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qveerthe0ry · 11 months ago

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Lions Ain't the Kind - Part One

Summary: Frankie hasn't dated in years, but now he knows what he's looking for. He's just not so good at asking for what he wants, and you're willing to help him work on it. Word Count: 8,156 Pairing: Frankie Morales x NB/Gender-fluid! AFAB! Reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, subby!Frankie, soft dom! reader, talks about gender non-conformity, sickening fluff, Frankie is way too cute and sweet for his own good, kissing, making out, handjob (m receiving), anal fingering (m receiving), dirty talk, Frankie has a praise kink, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions of reader Beta: @perotovar (my angel ilysm) A/N: Sorry for talking about this for a month straight without posting it lol! The title is from the song (Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear by Elvis Presley which I admittedly haven't listened to but I saw the lyrics and knew immediately it was my Frankie. I hope you enjoy, and I'm always open to criticism and thoughts and thots!

Frankie hasn’t dated in years. He hasn’t really had the time, between his first child being born and navigating co-parenting with his ex, along with healing some very deep trauma and getting and staying clean.

It just hasn’t been on his mind, if he’s honest. He’s been busy finding himself, as Pope calls it. And he’s not wrong. It’s taken a long while for him to be comfortable in his own skin, to come to terms with the things he’s done and the baggage he can now store in an overhead bin, rather than carry it around with him at all times.

But now, he’s ready. He knows himself, and as a result, he knows what he’s looking for.

Someone kind-hearted and down to earth. Someone who’s independent and established, but not just looking for a hookup. Someone with a sweet smile and a desire for enjoying the little things in life.

Someone like you.

He’d swiped right and left dozens of times on men and women alike, but as soon as he saw your profile on whatever dating app he’d downloaded, he was hooked.

You were gorgeous. He felt the heat from your smile through his phone screen, so happy and genuine and sweet.

You were funny, the answers to those weird icebreaker questions full of witty remarks.

You were smart, clearly, from your shoutout to your alma matter and the ‘boring’ job you mentioned in your profile.

He honestly figured he had no chance at all. His face is only getting more wrinkly, and his hair more gray, and he’s never been the sharpest or funniest guy in the room.

So when he swiped left and you matched, he was stunned. He was even more shocked when you messaged him before he could even think of what to say to you.

Hi cutie 🥰

Despite the fact that he was home alone on his couch, he had the sudden urge to look behind him, as if you’d be talking to someone else. The back of his neck got so warm, and your boldness only made him more into you.

So he messaged you back

Hi :) how are you?

I’m surprised we matched, honestly. Pleasantly surprised 😊

Same here :) Why the surprise though? I’m sure you match with everyone

Not at all, it’s hard to find people whose type I am on here. I usually use the queer dating apps but I opened this one out of boredom. What are the chances?

What are the chances, indeed, Frankie thinks, as he gives your profile another look over. Frankie doesn’t understand how you aren’t everyone’s type. He feels a little bit like he’s talking to a celebrity, looking at your pictures and just a snippet of who you are on this reductive dating app.

I like the odds :)

——

As your conversation continues normally over the next few days, Frankie learns a lot about you. He also learns a lot about himself.

It’s been so long since he’s played the field, so to speak, that he’s rusty as all hell and a bit awkward. He’s afraid to flirt too much, every message deleted and re-written at the risk of sounding too cheesy or too forward or too much.

You aren’t afraid to flirt. You send ‘good morning, handsome’ and ‘sweet dreams, pretty boy’ texts every day and night. You tell him your day would be better if you could cuddle someone, you tell him when you’re taking a relaxing bath that you wished he were there to join you.

And to say that Frankie likes it is a massive fucking understatement.

He adores it, he thinks about you constantly, all day long while he works without access to his phone, all evening long while he waits on your replies, all night long, when you’ve bid each other goodnight out of nothing but courtesy for each other’s sleep schedules.

You lead him along like a timid puppy on a leash, showing him new things with patience and care and it drives him insane. He wants to meet up with you so bad, or even just call you on the phone to hear your voice. He thinks about it, late at night, if it’s higher or lower in register, if it’s smooth or raspy. He wants to learn everything about you.

That being said, he’s not sure if he’s ever met someone who’s ‘non-binary/gender-fluid’ before. He doesn’t get out much, he hardly talks to anyone who he hasn’t known for years.

So he googles. It doesn’t really help. He understands what it means, but he doesn’t know what it means to you. He wants to ask you a million questions, but is afraid to bring up even one, and ruin the moment, or sound like an idiot.

You’re so kind though. So he bites the bullet.

Can I ask you a question?

Your response comes almost immediately, now that it’s evening time, both finished with dinner— his takeout vs. your leftover spaghetti.

Of course, pretty boy ❤️

He still flushes deep when you call him that, heat spreading all throughout his face and neck and chest.

How did you know you were non-binary/ gender-fluid?

He frets over the text a bunch before he sends it, making sure he worded it the same way you did in your profile. His heart pounds as he waits for your response.

I’ve always just kind of known I didn’t feel like a man or a woman. I used to think everyone felt somewhere in between, and it was just normal to not feel like I checked either box, but then I realized no one else around me felt the way I did. And then I learned all the terms and whatnot, later on, and knew that’s what I am. Just kinda in between, neither and both, sometimes one and sometimes the other. If that makes sense?

His smile splits his cheeks as he reads your in-depth response, eating up every bit of information you’re willing to give him.

That makes perfect sense to me. Thank you for sharing :)

It doesn’t scare you off?

Frankie scoffs, as if anything about you could scare him off. At this point, you could show up on his doorstep with a dead body in a bag, and he’d throw it in his trunk, dispose of it, and then ask if he could maybe kiss you.

Not at all. Nothing about you scares me :)

——

It’s a few more days before Frankie works up the courage to ask for your phone number. You tell him you were wondering when he was going to finally ask for it. It makes him itchy to think about you waiting for him to ask, making him be the one to do it. In a good way. In a way that kind of makes him stiffen up in his briefs if he thinks about it for too long.

But now, as he settles in from a long day at work, his grin splits his face from ear to ear as he reads your text.

Can I take you out tomorrow night?

He likes it… a lot. He feels so fucking new to all this, like a fumbling newborn calf taking its first steps, and how forward you are eases him so thoroughly.

I’d love that :)

Meet me here at 5 for dinner. Casual dress, but I’m sure you’ll be handsome in anything 😘

It’s the longest 22 hours of his life, and it’s the shortest, all at the same time. Texting you, making funny jokes like his bones aren’t about to creep right out from under his skin with all the nerves buzzing his body. Thinking about you, dreaming about you, one right after the other. When he wakes in the morning it’s like he didn’t get a wink of sleep, his anxiety drumming up a million different scenarios of how it could go right and wrong.

Calling Santi mid-morning on a Saturday when he knows he’s spending time with his family, because if he doesn’t talk to someone about this he may just float off into the ether.

“I’m so fucking nervous, Pope, what do I do? How do I act? Can you just stake out at the bar and feed me lines through an earpiece?”

“Pendejo, fucking— grow a pair man. You’re cute and funny, you’ve got this.”

Reading your texts with pupils shaped like hearts:

I can’t wait to see you tonight, cutie ❤️

and

I finally settled on an outfit

and

Is it weird that I’m not even nervous? I’m just excited to finally meet you

It is weird, Frankie thinks, but doesn’t dare tell you. It’s weird how he can’t even eat the plain toast he made for lunch without feeling bile rise in the back of his throat, and you’re just excited. It’s weird how he’s never, ever felt so gone over someone, and you haven’t even met yet.

It’s not weird, it’s sweet :) I’m excited too <3

It’s not a lie, but he’s omitting the truth a bit. He’s excited but he’s nervous, picking meticulously through his closet to find something casual but not too casual, something he likes the look of himself in, something he thinks you’ll like the look of.

It only gets worse as he stares at google maps. The restaurant is 2.6 miles away, 11 minutes from his house. It’s 4:30, and he wants to leave already, but thinks maybe it’s better to deal with the anxiety in the comfort of his home rather than the parking lot, in case you’re there early too, and you can see how much of a fucking wreck he is.

