dies. It’s not your responsibility to comfort this weirdo. He’s done nothing to earn your sympathy. Pesky biology, however, would dictate otherwise.

“You’ll be delivering to me again tomorrow, won’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. Your internal discourse snaps to a halt, instinct shafted to the side to make way for the sacred tradition known as “doing business”.

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

“Yes—and a Core Esse, if you’ve the means to procure one—”

You give him a look, but you nod regardless. “Understood. I’ll meet you at the docks, tomorrow—” It’s not professional to walk away while making arrangements with a client, but you very badly want to be out of this stuffy apartment and away from the new, bizarre scrutiny he looks at you with.

You typically avoid knowing anything about your customers beyond the bare basics. However, you can no longer afford Luocha that same distance. Just how much does he know? And where exactly has he pulled your precious secrets from?

The investigation begins tonight. You’re hesitant to call on her, but you may very well need to reach out to a particular contact.

—

Hours worth of feverish research inevitably lead to you just calling the Stellaron Hunter who owes you a favor. You have not the slightest clue where Luocha procured such private information, or how much of it he has. Penacony’s travel logs will be the first place to look. If your bothersome merchant has been there before, it’ll be no mystery where he figured you out. Does The Family still talk about you? And do they look back on your brief term of leadership with nostalgic fondness or embittered hatred?

You care not. Those mistakes are long behind you. The Luofu is a kinder place, somehow easier to navigate despite its Abundance soaked innards, where only the engineers dare wander. Without the protections they are outfitted with, you suppose you’re more vulnerable to mara exposure and all it entails, but you never dwell longer than half-an-hour at a time.

Roots and vines cling to the aged metal paneling and jutting pipes, green and gold particles sour the dim air. The pipes rattle and groan, portions of something neon yellow shooting through the complex web of them at irregular intervals. Flowers sprout from the ropey greenery, some bulbs shut and others agape. Pale petals of pink and white and periwinkle peeled wide open against slick silver and rusted brown. The closed bulbs look oddly wooden, but you’re not stupid enough to touch one.

Luocha could surely excuse you for being mara-struck. The Cloud Knights, on the other hand…

Well. It’s not worth thinking about. The overworld welcomes you back with a gust of fresh wind, washing away the acrid tang of the tunnels. The shallowest of them have several discreet exit and entry points. Crevices in the walls swallow you whole and deposit you in nondescript locations across the Luofu, random alleys and average apartment buildings where it’s easy to sink into the crowds.

Today, it’s a high end district, populated by the high-end homes of diplomats and ranking officials from the Luofu’s sister ships. They come to roost in these behemoth manors a few times a year at most, meaning the streets are emptier than you’re accustomed to. There’s not a soul to be seen or heard, not one resident there to share the wide open road with you. The houses leer at you with wide windows and lacquered doors, sat fat and happy behind their tall gates and gaping lawns.

Luocha calling you here, after all of those clandestine exchanges in that dowdy shell of an apartment, is a statement in itself. Is he threatening you with this obscene display of opulence? You can’t begin to fathom why he’d bother with bothering a simple courier. What does he possibly hope to gain?

The address he sent is among the smallest houses you’ve seen so far. One of the least extravagant, which is to say, still pretty fucking extravagant. The latticework fence is wreathed with delicate cotton roses and the yard is a veritable Eden in comparison to the other lots. The path forward is lined by patches of vibrant wildflowers.

The air is cleaner here, and for the first time since entering the district, you can hear birdsong echoing from the tops of the trees.

How much of this did he plant himself? And how have his neighbors handled living next to a miniature forest? You reach out, palm sliding over the closest oak’s trunk, the bark coarse under your cold palms. Beyond the path, to your left, you hear the babbling of flowing water. The yard isn’t large enough to have a creek, you reason, and the time of your appointment looms close—but you figure you have enough legroom to at very least sneak a glance. Your curiosity for once gets the better of you, sending you through the thicket of green, beyond a copse of trees lined up like appointed sentinels, and over an emerging path of flat stones.

The forest opens into a small clearing. A massive, rock-lined pond nests at the center, surrounded by cattails and watergrasses and other waterfaring plants. The babbling, as you expected, comes from a filtration system stealthily hidden amongst the many reeds.

Sunlight shivers across the gentle waters, stirred up by the afternoon breeze.