He watches the minutes tick up in the corner of his phone screen. At 4:36, he gets up, fusses in the mirror one last time, and leaves.

When he parks in the lot in front of the bar & grill, you’ve already texted him.

I’m here a little early, got all green lights. Saved us a table near the back. See you soon!

It’s 4:52.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, closes his eyes as he lets it out gently, counting just like his therapist taught him. And again. And one more time, and finally that anxious tingling in his fingertips is muted a bit and his heart rate is only slightly above normal.

4:54.

He pulls the key from the ignition, gets out of the car, and makes his way to the door.

He finds you instantly.

You’re looking at him, and you’re smiling, and getting up from your chair as he approaches you. He barely even hears you greet him with all his blood rushing in his ears.

“Hi, Frankie,” you say, and your arms stretch out to invite him in for a hug.

He melts into your arms, his strained “hi” muffled in the crook of your neck. You squeeze him tight to you, and he hears you chuckle next to his ear.

“Knew you’d be even cuter in person.”

He huffs out a laugh as you release him, and the tips of his ears burn. But you’re smiling so sweetly at him that it eases his nervous bones.

“You look— can I call you handsome?”

Fuck, he thinks, so fucking awkward.

But your grin gets even wider.

“Only if you mean it.”

“I do,” he sighs, “like straight out of the cologne ads I’d rip out of my older sister’s magazines.”

He holds his breath as you react, the flutter of your eyelashes and the quivering of your lips and your laugh, bubbly and bright and soothing.

And he isn’t lying, not even a little. You’re rugged but soft, romantic and alluring, and he can’t take his eyes off you.

Even as you take your seats across from each other, and the waiter comes to take your drink orders, and as your gorgeous eyes flit across the pages of the menu. He can’t stop looking, watching your mouth curve into a smile as you talk about your week and ask him about his.

It’s pathetic, really, when the waiter asks if you’re ready to order, and you ask if he knows what he wants, because he hasn’t taken a single glance at the menu himself. He just hopes to god the dim lighting of the bar hides his flushed face and tells you to order first while he skims the menu.

He ends up ordering exactly what you got, and floundering when your hand finds his on the tabletop. He watches your fingers trace his own from his nails to his knuckles, and flips his palm up for you to rest your hand in his.

“I’m glad you came out with me tonight,” you tell him.

His eyes flicker up from your joined hands to your smiling face, and his nerves completely melt away from the heat of your gaze.

“Thank you for asking me,” he says.

“Would you have asked me, if I hadn’t asked you?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, and there’s a teasing glint in your eyes.

“Eventually,” he nods, “I mean… probably.”

Your eyebrows turn up in question, and he realizes how that sounds, jumping to backtrack.

“Not like that! I just mean— You know… You’re uh… well, I feel like you’re way out of my league. And so maybe I’m a little… intimidated.”

You smile, then, and sigh, and squeeze his hand as you call him a sweet boy. It makes the room feel like it’s a hundred degrees warmer, like Frankie’s clothes are suddenly two sizes too small.

“You aren’t so good at asking for what you want, are you?”

He laughs then, and shakes his head.

“Not really, no.”

“We’ll have to work on that, then.”

He clears his throat, and tugs at his collar with his free hand, breaking his gaze away from your face as you chuckle. He looks to find a waiter, or maybe an HVAC guy that could crank the AC to sub-zero temps for the remainder of the date.

No luck.

The rest of the date goes well. Surprisingly well. Frankie was worried that he’d be so out of practice that he’d freeze up, or say something stupid, or do something stupid, like knock over a drink or get food stuck in his teeth.

But you’re just so easy to talk to, to click with. Of course, you’re the one who facilitates the conversation, asking him about his favorites— movies, TV shows, music, time of year.

But he likes to think that he keeps the ball rolling well enough, is aware enough to remember to ask for some of your favorites— holiday, food, cocktails.

By the time the check comes, he hardly realizes you’ve both had empty plates in front of you for a while, talking and laughing through your meals like you’re just catching up with an old friend.

He protests when you grab the check, because of course he does. You’ve given him this incredible night, your comfortable company, your sweet smiles, and he feels like his offerings pale in comparison.

“I asked you out, Francisco,” you tease him, having just learned his full name a mere 20 minutes ago.

And he can’t really protest anymore, what with the shiver that’s tingling his spine and the goosebumps he tries to hide by gripping the chair underneath him. So he lets you pay, and thanks the waiter, and feels a rush of sadness when they come back with the check to sign. He really doesn’t want this evening to end.

The apprehension falls second to the sensation of your hand on the small of his back, leading him out to the parking lot.

“Where’s your car? I’ll walk you there,” you say, your thumb pressing a soothing circle into the base of his spine.

So he walks to his truck, a little self-conscious about the out-of-dateness of it, and how he didn’t think to run it through a car wash before this. But mostly he’s just nervous about ending this date on a good note.

“This is me,” he says, barely above a whisper, stopping at his driver’s side door.

You smile at him when he turns to you.

“Thanks again for coming out with me. I really did have a great time.”

This makes him smile through the unease, even as your hand drops from the small of his back.

“I did too. Would you uh… wanna hang out again soon?”

Your face lights up, and Frankie wants to capture it in a bottle and take it home with him. Keep it at his bedside to use as a nightlight.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

He chuckles and looks down to his feet like maybe it’ll redirect the flush in his face. You grab his hand, hanging by his side, and luckily you don’t make him speak again because he doesn’t know if he’s even able.

“I’d love to. Really.”

He smiles when he looks back up at you, only briefly, because you drop his hand and take a half step back.

“Call me about it.”

“Wait!”

Your brow arches at him, because you weren’t really going anywhere, but Frankie’s mind is running a thousand miles a second. He thinks back to all the times you’ve goaded him into asking for what he wants, so far, and how it hasn’t bit him in the rear yet.

“Can we— I… Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Your smile softens, and you take that little half-step back closer to him, and he feels all the tension leak from his shoulders.

“Yes, you can. Thank you for asking.”

He huffs, and smiles at you, and you’re reaching out to cup his jaw and grab his hip, and Frankie closes his eyes far too early, but it’s okay, because he feels your body heat and then your lips.

He can’t hold back the hum that rumbles from deep in his chest, or the way that he goes a little boneless in your grasp. He finds your forearm and squeezes it, and your bicep too, anything to ground himself as your lips part and your tongue teases the seam of his lips.

But then you’re pulling back, and it’s over far too quickly, and Frankie is also acutely aware of how tight his jeans feel. His face feels like it could melt right off of his skull.

“Call me soon, Pretty Boy.”

He nods, speechless, and watches you disappear between the cars of the parking lot. On his way home, he’s already fretting over whether or not he should text you tonight, and what kind of date he should plan, and if his breath was okay when you let him kiss you.

——

Frankie is perfect.

You’re still not sure how you found this diamond in the rough that is Tinder. You thank every god you know the name of that you got bored and opened the app on auto-pilot that night.

First of all, he’s so cute. He’s handsome in such a boyish way, with his dimples and unruly curls and patchy beard.

But he’s also so kind, the way he talks to you like it’s a privilege, the way he asks careful and curious questions about you like he truly wants to know the parts of you that are deeper than what’s on the surface.

Every simple text from him makes you smile, the way he always tries to make you laugh or cheer you up when you’re overwhelmed with the demands of life, as you often are.

And meeting him in person solidified everything you thought about him.

He seems like the textbook definition of a golden retriever boyfriend, if you ever get to call him that much. You hope you do.

In fact, it seems like it’s moving quite quickly in that direction when Frankie asks if you’d be down for a movie night. Some blockbuster he missed in theaters is finally streaming, and he thinks you’ll like it.

You don’t tell him that you didn’t miss it in theaters, or that you thought it was just okay.

You do tell him you’d be down to watch it, only if he came to your place, where the walls are thin and your surrounding neighbors all know you and watch out for you. Just in case he’s really good at acting like a sweet, safe guy.

You find yourself giddy as the weekend approaches, daydreaming at work about how the night will turn out. You tell him to come in comfy clothes, because you’ll be damned if you wear jeans in your own home, even for this sweet man. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit, that’s my favorite kind of outfit :) is his cute response.

You get everything ready the day of; your coziest blankets hang off the arms of your sofa, your fridge is stocked with fresh fruits and your pantry with candy and microwave popcorn and chips (I’ll eat whatever you get :) his answer to your questioning of his favorite movie snacks, of course.)

And then you sit around and wait, excited nerves coaxing your body to straighten things up that have been straightened up a million times already. When Frankie texts you his ETA, you park yourself on the couch by the door and stare at it until there’s a knock on it.

You may count to ten before you get up to open it, just to hide how eager you’ve been to see him again.

Your throat does get a little dry when you answer it to find him in a dark blue t-shirt that hugs his arms and light gray joggers that hug… Other things.

“Hi handsome,” you smile, pushing down all the nerves and the less-than-PG thoughts.

“Hi. I um… I brought these. I noticed you ordered them on our uh– well, at the restaurant, and I didn’t want to show up empty handed.”

You watch a flush break out on his face, and his neck, and wonder how far under his collar it actually spreads.

He’s holding up a six pack of your favorite beers, and he’s smiling so shyly, and you have to crowd in closer to him to press a kiss to his heated cheek.

“That’s so thoughtful, thank you.”

He giggles— giggles, Jesus Christ— and you take them from his hand to let him come through the door.

You set the beers in your fridge to let them chill as he kicks off his shoes. You watch him from the kitchen as he takes in your place with his pretty brown eyes.

“It’s really cozy in here,” he tells you as he fiddles with his own hands.

“Snuggle up, get comfy, I’ll bring us some snacks.”

He nods, so obedient, and hovers by the couch before settling on the seat in the middle.

Sly move, you think, and you can’t hide your stupid grin as you gather some snacks.

When you turn off all but one lamp and deposit the junk food on the coffee table, you notice he’s inched himself closer to the arm of the couch, like he was second-guessing himself. That just won’t do, you think, as you settle in right next to him, so close that the length of your body is pressed against his.

He doesn’t look at you, just stares at the Roku City scrolling across your flat screen. For a second you think he might be uncomfortable, but the way his breathing is uneven clues you in on his nerves.

You reach over him to grab the blanket in the arm of the couch, and you feel his muscles tense up when you press against him.

“Frankie?”

“Huh? Sorry, yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head and sighs, heavy and long, before looking at you.

“I’m so nervous.”

He smiles in spite of it, lopsided, dimples so cute that your lips quiver with the urge to kiss them.

You smile back, and drape the blanket over both of you, patting his leg through it.

“Nothing to be nervous about, Francisco.”

It gets a laugh out of him, a huff through his nose, and his shoulders lower the tiniest bit. You slowly reach up to cradle his jaw in your palm, careful not to spook this little baby deer of a man, but his face leans into your touch.

“If it helps, I think it’s really sweet that you’re nervous.”

“Thank you… I think?”

You laugh at him, and watch as your reaction makes his eyes brighten. You want to kiss him. You want to smooch the absolute daylights out of him, but there’s still 3 hours of a pretentious movie to watch, and there will be plenty of time, if he’s amenable.

So you just pinch his cheek before you let go, and try not to look so smug at the heat that consumes his face as you get the movie up and running.

Fifteen or so minutes into the film, Frankie has relaxed into the couch, though he’s stock-still beside you with his arms glued to his own sides. You just want to cuddle, at least. You’ve been thinking about it for weeks— getting his warm, solid but soft body against your own.

You’re certain he won’t be the one to initiate it, but that’s all fine and dandy. You rearrange yourself a bit, and sling an arm over his shoulders. He looks away from the movie towards you, and you give him a smile that must be comforting.

He sinks lower on the couch, and leans against you, his messy curls pressed against your shoulder while his arm drapes over your lap. You think you hear his satisfied hum under the dialogue of the characters, and you let your head rest against his.

This is nice. Frankie’s so warm against you, the most comforting weight all lax against your side. Your hand creeps up from his shoulder to his head, and his hair is so silky when you finally work up the gall to run your fingers through it.

You can feel the way it affects him when he shivers and presses even closer into you. You watch the movie like that for a while, snacks untouched, fingertips stroking his scalp as his soft curls slip through your digits. Every once in a while his head tilts to look up at you, piercing brown, and each time you smile back down and ruffle his hair.

It’s just after the first big conflict of the film when you feel Frankie shift against you. His arm moves in your lap, and you watch his thick fingers grab your thigh over the blanket.

It shocks you how such a simple gesture makes your temperature rise. You hum and let your nails scratch more firmly against his head. You can hear him gasp, and feel him move impossibly closer, like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together. You glance down at him, past the curls you’ve lost yourself in, and his eyes are closed. Further, the curve of his nose and pout of his lips, his chest that’s heaving with his excited breaths, you notice a suspicious tent in the blanket, and you don’t want to assume, but the context clues are all there.

Frankie is hard.

You can’t blame him. You’ve been aroused since you pressed his body against yours, a slow simmering underneath the surface that’s made you feel so comfortably warm and relaxed.

You shift, and you swear you hear a barely-there whine leave his lips. You move just enough so you can press your free hand to his chest. Under your palm, you can feel his heart beating, a pace that’s concerningly higher than appropriate for sitting and watching dialogue in a movie.

His head turns toward you, his hair slipping through the grasp of your knuckles. He looks up at you with those puppy eyes and his pupils are so dilated that it makes you take a deep breath. He turns his body toward you next and there it is the hard line of his cock pressed against the outside of your thigh. You see him shudder at the friction, watch his eyes grow droopy as they flicker down to glance at your lips.

“Can I kiss you again?”

And he asks so sweetly, voice a little hoarse from the silence, that you couldn’t dream of denying him.

“Yes, Frankie.”

His lips tremble until they meet yours, so soft and chaste, a stark contrast to his scruffy beard and mustache. His breath hitches; you can hear it and feel it. His chest shudders under your palm and pushes air out to gust against your cheeks. You feel his prick, too, twitching against your thigh as your tongue peeks out to tease his pouty bottom lip.

He pulls back so much quicker than you want him to, but it’s also such a reward to look at him this close. His lips shiny, his cheeks flushed, his irises completely usurped by his pupils. His mouth hangs open and you can’t help yourself as you slide your hand from his chest to his jaw and pull him into you once again.

A surprised little noise works its way out of his throat, and his hips jerk forward, and then he’s groaning as his cock throbs against the outside of your thigh. The noise makes that feeling in your gut draw deeper, lower, and you make one of your own in response.

His hand rests dutifully still on your thigh, but you can feel his fingers twitching as your taste buds rub against his– a friction that has no right to be as delicious as it is. You want him to feel you up, to touch you all over, to give in to the desire that’s blatantly pressed against you. You want to hear these noises he seems to be holding back, the whimpers that just barely make it past his vocal chords before he cuts them off.

You pull away this time. Pride swells in your chest as you look at what you’ve already done to him. His curls are even messier now that you’ve run your fingers through them over and over. His eyes are all glassy when he looks at you, pouty lips slick and red.

He sits so still, aside from his heaving breaths, like he’s waiting for your command.

“Tell me what you want, Frankie.”

His eyes widen and christ, if they get any wider they’re going to suck you in like a supermassive black hole.

“I– I’m okay, I like this.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. He nods, trying to convince you, as he not-so-subtly pulls his erection free from its trap between his body and your thigh. His eyes cast downward, but you swiftly grab his chin in your hands to bring them back to you.

“Francisco,” you mumble, “ask for what you want.”

He gasps and bites his plush bottom lip, hard enough that there’s little indents when he opens his mouth. He shuts it again, and squirms against you, and finally opens it once more.

“I want you to touch me.”

His request comes out hardly above a whisper, all broken and breathy, and his gaze settles somewhere behind you.

“Is that all?”

He nods quickly, eyes snapping back to you.

“I swear– I just wanna feel your hands on me.”

Your smile widens as his face gets so serious, eyebrows knitting together.

“That’s good, that’s really good,” you mumble.

The shudder that visibly rolls through him is like a shockwave, sending every one of your nerve endings on-edge. You huff, an amazed little breath at this fucking guy in front of you, so responsive and timid and utterly fuckable.

“You like that? Like being good for me?”