A chair has been left unfolded beneath the low-hanging branches of a stout, red maple—a splash of crimson among earthy greens and cool browns.

Cautiously, you pick your way down the slope to the pool, squinting at the fish which flicker and dart between rocks and lotus stems. Mostly koi. Pretty, glimmering things which likely cost an arm and a leg. You’ve been to many aquatic markets, even ferried a few live specimens yourself. You settle by the edge, elbows resting on your bent knees. Cautiously, you extend outstretched fingers towards the water, dragging along the silken smooth surface.

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says. One moment you’re above water and the next under, your startled flailing sending you straight over the lip.

Luocha is at very least apologetic about your unfortunate (humiliating) spill. He shows you to the washroom and closes the door with a contrite little smile. You run up the water bill for your trouble, the shiver chased from your drenched frame as you step under the hot spray. The shower has room enough for three people, easily. There are two heads and a bunch of silver knobs and dials you don’t feel like fucking with. Rich people and their needlessly complicated household appliances.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend in there, but the mirrors have fogged over by the time you get out. Only once you’ve properly scrubbed the pond water from your skin and tended to your hair do you turn the shower off. The mist sticks to your skin even after a decent toweling. You go through two until you give up and throw on the plush robe he so generously provided. It’s as fine quality as the porcelain tub you spy nestled against the western wall.

The brass glows near gold beneath the warm light. The entire bathroom is all golds and black. Utterly resplendent, but it doesn’t really seem his style.

Is this even his home? You can’t help but wonder as you stroll out the bathroom and into the rest of the house. Most of the interior chambers are linked by wide circular arches. The furniture is cream cushions paired with lacquered dark wood. A sweet smell hangs in the air, but you can’t tell if the potted white lilies on the table beside the sofa are the source.

Luocha stands by the window. Beams of sun hit his face and cast his hair in vibrant gold. He’s ethereal in those shades of sun. He looks delicate, somehow, curves of his body lean under the flowing press of his silken robe.

He looks at you. The dreamy green of his gaze clears your brain of the remaining fog, leaving you cold and alone with the fact that you are alone, together, in an empty house. In a mostly empty neighborhood.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” he smiles. “They’ll be clean in around an hour. Once again, I apologize for startling you—”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t have been skulking around in your front yard in the first place.” The sooner your humiliating slip is forgotten, the better. “Let’s just get down to it. You wanted something delivered, right?”

“All business with you, even now,” Luocha sighs, forlorn disappointment wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to be so uneasy around me, you know. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll brew us some tea.”

You do not sit. “You called me here for a reason. I deserve to know what it is.”

“Is your company not reason enough?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s closer now, close enough for you to see how glassy his eyes are. The cloying, sweet smell grows stronger with each step taken, reckless pheromones enough to send a shudder down your spine. Is he… “What if I said I simply wanted to see you?” he breathes, gently cupping your chin. “Should I admit that you’ve haunted my near every thought for the past month, or would that be going too far? Would it frighten you?”

A ruddy flush paints his pale cheeks, cracks in his composure beginning to show. He’s always been the perfect picture of composure, to an irritating degree. The certain grace he moves with used to almost annoy you. So steady, in a world contaminated by constant disruption and imbalance. The very pinnacle of perceived harmony. Perhaps you envied the way in which he carried himself or the freedom he enjoyed as an interstellar merchant, but now—

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

“I would say that you should wait until your heat is over before making any confessions,” you observe, resisting the urge to swallow and make the problem worse. Omega or not, he still looms large over you.

“I’m in pre-heat, where I’ll most likely stay for the next few days,” one of his hands graces your right shoulder, thumb rolling delicate circles there. “I won’t ask you to… service me through the heat itself, but your company would help soothe the symptoms.” The touch wanders down your upper arm, a smooth, repetitive caress. It feels more like an unconscious gesture or a nervous tic than anything else. A self-soothing sort of motion.

“I’m a courier, not an on-call heat partner,” you inform him. How desperate must he be, to seek out the assistance of a courier of all people? “And I’m a beta. I can’t help you in the same way an alpha could. You know that.”