He nods again, more apprehensive this time, but he can’t hold back his whine when his hips press against you. The possibilities of all the things you could do to this man stretch far and wide; it’s entirely overwhelming.

“Sweet boy,” you whisper, because he is, “c’mere.”

You pull the blanket off of you both, and Frankie reaches down to adjust himself so it isn’t so obvious, like you haven’t felt his cock twitching against you this entire time. It’s so endearing you think you could cry, but you’re much too turned on for sentiment at the moment. Instead, you guide him to straddle you, hands on his slender hips until his thighs cage your own.

For a moment you just watch as he sits patiently, obediently, waiting for your next words like his cock isn’t leaking a pretty little damp patch into his sweatpants. His chest heaves with every breath, and his tongue licks and bites at his swollen lips, and his eyes stay trained on your mouth in anticipation.

“So pretty,” you whisper.

His long eyelashes flutter at your compliment, and he turns his head to try and hide his reaction, but it doesn’t mask the way his prick twitches under gray fabric. Your hands find his waistband and tease the edge and you delight in the way he shivers.

You need to feel more, so you press your hands under his shirt and hum at what you find. A soft tummy and smooth skin that makes way for a small trail of wiry hairs. It’s all revealed to you a moment later when you hike his shirt higher, reach for pecs that are more solid than you imagined, and the smallest nipples you think you’ve ever had your hands on.

You look back up to his face for permission with a quirked brow, and he nods eagerly, grabbing the back of his collar to shed the material and bare himself and it’s so lovely. There’s so much tan skin, hardly any of it is obstructed by hair, just the errant freckle here or there. And you can’t help it, you have to lean forward and take one of his nipples into your mouth.

He gasps your name, but one of his hands finds the back of your head to keep you in place. You hum around the little nub, so small you have trouble getting your teeth to bite down on it, but you do and then he groans, his hips jerking in your hold on them.

“Is this how you wanted me to touch you?”

You lean your head back to look him in the eyes, to watch a pained expression flit over his face as he tries to come up with an answer he thinks you’ll like.

“I like this too,” he nods, “but I, um… fuck–”

He cuts himself off to hide his face in his hands. He is so cute and so sexy at the same time, it’s making your brain go haywire.

“Tell me, Frankie. Be good for me, Pretty Boy.”

He shifts on top of you as he looks up at your ceiling. You soothe your hands up and down his flanks and wait patiently for him to find the words.

He drops his hand from his face, fists clenching down by his sides, but he finally looks down at you and smiles, shy and sweet, just a hint of that dimple you adore rearing its head.

“Touch my cock? You got me so hard.”

You smile bright at his request, and nod, and press a kiss to his sternum.

“Anything you want,” you mumble, “just gotta ask. Just like that.”

He looks pretty proud of himself. There’s a twinkle in his eyes as you look up at him, and you take a playful bite of his skin and savor the gasp it coaxes out of him.

“Let’s get these off, yeah?”

Your fingers sneak under his waistband and his skin is so hot under there, searing. You only have a few moments to bask in the warmth before he stands up to remove his pants and briefs in one bashful move.

Jesus.

He’s so gorgeous, bare for you, vulnerable, excited. His foreskin is all pulled back, revealing a delicious looking string of pre-cum from his slit. You desperately want to lean forward and taste— but he didn’t ask for that, and you won’t give it to him unless he does.

Stunned a bit silent, you pat your lap, urging him to settle back over it. Much to your delight, he does, quick and obedient. An approving hum bubbles up out of your chest, and he preens as he sits on your thighs.

There’s a very wicked feeling in you as you stare at him, completely naked, while you haven’t shed a single layer of clothing. Control, and trust, and power. It’s overwhelming in a way that makes your lungs feel too inflated for your rib cage, to know you could take advantage of it, and to know you never ever would.

“Good boy,” you whisper, finally, testing those waters.

Frankie’s dick twitches between you two, and you huff and smile and wonder how something so perfect and precious has literally landed right in your lap.

He’s been more than good, and so with one hand you grab his hip to steady him, and the other takes his cock as gentle as ever. A sharp inhale inflates his chest as you stroke the smooth skin, a teasing, feather-light touch that makes his legs tense up in your lap. You watch him disappear and reappear through the loose circle of your hand, watch another clear droplet bead from his slit when you squeeze him tighter.

“Does this feel good?”

He’s watching your hand work when you look back up to his face. He nods, a jerky movement that seems to shake his entire body, and he’s so on-edge. You feel it in the way he shifts his weight on top of you.

“Words, Frankie,” you urge, a soft smile on your face.

“So good.”

You hum, taking in the way his eyes flutter open and closed, the way his adam’s apple pokes out when he leans his head back.

You reward him by speeding up your strokes. You squeeze his hip with your free hand, kneading at the soft flesh there, while you lean forward to press kisses into his virtually hairless chest. His skin is so hot it feels like it could burn you, flushed such a pretty color, just like you knew it would be.

He whines when you gather up more pre cum with your thumb and gently massage it into his frenulum. You look up to find him staring down at you with glassy eyes, bottom lip tucked tight between his teeth.

“Can we kiss more?”

His voice is breathy, and you nod, and a fresh wave of arousal flushed through your system when his lips eagerly meet yours.

It’s sloppier, this time. Noisier, too, as you tighten your grip on his cock and begin to properly work your hand up and down his length. You steal his breath and his noises straight from his lungs, feel every shudder he pushes out when you twist your wrist just right or squeeze tighter.

His hips start to meet your thrusts, rutting into your hand, such a desperate little thing on top of you, all for you. You want to encourage him to take his pleasure from you, and so you slip your hand back from his waist, find the perfectly pert globe of his ass with your palm.

“Haa— shit.”

His words muffle into your kiss as his hips stutter in rhythm and you lean forward to smirk into the bald patch of his beard.

“Yeah?”

A gasp wrecks through his heaving chest as he nods.

“Please, fuck— please.”

You hum into his jaw and squeeze his cock and his ass respectively.

“Please what, Pretty Boy?”

He leans back. You watch him squeeze his eyes shut and shake his head from left to right.

“Tell me what you want, Frankie. Know you can.”

A big gulp of air, and then he opens his eyes to look at you, then blinks them shut again as his head lolls back in his shoulders.

“Touch me there. I— I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you take mercy on him, bringing your hand up from his backside to cradle his jaw in your palm. He tilts his head into your touch and opens his eyes.

“I got you, sweet boy,” you remind him.

He nods in understanding, shifting to kiss the heel of your palm. You let him rest his lips there as he catches his breath, feel them quivering every other upstroke of your hand on his prick.

But as he makes to move, you hold his jaw steady in your hand. His eyes flicker back to your face, and you wonder if you look as wrecked as you feel, if he can tell how beside yourself you really are.

Slowly, so he can pull away if he wants, you trace the pad of your middle finger along the seam of his lips. You’re awestruck at how they instantly fall open for you, greedy, something you’re definitely looking forward to exploring more later.

For now, you watch with hooded eyes as he takes it into his mouth, tongue curling and lapping at it. You briefly wonder if fingers are erogenous zones, beyond turned on at how warm and wet the inside of his mouth feels, how he suckles and releases, bobs his head over and over until you snap out of it.

“Good boy. Fucking perfect,” you sigh.

He gets a cocky little goofy grin on his face at the praise, but his prick twitches against your grasp. You squeeze it for good measure, and more of his pre-cum dribbles over your knuckles.

You lean into him again, and he leans into you, holding each other up. Your mouth finds his pebbled nipple once again as his prick drags across your shirt and saturates it. He hisses at the friction, then gasps when your hand grabs his ass cheek again.

You pull it as best as you can with one hand. It isn’t too difficult with how it fits so perfectly round in your palm. You squeeze it, massage it, note how the littlest hint of peach fuzz feels against your clammy hand. You wonder how it would feel under your tongue, too, how it would taste, how the fatty flesh would feel between your teeth.

His hips stutter forward when your finger, slick with his saliva, strokes the very top of his crack. And you don’t mean to tease too much, but his jerky movements and satisfied sounds when you do are like music to your ears.

Finally you find his hole, fluttering around nothing, so little and tight, all for you.

“Ohmygod.”

Frankie sounds pained, so much so that you look up from nuzzling his chest to watch his face. His brows are drawn tight with how his eyes are squeezed shut, and his mouth is hung open, slick with a little drool around the corners of his lips. Without context, maybe he would look pained, too, but the way his cock throbs and dribbles in your hand paints a completely different picture.

And what a pretty picture he is, gulping for air above you, thrusting his hips back into your finger and forward through your fist, like he’s so out of his mind that he can’t even make it up.

You apply more pressure to his impossibly tight pucker and sink your teeth into his skin at the way he whines for you. You do it again, and again, a patient little rhythm until it relaxes and the very tip of your finger slips into his warmth.

He groans, clenching tight around you.

“Okay, Frankie?”

He laughs, a little puff of air, and you feel it where you’re inside him.

“Gonna make me come,” he chokes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, don’t— fuck— please don’t stop.”

You hum into his chest, squeeze your hand tighter around his prick as you speed up your strokes. He’s groaning now, deep and low and constant, like he couldn’t hold it back if he tried.

You wiggle your finger against his rim, tugging him open for you, toying with the elastic muscle. He’s so pliable everywhere, opening up to you, happily taking what you give him.

In a stiff moment you think he isn’t into it, because he freezes up and goes silent. You make to slip out of him, but his warmth just drags you in.

And then his cock jumps in your grasp, and his hole clamps around your finger as he gasps your name, and he’s coming.

He shakes with it as he soaks your shirt and drips over your hand. You stroke him through it and marvel at the way he feels in your grasp and around you, violent waves of pleasure that you can sense where you touch him.

You look up to watch him tremble through it and he’s gorgeous. Sweat drips from his messy curls at his temple and paints a glimmer down his neck, all pulled taught as his head hangs back. His chest tastes salty under your tongue where it heaves, you can’t get enough of the flavor, or the wicked beating of his heart under your lips.

And his noises, fucking delicious, wrung-out curses that just keep tumbling from his red lips. His stomach trembles with his shaky breaths, and he sounds so wrecked as the last bit of his orgasm tricked down the back of your hand.

His whispered chants of “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” slow to a stop just as his joints unlock and his muscles relax. You take it as a sign to loosen your grip on his spent cock and carefully slip your finger back out of him. It earns you one last whimper before he sags into you, a boneless little heap in your lap.

You unhand him to hold him against you, wipe your hand on the discarded blanket beside you so you can stroke his back with one hand and his fuzzy little buttcheek with the other.

You tell him how good he was for you, how pretty he is when he comes, how much you loved getting to do that to him.

It takes a while for him to catch his breath, and his huffs tickle that sensitive spot on your neck just below your ear.

“Holy shit,” he sighs.

You nod, because he’s correct. Holy shit, indeed.

His voice is a little hoarse, and you’re conflicted. You want to hold him as long as he’ll let you, but you know you should get him some water and at least a towel.

You shift under him and he whimpers, wraps his arms tighter around your shoulders.

There goes that idea.

You hold him closer, and smirk at the contented sigh that leaves him.

“I think… I think I just imprinted on you.”

It startles a laugh out of you, and he chuckles too, a tiny happy sound against your collar bone. You turn to kiss his heated cheek, and he lets you, before he turns his own head to fuse his lips to yours.

This kiss is lazy, unhurried, and the adrenaline from making him fall apart is slowly making way for more of that sticky-sweet arousal from earlier.

“I wanna make you come,” he mumbles against your lips.

You shake your head, but kiss him some more, as to not give him the wrong idea.

“Another night, Pretty Boy.”

He makes a disappointed sound, but continues to kiss you until you have to part for air. His brow is turned upward in question when you pull away.

“Did I do something wrong?”

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes his question.

“Not a single thing, Frankie. Just wanted to take care of you tonight.”

His shoulders relax at that, but his face is still confused. It’s a cute look on him, with his pouty lips and big brown eyes.

“You’d tell me right? If I made you uncomfortable? You can tell me. I don’t wanna upset you.”

And christ, you feel your heart melting and oozing through your rib cage at how earnest his voice is.

“I promise, I’ll tell you.”

That seems to quell his nerves, as he sinks back into you again with his sweaty curls pressed against your shoulder.

You’re sticky in more ways than one, and Frankie’s only getting heavier in your lap the sleepier he gets, but a giggle bubbles up out of you when you realize you’ve never been more comfortable than you are right now.

Frankie huffs in response, and you press him even tighter against you.

You don’t know where one-and-a-half dates and one sickeningly hot orgasm places the two of you. And maybe it’s greedy to think about with a handsome, sweet man in your arms, but you can’t push down the overwhelming feeling of wanting more.

next part

#x reader #sub! frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #nb reader #gender-fluid reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal cinematic universe #frankie morales smut #triple frontier fanfiction

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ashlingiswriting · 1 year ago

Text

for @narcolini

Kitchen, dead. Should've been empty long ago, but you stopped by on your way home to pick up your only functioning phone charger, and you found him here.

There’s a long island of countertop, the closest end perfectly clean and white under overhead light, the opposite end fading into the shadows. Standing in the middle is Luca, leaning on the counter, full weight on both forearms. Fingers interlaced. If you knew him a little less, you'd say he was just finishing prayer or just beginning. His eyes are open, focused on nothing. His phone is on the counter by his elbow, dark, asleep. The whole world asleep. His back one curve, contained and coiled.

You say his name, once, soft but a little louder than you meant to. Blame the booze for that. Another day you might not have said anything at all.

He remains still save for his mouth, which does something so subtle, prelude to twist, and then he turns his head away from you so that all you can see is his hair, gold and darker gold, one clean-shaven slice of neck, blue shirt.

There's no excusing this. You should go. You put down the phone charger at the end of the table, and he doesn't move at the sound. Sculpture, except sculpture can't radiate like this.

You walk towards him, each quiet step too loud, and then you stop. He's on your right. You plant your left hand on the edge of the counter and your right hand on his lower back. It's not a question. The heat of him bleeds through the shirt right away, and his spine cuts through the center of your right palm just like the counter's cold edge does on your left.

Still turned away, he bows his head until you can see, though not hear, the exact moment when his temple hits the cool countertop. His back moves under your hand. One long rise, one long fall. Deep breaths. No shaking. Just deep breaths, one by one.

You listen to them. There is no sense of time, only waiting. He gets acclimated to you slowly, like water seeping through dense dry ground, and then, only then, do you move. It's no attack. You're not doing it to break him. That's somebody else's job.

You press your hand against him a little harder, his spine cuts your hand a little deeper, and your fingertips make individual dimples on his skin. Slow as an ache, you slide your hand up the curve of his back. He's taught you patience and care. That feeling when every part of your body is attuned to every tiny detail, every sense, smell taste hearing sight and touch. There's nothing that needs it more than this. There's a tiny bump on his left shoulder blade that the pad of your middle finger just skims. You keep going. He's shuddering a little on the inhale.

Finally, you reach the nape of his neck. You anchor on the right side, your hand gripping the muscle between neck and shoulder. After a second, he turns his head. It's dead on now, his forehead against the countertop. You don't have to see to know his eyes are closed.

You lean down too. You press your forehead just left of the nape of his neck. The neckline of his shirt nudges back against your nose, and it's warm skin above, a vague ghost of of balsamic reduction in the cotton below.

You say it in another language, and you say it into his shirt. Sure thing, safe. He doesn't understand it, but after a second, he lifts a hand and puts it over yours on the countertop. You thought that would be all, but then he interlaces your hands. You're all over him, but with his fingers sliding tight between yours, it feels like he's all over you.

It drains away on his exhale, until his back is no longer taut underneath you. His breathing begins to ease. You smooth your thumb once over the little knob of bone just behind his ear, and wait. And wait.

#the bear fx #readerfic #luca x reader #the bear imagine #the bear x reader #the bear fanfic #the bear fanfiction #ficlet #mine #oneshot #idk man. this what happens when you're friends with mj

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endursent · 3 days ago

Text

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note; none | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 8.026 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 10 - Reduction to Bones

The skies wash overhead like waves lapping at sand, leaving behind wrinkles in the darkness that light up like faraway cosmos. Your eyes stare into the vast expanse unblinkingly, the drops of white stars hanging from the heavens like little lanterns.