“And how do you know what will and won’t satisfy me?” he replies cooly, haughtily, as if he did not just sing your praises and plead for succor by your hand. “Betas are known to be particularly adept heat and rut partners due to their versatile nature—”

“I too have read the ‘Galaxy Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dynamics and All their Intricacies’. You don’t need to quote it verbatim to me.” you reply flatly, sounding as unconvinced as possible. Luocha is—dangerous. He is handsome, and he seems very sweet, and always seems well of manners, but you know he hides his daggers deep in his sleeves. The moment you realized you are considering his offer, you feel apart from yourself. Because it is ludicrous an idea.

Luocha’s eyes close. His bright lashes fan against flushed cheeks. “No sexual intimacy has to be involved. While skin-to-skin contact is the most effective method to ease the pain, simply being in the same room as you will suffice.”

The heat of him slips onto your skin, the layers between you thinner than you realized. An absentminded hand roams to the sash tied ‘round your waist, idly toying with the knot. His palm, after a moment of fidgeting, settles on the round of your hip. He gives you a gentle squeeze, but it reminds you more of a cat flexing its claws than a gesture of simple appreciation. He inundates you with scent and touch, pins you like a butterfly to a board, wings splayed open for his searching eyes.

Not that you’ve really tried to fly away at all. A flush of newfound heat encompasses you, unbidden as his scent washes over your palate. You draw him into your mouth and swallow, thighs pressing tight together. It’s ridiculous, really. Inane. Who is he to make you feel so unbalanced?

You find him so utterly vexing. No other man could do this to you, you think. You wouldn’t dare step foot into anyone else’s private home. You wouldn’t consider breaking the strict code of propriety you keep with your customers. But for Luocha, denizen of the Abundance and keeper of your most precious secret, you fear you may do anything.

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

Luocha remains undiscouraged by your disquiet. Baffling creature, bold beyond reason and reckoning behind his steady, at times coquettish mien. “You can still help me, if you would like. I’m not in the practice of taking unwilling partners.”

You let a poignant pause settle between you, as if you are legitimately considering his request. He leans in, ever so slightly, as if leering at you from three centimeters away is any better than leering at you from five.

Then, finally, after remaining silent for at least thirty long seconds. “Do you prefer blackmailed ones?”

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it, entire face lighting up with genuine fondness. So utterly vexing, this man.

“Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he presses a kiss to your temple.

—

It isn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because Luocha seems to lack shame in almost everything he does. True to his word, he doesn’t touch you without permission. The rest of the day is spent sitting together in the lounge. He reads a book while you sit on the couch, half-paying attention to the news program you’ve put on. Dinner is takeout. The conversation is… bearable. It helps distract you from how close he is, pressed tight to the side of his body.

You stay in the living room until the sun sets, vivid orange light descending to dusky twilight. Eventually, Luocha stands to head to the washroom. A chill replaces the space he once occupied. You don’t allow yourself to mourn the loss. Instead, you haul yourself onto your feet. Black spots swim at the corners of your vision as your body lags a few seconds behind your brain.

It’s just more time wasted, as far as you're concerned, so you push yourself. You stagger until your eyesight clears, intending to make a break for the guest room that certainly must exist. Somewhere. A house this extravagant must have a guest room.

You manage to peek into two rooms, one a particularly extravagant closet and the other a sunroom.

You sullenly retreat back into the main hallway and head for the next door. Luocha slides out of the bathroom and fixes you with a questioning stare. “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

“Ah,” he stands there and looks at you for a long moment, like you are a stranger in his home. Which is partially true, you suppose. You are little more than strangers. “There is, but I was hoping…” he looks off to the side with a pointed sigh. “you would spend the night in my bed.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a new head. He stares back, completely unrepentant.

“Because skin-to-skin contact helps?” you supply wryly.

“Right,” he smiles, as though glad you understand. “During pre-heat, an omega craves the constant companionship of a trusted person, preferably a mate, but that label doesn’t apply to our arrangement. Remaining isolated during this time could cause anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, headaches, migraines—”

“You’ve gotten all the pity you’re gonna get out of me.” you inform him crisply. You relent anyway. The wooden floor is chilly as you pad towards him.

Your stoicism “Wonderful. Thank you for accommodating,” At very least, he seems to know that he’s putting this upon you. Luocha’s bed, you think, is far from the worst place you could spend your night. He’s far from unappealing. He smells good. He’s been weird to you, before, but he’s also unwaveringly polite and currently weaker than usual, hazier.