Dirt kicks over your eyes, they sting and burn as it soaks the moisture of your eyes, laying heavy on your sight until enough is stomped over to blacken your sight completely.

Silence. Somehow lacking any sound outside the crunch on the earth around you with every creak of the trees above, while being impossibly deafening, blaring your eardrums apart until you can feel them squeezing out of your skull.

It feels like an eternity, buried beneath the earth under suffocating layers of dirt and earth. No concept of time nor the cycles of day and night.

Not until heavy thumps of steps shake the highest layers of soil, a bone-shaking tremble that stops above your grave… dirt is tossed into the air, moved aside and dug out of the way.

You look up at yourself, the reflection of your body beneath the earth in the familiar eyes staring at you from above ground. The same face, the same eyes. The same ache and soul.

It’s you.

The air is humid and stuffy in the little room you wake up in, despite that… it’s also incredibly cold. You hoist yourself up into a sitting position and rub your eyes. Where are you? You don’t recognise this room, the architecture isn’t like the palaces, nor Cuihe village walls.

There’s no window on the room and strangely lacking a lantern as well, after squinting a little you do spot some candles on a small table by the foot of the bed. The room is so narrow it’s barely a closet with a thin bed and desk… if it can be called a desk.

Your head hurts, pounding with every small movement and travels down your arm, pricking the skin like little needles digging deep into your skin and scraping against your bones in small circles. The memories of what you were doing before the darkness only made it hurt more… what a mess. You thought the talisman you left with the bird had been enough to hold off.

There’s an uncomfortable, sinking tug at your stomach. Corpses inside their homes, not wanting to leave, hoping it would simply pass by…

You swing your feet over the bed and stand up—a bit too quickly, a fresh pound to your head staggering your steps slightly, but you push on to a small bucket sitting on the small table. There’s a dry cloth next to it which means it’s likely for washing, so you cup your hands into it and wet your face generously. Your eyes sting, your thighs ache and your entire body feels like it’s been pushed a bit too far.

Not unsurprising, you did push yourself the last few days… you were anticipating feeling like tossed laundry.

There’s nothing nearby to light the candles in the room, just your shoes under the bed and your cloth bag under the desk, there’s no real indication of where you are. For a moment you wonder if this is some kind of containment or prison? You’re not sure what you would have done to garner imprisonment.

Thankfully, tugging on the door swings it open easily—though with a loud wail from the hinges that make you cringe. You peek out into the hallway, which is equally windowless and dark as your room is. Little to no decoration or indication of ownership. Lanterns, but unlit. You push your legs forward despite their protests, every step sending rattling up your bones, but you just step softly and look around.

There’s doors on only one side of the hallway, and you can hear the harsh brush of winds on your left side, where there are no doors. The building holds fast, but it still feels like it rattles when particularly harsh gusts knock against the wood—or perhaps it's just your bones trembling with every step.

Reaching the end of the very ominous, dark hallway, you face another one…

Time to go back.

Turning around to head back to your room—you forgot to count the doors, you hope you remember which one—you see a shape deep in the darkness. Instinctively, you jump behind the corner of the hallway to hide before whoever is there can notice you… since the door was unlocked, it’s probably not that you’re not allowed to wander around, but even in the palaces in the capital, some Millelith would give you suspicious at worst and curious at best looks for wandering about in the nightlight.

Not much light here, neither do you know if it’s night or not.

Steps thrum down the hallway and you consider turning heel and running—but considering your legs are BEGGING you to lie back down, you would likely just tumble on your noggin if you tried.

So, you wait…

The steps come closer, and you hear the shift of clothes as well small clinks in what sounds like armour, your skin shivers and the cool breeze of the already cold hallway makes your fingers twitch—a tall man appears around the corner and he almost walks into you as you stand there, but just barely steps aside. “Ah, my apologies,” he simply says, and continues down the hallway, walking past you.

Oh. It’s just a Millelith guard, he didn’t even give you a second glance.

Relieved, your shoulders lower—you didn’t even notice they had raised up to your ears in tension—and you turn back to your original hallway. Your elbow traces the wall next to you as you lean against it, you feel like you just rolled down half a mountain…

Still unsure of where exactly you are, you practically drag your feet back to the room you were in before, a bit reassured to see familiar armour.

Your experiences with the Millelith are rather scarce, but it’s never been unpleasant. They paid you well for your cleansing some time ago, and the ones you’ve passed in the capital have mostly been too busy tending to their duties to have small-talk. They’re rather rare outside of border outposts and the capital anyway, you’re unsure where exactly you met your first elaborately armoured guard.

Finally hauling your ass back into the room, you lower down onto the bed and stare up at the dark ceiling, it feels like your mind is a second behind your body—by the time your head hits the pillow, you still feel like you’re only seeing yourself halfway towards it… why is there no light in here anyway? It must just be the middle of the night, but surely the hallways would be lit? If only to ensure no one hurts themselves walking into something.

Rolling onto your side facing the wall, you fish for the layered blanket that rested on your body when you woke, it’s so damn cold. Your feet and toes sting in the aftermath of the cold floor and you tuck them deep into the soft blanket… should’ve put your shoes on.

You didn’t intend to fall asleep, you had only meant to warm up a little and then get back to exploring… but you’re so awfully tired.

The candles on your desk are lit when your eyes open again, the room is still cold, but not as much as it was before. Doesn’t change that you feel like shit even after the… nap? How long did you sleep?

Sitting up, a pulse of a headache follows your head upwards, slapping against your brain like a bowstring pulled taut. You rub your temple and squint around the room… nothing has changed except for the lit candles and a shallow bucket of water with a dry rag folded next to it.

Practically dragging yourself to the water, you dip the cloth into the bucket and wring it a little before dabbing it against your cheeks and eyes.

The grogginess and general tug of your muscles down towards the earth vanished slowly as your senses perked and your immune system twitched from the frankly, ice cold water. A near permanent tickle of shivers keeps tugging at your skin and you blow on your fingers to try and warm them a little.

“You’re awake.”

Never have you jumped so high in your life, your knee collides with the board of the desk and the bucket topples over as you elbow it in your hurry to turn around—your heart nearly hurts with the way it leapt into your throat, and your body instinctively tensed by the sudden approach. You wouldn’t usually be so on edge, but the last time you got jumped—behind you, stands Moon Carver looking as unimpressed as usual. “This one always knocks.”

He either knocked and didn’t waste a single second to enter, or is lying to you. Then again, he would vehemently deny ever lying, as usual.

You take a good long inhale and let your breath out to encourage your heart to slow, it’s just that stupid stag… glancing down at the bucket on the ground, you bend to pick it up, setting the rag on the ground and wipe at the water with your foot over it. “Where are we?” you didn’t really have much interest in small-talk before getting an idea of where you are right now… and also annoyed that he scared you so much and doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Fengyuan Peaks,” he would show you, but there’s neither a window nor a map in the room—thankfully you recognise the name, the mountain range that separates the southern borders of the Guili Assembly from the lands beyond it. The rise is high enough to be seen from Cuihe once you step away from the forest and the peaks have never been without thick clouds and heavy snow.

Not to mention the stories of the harsh winds you’ve heard in passing from both locals and Millelith.

“And…” you prompt, seeking an answer as to why. Why did he drag you all the way up there? Surely it would’ve been easier to reach a nearby village that wasn’t a vertical climb towards a raging storm.

Though you thought it was a perfectly reasonable thing to expect, for him to continue his explanation—Moon Carver didn’t seem happy… or perhaps it wasn’t the question that made him annoyed. “The winds were too strong to fly just yet, and the direction of them engulfed the nearby area—it was the safest direction to go with dead weight on this one’s back.”

He had been ‘generous enough’ to let you ride his back before, and at least then you were rather respectful, but he hadn’t signed up for having a flailing meat slice on his back ready to slide off any moment!

“Ah…” you weren’t exactly sure how to answer, should you apologise…? “My bad.”

“Your bad indeed,” he crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, allow one to see,” suddenly, his fingers are prying your eyelids open and nearly touching eyeballs with you—faster than you could humanly react.

“Wh—” you immediately grab the back of his collar and try to pry him away. “Why are you so close?!”

“Cease your resisting. This one is merely observing whether you have any excess damage,” he argues and is, unfortunately, stronger. “Dropping dead on the ground for two days is not usual, and your condition certainly has not done you any favours.”

Someone clears their throat in the doorway and the both of you turn to see an older man staring at the two of you with… entwined feelings of exasperation and exhaustion. You recognise him, dark hair and tanned skin despite being stationed atop a gloomy mountain for at least the three years you’ve been down south. “Mister Huang!” you greet, or ask for help—you’re not entirely sure if you actually need it but you certainly don’t want to touch eyeballs with this oaf.

“Breakfast has not been served yet, please don’t wake your neighbours earlier than you must,” he says evenly, his armour is a bit grander than the regular Millelith guard—in a way that’s supposed to be flashy and perhaps not as practical as it could be, fur lining the collar and a deep red cloak that might be caught in things.

Despite the formality of his uniform, Huang has always been very polite and kind.

“O-oh, sorry,” the words stumble instinctively from your mouth, still half-choking Moon Carver by way of pulling his collar back.

He didn’t seem to want to involve himself any more, and thus left you to handle it on your own. Fair enough.

Thankfully Moon Carver didn’t actually touch your eyeball (small mercies) and soon enough you were following him through confusingly winding hallways and through small doors that looked like they led to rooms—but in fact only opened to reveal further hallways. Lovely.

It wasn’t until it seemed you exited the labyrinth and found an open hall with sliding windows, there were people dragging tables about, likely preparing for a large serving of breakfast for shift-changes, and some Millelith passing over the hall to enter the mass of hallways you just left.

Moon Carver gestures for you to come closer to one of the windows that he approached, and slid it slightly open. Ice cold gusts of wind blow into your face, and the adeptus pushes you slightly so that you aren’t directly facing the slit like an idiot. “Raise your eyes,” he gestures towards the top of the window frame, towards movements in the clouds.

It’s difficult to see, flashes of gold and white as sharp winds tear their way inside the hall, quickly fizzling out and giving way to the hearths warming the grand area. But it’s unmistakable, a long line of gold forms in the heavens above the clouds and tears through them, parting the misty skies and just barely missing its target, landing heavily in a cliffside that gave the ground a soft tremble.

“That’s…?” you squint and try to make out the shape in the air, you knew the answer to your own question before you voiced it, but you’ve never seen someone so high in the air before. The air is already rather uncomfortable so high on the mountain, to be in the sky as well…

Moon Carver leaned against the mostly-closed window, arms crossed yet again over his chest. “He has been out there since before we arrived.”

“He must be cold…” you shiver just thinking about staying out there for so long, just having the window open a sliver is making you rub your arms to try and keep them somewhat warm.

The adeptus is silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the looming battle above them. “This one spoke with general Huang, the heavy snow and sharp winds are greater hindrances than her attacks.”

You’re not exceptionally privy to the tales surrounding the Fengyuan mountains, a child once told you of a long ocean worm that swims down the rivers of its highest peaks, but that’s all you can remember. And you certainly aren’t sure what god or demon happens to hold it.

“Is she the one that keeps pushing the forward camp back?” you want to close the window—it’s terribly cold, but you also can’t tear your eyes from the small speck of gold in the skies, darting like a shooting star when the fight moves further east.

Moon Carver nods. “Mei Lan. She has always been defensive about her mountaintops, yet only in recent decades began to conjure heavy storms that affect the Assembly,” he finally slides the window shut, but the bone-chilling cold has already festered deep in your skin, even as you hug your robe closer. “A flood that swept away an entire village and killed many, snow in the middle of harvest for another, sharp winds that cut through homes not built to withstand them.”

People suffering, mortal casualties and hardship at the hands of a god—a common tale in the last few hundred years that have survived word of mouth.

“Does he kill them?” the question slips from your lips before you can think about it further.

“Sometimes. Most often, gods that rose to power by strength alone and not courage will accept mercy and flee towards the Dark Sea,” without telling you to follow or where he’s going, Moon Carver turns—you follow anyway. “Some will fight to the end.”

You’re given a brief explanation of the place—a simple outpost, hastily built and put together as the borders keep getting pushed back and forth, the last outpost had been destroyed by an avalanche and this one was built much higher and away from sharp peaks to avoid the same risk… but being in a more open area makes it vulnerable to dangerously sharp winds as well as being clearly visible.

A healer comes to examine you further later in the day, and after that morning you don’t see Moon Carver again… bastard didn’t even say bye, assuming he departed back to the capital.

You feel as if you’re being tossed around the Guili Assembly. Never have you been on such far ends of it in such a short time. Perhaps you’re a bit angry, but it’s difficult to tell where it’s coming from—is it anger at yourself? For the terrible misstep that led to the deaths of innocents? At Moon Carver for bringing you to a mountain that you can’t descend by yourself?

Or perhaps just in general, that if you hadn’t left your quiet but relatively fulfilling life for the bright bustle of the city.

Shaking your head, you rub your temple. Lamenting past choices right now isn’t particularly productive, and do you truly regret your choices, or do you just feel like shit right now?

It’s hard to tell, you do feel like you’ve been stuffed into a basket and kicked downhill, but that can be said for how you’ve felt for a while now. The cold doesn’t exactly help aches and pains.

You don’t particularly sleep well either, restless and unsure of what you’re exactly doing here—no one seems to pay you any mind, the healer was quick and to the point; you didn’t hit your head when you passed out. They had gotten a bit of a startle when you asked them to check under the bandages over your arm in case anything had changed (you feel nauseous looking at it), but everything seemed as it had been for the last days… otherwise, you get food either given to you—you slept until noon the day after arriving—or go to the main hall to eat among the soldiers there.

Never have you just… been somewhere. Without a purpose or role. It’s weird, you don’t like it. You feel that you should be doing something, but you hardly have many things with you—and nothing here needs any cleansing! That’s… most of your skills and purpose in a given place!

Not to mention that this place sucks, it’s built like a containment box, and while you understand that windows would get torn apart and would let the cold inside, you also want to go outside, or at least get some fresh air.

You wonder how the soldiers and staff make it through the winter months here. Or a month in general.

On your third morning, you start to become rather concerned… Morax is still outside. Surely, even for him, staying out in the cold for so long isn’t good—you hope his fingers haven’t frozen off, you’ve been inside the entire time and yet still you feel as if your toes are perpetually cold, and might remain so for the rest of your life.

Something has been tugging on your brain, you tucked it down to a headache, gods know you’ve had plenty of those recently… but it feels like it’s literally TUGGING. It pounds against the back of your skull when you lie down in bed, it throbs in your right temple when in the kitchen… sometimes it’s unbearable, sometimes it’s dull—usually during the night does it lessen and provide a small blessing.

This really sucks.

By utter coincidence, you find Huang again during the shift changes you’ve noticed occur in the early morning when heading to the kitchens again. “Huang,” you call as you approach him, neglecting any formalities—fatigue from always having to set up that formal front has settled in, you were never quite used to being around figures of high authority for long and having to keep formalities in place in the palaces is exhausting. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother—is there anything I can do? Help the kitchens? Housekeeping?”

You didn’t really know what to suggest, you have basic skills of cooking and cleaning for yourself or your space—it’s the least that you can offer.

Huang turns to you after the two Millelith he was talking to have left. His hair is short and perfectly trimmed so as to not get tangled with his helmet that sits under his arm. “If you wish. Master Moon Carver told me you needed rest, I assume you have been adhering to that.”

Moon Carver never told you to do that, but you suppose you didn’t really need to be told to do so—your screaming legs demanded it, but you feel better now after two nights of moping around. Even your headache is gone. “Speaking of him… where has he gone?” did he actually leave? You feel like he surely could have taken you with him to a place that wasn’t going to freeze your nose off if he was able to just leave.

“I have not seen him much,” Huang admits. “But master Moon Carver is still here, it would be foolish to descend the mountain while the fighting continues.”

It’s a mild relief that you weren’t just left behind in the middle of nowhere… only way for you to get back down is to lay flat as a board and roll down, which you doubt will be successful.