Not like you have much of a choice.

He could easily leak your location to your former allies. The Family’s connections span the universe wide. They could easily track you down and cause you all sorts of trouble, maybe even get you kicked off the Luofu. It’s best to cooperate with him, for the time being. And it’s not like he’s terrible company. He holds the door open for you even now, when you’re here for his sake.

His bedroom is as luxurious as the rest of the house. The floor is dark wood and the walls are black with golden accents. Tapestries hang over tall windows, blocking out the moonlight. A porcelain vase sits atop a combination dresser-vanity, its knobs and gnarled claws a warm bronze. The rest of the furniture is similarly colored, and of similar quality.

What draws your attention the most is the bed. It’s a wide mattress held aloft atop a platform. Gauzy black curtains hang from the top of the thin gold frame, parted to give you a good look at the mountain of pillows and blankets stacked atop of it. This, you recognize.

“Ah, that’s…” you begin, not quite sure how to phrase it. Aren’t some omegas super touchy about their nests? You haven’t the slightest clue as to which compliments to pay and to which part.

“A nest. I typically don’t indulge in the baser instincts that come with heat, but the urge was stronger than usual,” Luocha informs you, padding over to the mattress. He flops backwards on it, swimming through silks and satins like a minnow up a stream. Soon enough, you’ve lost him in the pile. “There isn’t much else for me to do besides twiddle my fingers, and I can only watch television for so long. So I thought: why not? It’ll be as good a way to keep busy as any other.”

There’s a small pause. Luocha hesitates by the vanity, drumming his slender fingers atop the hard wood. There’s something uncharacteristically fretful about the gesture. “What do you think?”

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

“What glowing praise,” he says, almost beaming. You’re kind of annoyed at how… no, you won’t call him cute. Not even within your own internal dialogue. “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you join me?”

He rests up against the headboard, lines of his body lean and lithe. He looks like something out of an old painting, long locks and pale limbs flowing over the dark sheets like

The green of his eyes is startling in the dim of the room. He looks you over, haughty like a monarch on a gilded throne, until his eyelids dip and his head tilts.

“Come here,” he beseeches again. “Please.”

And you do. You cross the threshold of the room, slipping past the open curtains and into the bower of his bed. The mattress dips plush under your hands and knees. Once you’re halfway across, you sit back on your knees—but this is not close enough for him. He needles and pleads with you until you’re close enough to grab. One of his hands wraps around your upper arm, the other at your hip as he tugs you to him, fitting your back snuggly against his front.

You still, but the tension remains wound tight in your shoulders. You’re more amazed at your own stupidity more than anything else. Wasn’t it you who insisted on keeping your clients at arm’s length? All of that haughty professionalism was tossed out the window the moment you succumbed to his pleading—if it could even be called that. He asked nicely.

Your eyes flutter shut. You lean backwards into his chest. His wide hands slide over your body, thumbs rolling circles onto your hips. A soft and sticky feeling settles underneath your skin as his thighs (bigger than you imagined) cradle your own, silken fabric of his robe pooled over the sheets. A low sound rumbles in his chest, suspiciously close to a contented purr.

“I’m so glad you decided to spend time with me, courier.” he coos. His hand glides up your arm to cup your own, long fingers interlacing with yours. A contemplative hum rumbles within his chest as he turns it over. His thumb traces the lines and creases of your palm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s why it means all the more to me that you stayed,” Luocha murmurs. He reaches over to the nightstand, and the lamp flickers off. The room is plunged into matte darkness, hardly a glimmer of moonbeam slipping in. “I think that you’re more considerate than you pass yourself off to be. Does that frighten you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk this much,” your brow wrinkles. “Aren’t you supposed to be too horny to think?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m currently in pre-heat—a process my body uses to prepare for the actual heat.” he says with a light sigh. “Believe me. If I were in heat,” his breath brushed against the shell of your ear, a warm and heady caress. “You would know.” He delicately presses the shell between his teeth, nosing the space behind it with another pleased sigh.

You shudder, and close your eyes. “And what’s the difference between heat and preheat?”

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to tell… The pheromones for one,” Luocha squeezes your hand. “Are different. They’re similar to the ones we give off when under threat, a signal that we’ll need help soon… Not all omegas go through it—only an estimated forty percent.”

“I see.”

Luocha smiles, the curve of it pressed against your throat. You don’t like not being able to see him. A predator looming in the dreary dark of his den. “The desire is still present. Less a raging storm, more the gentle lapping of the waves.”

“Poetic. But I still don’t get why you picked me. They have services for this kinda thing. People who know more about it than I do.” If you doubted his sanity before, you certainly do now. What kind of sane omega enlisted the help of a postwoman above paid professionals?

“I would rather you than an unfamiliar alpha some service decided would be an adequate match. Even if vetted, a stranger is still just that. A stranger.” Luocha idly toys with your fingers, thumb rubbing circles onto your palm. It’s a touch too familiar, too tender for what you are. But Luocha permits himself to it, and the rest of your body, with a natural ease. You can’t help but feel lulled by it.

“I see. And you feel safe sharing a bed with your dealer?” Tempting as the siren song of slumber may be, you retain enough wit to pry. The whole thing is too absurd to not badger him a bit more. The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in reply.

“I trust someone who has never been late, never sold my personal information or purchase history and has been nothing but courteous to me.” Luocha lists off your credentials with ease. They feel like they’re straight out of an EULA, or some sort of contract. Out of place in a situation as delicate as this. You could easily tell him as much, but he’s starting to sound sleepy. You would rather he get his rest. And be quiet.

“Of course,” he squeezes the space above your hip, making your pulse spike. “Having the endorsement of an Aeon helps. Especially if said Aeon rules over the Harmony. What a lovely and orderly path to tread, courier. She chose you so well.”

“You should have told me that this thing was gonna make you delusional,” you grumble, writhing in his hold to simply signify your displeasure. A part of you wants to come clean and ask where the hell he learned your secret. It’s obvious that he won’t change his mind, or be swayed by your protestations. But you’re still too stubborn to admit he’s right.

You’re almost annoyed by how comfortable this is. He laughs, breath brushing the crown of your head, but he says nothing else, perhaps sensing that he’s reached your tolerance threshold for silliness. His breathing evens out a few minutes later, chest rising and falling beneath you.

You adjust yourself, settling into his side. Over the next few minutes, he contorts around you, the weight of his arm settling around your waist. Time slips away from you, after that.

The rampant pounding of your heart at last begins to slow. You’re almost calm, wedged between the blankets and body. Your sleep shirt is still wrenched upwards, his bare arm pressed against your stomach. The contact is a boundary crossed, a spark to a hunger you didn’t know you had been harboring. You don’t like it. Some part of your hindbrain rejoices at seeing this man’s needs met, and that delight worries you more than literally anything else Luocha has done or said today.

You stare across the room at the covered window. Slowly and steadily, you untangle your legs, curling them to your stomach. Outside, a frog croaks. The pond babbles in the distance. The air above the blankets is cool on your face and legs as you gently kick the covers back. The chill caresses your skin, sneaks between your robes to give you bumbling gooseflesh. The walls of the nest vent out the worst of the cold. Maybe you’ll ask him about cracking a window open tomorrow. Just a little bit.

—

You wake up a few hours later, and blink into the dark. Luocha stirs next to you. He’s awake. You don’t know how you know, but you can tell. His finger curl ever so slightly against the soft core of you. A shiver ripples across you, robe parted just enough for his fingertips to touch your bare skin.

“...Did you plant the garden outside?” you don’t know why you ask, but you do.

Luocha hums into the crook of your neck. He strokes your stomach, petting you.

“I did,” he answers after a moment, a contented sigh ruffling your hair. “Now get some rest.”

—

You leave the next morning, without breakfast. Luocha is a surprisingly deep sleeper, though perhaps you owe that to his current affliction. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re also not going to be lured into skipping work by your own foolish sympathy. He can take care of himself for a miserly ten hours.

The day goes as any other does, at first. You take the shortest route you can find through the Luofu’s abundance-ridden innards, starting at the lower decks first. Packages and envelopes pass hands with little delay.

One of your clients, a buxom woman who owns a silk shop, covers her giggling mouth with an oversized sleeve. You eye her with suspicion. She notices, and giggles harder.

“I don’t mean to offend you, dear courier—it’s just—I hadn’t taken you the type to so openly… wear that kind of perfume.” she says, as if elaborating. You don’t understand what she’s talking about, and you don’t particularly care. You leave her to her frivolities and spirit away, merging back into the crowd with casual ease.

The next few clients each make some degree of face at you. One goes wide-eyed, before schooling his features into his typical, customer-service smile. The next looks at you like you have just thrice cursed his family line, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed into a beady glare. You resist the quite mean-spirited urge to remind of the legality of his purchases, shoring up your mental fortitude by recalling the sumptuous tips he usually gives.

Your seventh customer meets you beneath the crimson awning of a local cafe. You’re glad to be out of the beating sun.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says with a smile, nursing a cup of iced tea and ah—you realize, something about you has really changed.

“Thank you, but may I ask what you are congratulating me for?”

“Oh!” she looks startled, and then sheepish. “On the relationship? I didn’t mean to presume….but your scent, today…” she trails off, looking awkwardly to the side.

Fortunately, you don’t need her to elaborate. The context clues snap together with sudden, startling clarity, the peevish behavior you’ve endured all day granted perfect context. Of course, evidence of your business with the merchant would be more apparent to those with keener noses. Your cheeks blood with abashed warmth. You resist the urge to shrivel like an old apple peel, overwhelmed all at once with humiliation, with indignation at yourself and the man who cast this misfortune upon you.

Heavens, how outrageous you must have seemed, walking into the esteemed establishments and parlors of your clients bathed in that ridiculous fellow’s scent! It’s but another consequence of yesterday’s poor decisions. You fume silently as you leave, making a beeline for your apartment. It’ll delay the rest of your deliveries, but that can’t be helped.

Your phone jitters in your pocket as soon as you step through the threshold of your dwelling.

You drop your bag onto the grey throw rug. It lands with a mighty thud, loud enough to make you silently hope the downstairs neighbors had not been enjoying an early afternoon nap. Your jacket gets tossed onto the sofa, keys thudding onto the upholstery. Then, you roundabout to the door. A row of locks catch stray rays of sun. You swiftly latch each one and give the door a rough, cursory shove.

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

Your brow furrows. You’d never taken him to be this needy. Every other message above this exchange is polite, but ultimately curt. Most of his recent prying has been done in person.

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

I’ll buy you out. How much do you earn in a day?

Honestly, the nerve of this man! You type a series of poignant expletives out before tactfully deleting them.

It’s more than the money. my clients are powerful. i cant lose those connections

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

The tension drops off your shoulders. You expected him, in truth, to let loose a most potent threat to ensure your immediate return. A part of you, small and illogical, fears he’ll do his worst regardless. The thought of The Family learning your whereabouts nauseates you, bile churning at the very base of your throat, but surely a man possessed of his many sins is too wise to open his mouth about yours.

Without even realizing it, you have completely trapped each other.

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

It’s better not to think about it. You have hours more left to move, and your line of work demands utmost focus, lest you drop an organ into the wrong customer’s hands.

Fifteen minutes, you afford yourself. The water chases the sweat from your skin, soap and sponge raking your skin raw. The evidence of him washes down the drain with the suds, leaving you remarkably less agitated. Because, really, who gave him permission to linger on your skin and on your clothes and in your thoughts—who gave him leave to evoke your fear and sympathy and intrigue and misplaced affections? Not you, that much is for certain!

You determine yourself free of the vexing beast’s cloying scent and return to the Xianzhou’s busy streets.

—

Arrogance is one of humanity’s most populated wheelhouses. Next door, its foundations built by fools and geniuses both, stands proud senselessness. If you had to name a tenant they share, then with abrupt acuity, you would surely name the Stellaron Hunters, who, as far as you can ascertain, base their stratagems off the ravings of a lunatic. As you wander to the edge between land and space, you cannot help but wonder what his credentials are, and if anyone has ever laid eyes upon them.

You don’t care enough to ask, though, when you reach the jagged edge. The end of the cargo hold, where the Xianzhou’s artificial sky breaks. Fragments of pale blue and white float amongst the void, growing smaller and sparser until none remain. The ground ends in a series of jagged, shiny edges, as though the metal had been cut clean through. You duck underneath a smattering of ships and starskiffs and cranes and cargo containers. Cold, silvery chrome gives way to the cold, open empty. That is where the man in black waits.

“Blade” is his name. He is a vision against the star-scattered expanse of the empty. Stood beneath a bright, red star, unbothered hy the thin oxygen levels and freezing temperatures. Tall and looming and perhaps irredeemably beautiful. It could be the lack of air talking. You like him more than you like Silver Wolf. She wastes your time with always unnecessary and often personal questions.

“Here for Silver Wolf, I assume?” you ask, already rifling through your bag for the cables and strange, circuit-board devices which she has ordered from you.

“Yes,” he nods, and you appreciate how he says nothing else.

“Alright. Here you are, then. Make sure she knows that she owes me another favor. These things were hard to find. She’s getting the discount of a lifetime.” you hand him three small boxes and he leaves with a nod. A polite and concise interaction. As distant as mostly-strangers should be.

—

“Home” is after that. The skies have gone a bright gold, nighttime looming in the near distance.

Luocha’s home is not your home. You refuse to identify it as such, for doing so opens dangerous doors and implications which are most inappropriate for what you have. You make a brief pit stop to your apartment to gather a night bag, changes of clothes haphazardly crammed into the black canvas alongside a toothbrush and other necessary toiletries.

You nudge the door open with your hip. Pale orange light falls across the threshold and into the dimly lit living room. Luocha sits on the couch, or rather, he lounges. The silken collar of his robe drapes over his right shoulder, exposing a frankly indecent amount of his chest. You pay his naked skin no heed, plonking your bags onto the floor. It’s a welcome weight off your shoulders. You wish you could lay on the floor. A good sleep on that fine, polished wood would fix you.

“Welcome home,” he greets you, daintily depositing the book he’d been reading onto the side table. “I never realized just how long your hours are. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to it,” you reply, but you flop onto the opposite end of the sofa regardless. A heavy sigh punches out of you, weary eyes shutting.

“With how much you charge me, I would think you could afford to shorten your shifts,” he says, with sympathy you know is feigned. You crack an eye open to cast him a cursory look—but the room shifts around you in a blur as long fingers curl around your wrist and pull, tugging you onto his side of the couch.

You land with a disgruntled squawk. Your hands curl into silken fabric. and you realize belatedly that you’ve all but been dragged atop of him, left laid out between his legs. You twist, top half of your body turning to the side to level him with a nasty glare.

He’s flushed, is the first thing you noticed. More so than yesterday. His cheeks are dusted in pale pink, a delicate blush that runs all the way to his shoulders. He’s warmer, too. You can feel the heat of him pressed along your body.

“You didn’t have to do that. You could have just asked,” How does someone who looks so willowy have such a strong grip? It’s beyond you, truly.

“Forgive me,” Predictably, he looks completely, and utterly, unrepentant. “You were just so unsuspecting, I couldn’t help but want to surprise you…” You make a point of looking as surly as possible, and the fiend laughs. Quietly, and behind his oversized, crimson sleeve. Unbidden comes to you the shape of his lips around that euphonic sound, what they might look like when parted by soft breaths and dulcet moans— “Ah, please don’t make that face. It only makes me want to tease you more.”

“Enough of your insanity. ” you bite out, pointedly pressing your elbow into his side. You wriggle in his arms. His grip curls tighter around your waist and he sighs, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to take a long inhale. “Let me up!”

“Just a few more moments?” he asks, words mouthed into your skin. You feel hot all the way down to your shoulders. You muster all your resilience with a swallow, but it isn’t enough. A hush falls over the living room.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself lulled by the gentle sound of his breathing, by his warmth at your back. Nearly ever part of you aches. Your legs throb, the tight muscles of your thighs worn and throbbing from a long day’s labor. The scorching pains dig deep into your shoulders and your back—you’re due a nice, long shower, you think.

The dappled sun against the adjacent wall writhes and shifts with the artificial breeze. You can hear the winds shifting through the canopy outside. A songbird sings a trilling little tune. It’s easier to focus on these things while you indulge him and wait to be let up, even if he is being unusually quiet. You’re wise enough to not necessarily be glad for the silence.

His hand cups your hip, shifting you even closer. It’s only a centimeter or two, but it lets you feel the pointed hard thing jutting into your back in greater clarity. Unbidden, your cunt throbs between your thighs. The arousal and exhaustion makes your mind sticky, concrete thoughts difficult to come by among the haze.

“Luocha,” you murmur, and he moans softly, breath brushing against your tender skin. Goosebumps flare across your shoulders and arms despite the heat—the sound the shock you needed to get moving. “This is—” you cut yourself off with a swallow as his lips press to the column of your neck. Your already flagging resistance whimpers out into nothing. Each heavy inhale draws him further in, the scent so sweet and cloying in spite of your muffled senses.

“You must have had such a hard day. Doesn’t it hurt? Always going home to that empty apartment?” he purrs, voice indulging, dripping with a delirious sort of fondness. And isn’t that always the trouble with these sorts of situations? Does he want you, or are you the closest warm body available for him to rut into? How strong is his grip on reality? You writhe in his lap and he gasps. His grip tightens in response, holding you fast with surprising strength. “You must be so lonely…”

“I’m not, really,” you nearly snarl, finally losing patience with your clinger’s affections. Your voice, alongside the elbow you jab into his side, jars him from his twisted reverie. He chokes, and muffles a groan into the collar of your jacket, at last lifting his lips away from your skin. The breath whooshes out of him at the force of the blow, but his grip barely loosens. “Behave. Or I’ll leave.”

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

Over your brief stay in his lavish home, you have perhaps twice (or thrice) wondered if keeping to your principles was worth it. Why not sink into his touch? Why not drink deep of the physical affection he saturates you in? The fact that you’re contemplating the subject at all is deeply ruffling. Little less than two weeks ago, you would have scoffed at the idea.

Alas, the creature at your back is more siren than man. It wounds your pride. You aren’t just any beta. You’re a prime beta, a beta noticed and beloved by Xipe herself. The gift of Harmony should allow you to smother the scents around you completely. It should grant you immunity to the bothersome urges which so often get in the way of business. He weakens your shored-up defenses, somehow.

“Of course… My apologies.” he sounds contrite, and despite yourself, you soften. Just a tad. “It’s just—well, a little difficult to hold back when you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

Luocha evades the question, without even pretending to humor it.

“Your last customer was an alpha, wasn’t he?” He lifts his head from the hollow of your throat, looking down at your intertwined fingers over your shoulder. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand before he flips it over. His fingertips brush over yours, before curling into a fist around your pointer and middle, giving a gentle tug. He idly toys with your hand while he speaks. Voice a light, low murmur. “A tall man. Black hair, pretty red eyes… They look like candle wicks, don’t they?” He says it fondly, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

Of course he knows Blade. Why wouldn’t he?

You’ve never bought anything from Luocha, but you can tell from what he orders that he’s a merchant who idles in the same, seedy markets as yourself. A man who had asked you to trade him an organ brushing shoulders with a Stellaron Hunter somewhere in the darkest corners of the Luofu sounds completely and utterly plausible. A group of little coincidences which occurred just to be a thorn in your side. How did they meet? You can’t help but wonder. How well do they know each other? What kind of relationship do they have?

You don’t ask any questions. It’s not your place. Getting involved anymore than you already are is just asking for more trouble.

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

“Well. I am almost in heat. Perhaps I just became… a bit defensive when you came back, smelling just like him. Omegas in heat can be just as territorial of their dens as alphas in rut, though that's often overlooked in the social narrative. We’re supposed to be weak, dainty little things, you know?” If he feels self-conscious about this, he doesn’t show it. He has a tighter leash on himself, now. He sounds more contemplative than resentful.

“You, weak and dainty? I have to laugh,” you don’t.

“I appreciate how open-minded you are,” he says sweetly.

A brief silence falls over the room. You take in the soft sound of the breeze outside. The steady shifting of the trees’ canopies. The steady breathing of that small ecosystem he has birthed and nurtured.

He’s hesitating. A question hangs in the air, tangles on the tip of his tongue. You can’t see his face, but you have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. That, and it’s typical of him to demand more than you’re willing to give. No more ground will you cede to him. If he begs again for you to remain during the duration of his heat, he’ll find himself succinctly refused.

Still, you’d rather not have to go through the uncomfortable hassle of rejecting him. But he clearly thinks better of it, because he stays quiet—only breaking the contemplative quiet to ask you what you would like for dinner, his thumb rolling circles onto your palm.

#hungering for hsr #luocha/reader #luocha #imagine hsr

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