“If you wish to help, I’m sure the kitchens or housekeeping will be delighted.” You’re torn from your thoughts as he speaks. “Though I’m afraid I must be on my way now, please leave a letter on my desk if you require anything.”

You tried to ask the housekeeping, but they told you to come back in two days for deep cleaning, and your next step was to help the kitchen prepare for future meals, yet all they had asked you to do was knead some dough… and your arms are practically dough themselves. Of course, you did your best, tossing yourself into kneading and pulling as much as you could. But even after just ten minutes you were beat.

Your arm hurts, your eyeballs even hurt for some reason—your back is killing you… maybe you’re not made for this difficult kitchen work.

As you sit by the half-kneaded dough, defeated on the floor and sulking for not being able to do it properly… it’s still so mushy… a hand suddenly claps onto your shoulder and you jerk up. One of the kitchen ladies stands above you, her arms are much thicker than yours with far more muscle and fat. “You can help cut the vegetables, I’ll handle this,” Yixuan, you remember her name being, practically hoists you up under your arms like a sack of rice and ushers you towards another table.

The kitchens are full with people coming and going, chatter and calls from across it nearly ring in your ears minutes after they were shouted over your head—you had no idea kitchenwork was so intense. The sound of utensils and tools clanking against boards, bowls and woks, the intense scent of spices and the sweat of the person next to you. At least the space is very warm, it’s better than the empty hallways.

You’re far better at chopping than kneading, the knife taps along the board as another batch of chives is taken from your side and you reach for some mushrooms to handle next.

“Coming through!” you just barely duck under a steaming tray as it’s carried behind you, as well as shuffle only a little to the left as a chef reaches past you to grab some jars on a shelf above your head.

The day was hectic to say the least, but you started to understand where to stand, how to stand and when to move when something was carried past you by the end of it—especially to keep your elbows closer to your body, you accidentally elbowed the person to your left and nearly caused them to drop a full bowl of broth. As soon as you weren’t like a headless chicken, it became far easier for both you and everyone around you to do your work.

As a reward Yixuan hands you a big bowl of braised pork noodles—big enough to feed four people. “Where do I put this?” you ask her, the woman is slightly taller than you and her apron is miraculously clean despite the long kitchen day.

Yixuan, already turning to pile up things for washing, looked over her shoulder at you, her wrinkled face scrunching further as she squinted at you. “What do you mean? On a table and you eat it.”

“... all of it?”

“I wouldn’t eat it all at once myself, but you’re welcome to,” she says and carries some pots and bowls to a washbasin. “There’s storage jars in the closet over there, everyone has extra food on hand—storms come in frequently and some years ago the kitchens were wrecked.”

Emergency supplies… you can’t help but think that prepared pork like this doesn’t really last for long in storage. They’re really planning short-term with such measures. But it does smell good, the thick scent of the pork and the heavy noodles were more delicious than you imagined supplies to be on average.

You were exhausted when you returned to the room you’ve had for yourself here… the lack of a window—or any proper window in this labyrinth—is really making you feel uncomfortable. Somehow, you’re even more tired after a rather average day in this cold place than you get in the middle of humid summer, which easily zaps you after a mere hour outside under the sun.

Changing clothes, you take a look over what you have with you… your usual cleansing tools, thankfully spared any destruction the weather might have brought on the way here, as well as only a handful of clothes.

That’s it… you fold the clothes you had used today after changing, and move your little makeshift bag under the bed again when your fingers touch something smooth and firm—it’s in one of your robe pockets? You reach in and pull out the Luo Pan. It fits perfectly in your hand, wood smooth and cold as the needle trembles faintly and points north… you move your torso a little, and the needle stays towards the north. It’s pointing towards something, clearly—but without a window or sense of orientation, you have no way of guessing towards what.

Tucking it into your robes again, you push the bag under the bed and rise to lay on the mattress.

Urgh, you don’t even want to try and understand it right now. You just want to fall into a deep sleep where you won’t notice your cold toes.

Turning on your side, you pull the thick blanket over your body—you’re tempted to pull it over your head, but it’s just barely not long enough to cover your feet if you tug it high enough to your head. Your blanket at the palace was plenty long enough… but on the offside, it’s not cold enough there for you to need all of it.

You lie there for what feels like an hour, trying to clear your head and sleep, you’re not even thinking about anything in particular… your mind races through heavy curtains as if fleeing from tangible thoughts.

Finally, your consciousness seems to sink into a dreamless sleep, yet it continuously drifts between wakefulness and bleary sleep. Thoughtless passage of time interrupted by painful awareness of your eyeballs behind your eyelids, loose strings in the blanket tickling your neck and the brush of cool breeze against your eyelashes.

You struggle to tell apart the times where you are awake or not, the darkness is the same.

Despite the trouble, you keep in the same position, moving means exposing your skin to slivers of a raised blanket, allowing cold air inside your little bubble of slowly growing warmth. You try to settle better and drift away again, for the ever uncountable time.

The next moment that your tongue touches your teeth, your awareness returns, you’re far warmer than you have been for the last nights. your body feels soft and warm—not tight with a shivering chill as it has been for far too long. Something warm rests against your stomach, your arm unconsciously slung over it… perhaps you had pulled your pillow from under your head in your sleep, it wouldn’t be the first time.

You’re too tired to care, to think of whether it be your pillow or a crumpled side of the blanket, you pull it closer to yourself, hoping it will bring that warmth to your upper arms better.

It wriggles and moves, settling again and your eyebrows twitch, you squint your eyes open—moist and heavy with sleep as you see a snout below your chin, brown with a twitching wisker as your breath brushes its scales.

It looks like that tiny creature you saw when you first arrived at the capital. A small Rex Lapis.

You must be dreaming.

Closing your eyes again and choosing to believe that your brain conjured your pillow to look like a little dragon from old illustrations and tales of gods and monsters, you sleep again.

You wake once again to something touching your forehead, your eyes open and you nearly shoot up into a sitting position as you comprehend that Morax is sitting at your bedside, his hand extended where he had been touching your forehead.

He almost seems equally as surprised as you are, eyes opening slightly wider as you shoot up. “Ah, my apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He looks different, his usually smooth and slightly tousled hair was now messy, sticking in many directions atop his head—his long locks weren’t contained within a gem-band and instead fluttered down his shoulders and back like thin ribbons. His skin is pristine as always, but there is a hint of tugs at his bottom eyelids.

Considering how long he’s been out in the storm and how warm his hand is, your worries seem to be unfounded.

“No, it’s alright… what time is it? Perhaps I should have been awake already,” you say, rubbing your eyes—urgh, your voice is groggy and you look positively half-asleep. Do you ever look presentable? You feel like you haven’t met face-to-face with someone after being properly prepared to do so in a while now.

A small hum sounds behind his lips as his hand lowers. “It is still early morning, you may rest longer if you wish… after you relay to me how you got here, and perhaps why while you are on the topic.”

“Ah…” the hand that was rubbing your eyes covers them with embarrassment. You were kind of hoping Moon Carver would explain it to him… but it seems they haven’t crossed paths, or he simply sent Morax straight to you. “Ehm…”

Though Morax’s eyes are not unkind as he stares at you, awaiting you explanation… he is also clearly not happy, or just neutral. He had explicitly told you to stay in the capital, and you defied it. You’re at least glad he’s not angry.

“I… couldn’t stay,” you mumble, your words just barely loud enough for him to hear. “I felt bad, and if I didn’t go, I’d feel worse.”

“Do you feel better now?” he examines your expression, as if gouging every single change in your muscles.

Of course you don’t—it was all your fault, not only was the ward not strong enough, but you burying that bird with a weak seal that expedited the corruption in the earth and drove it into the village, finalising its fate. Into the water, into the crops. Into their homes.

Your lack of response and downcast eyes are all the explanations he truly needs, yet still he waits for you to speak. You wished he wouldn’t. “No. My failure caused it. I killed—”

His hand closes around yours, removing it from where it was picking at your skin as you spoke. Morax’s eyebrows are drawn together. “Perhaps your mistakes led to an exhorted process, but you did not kill anyone,” he says, his voice steady and level. Not firm or pressing, but neither kind nor sympathetic. “Mistakes are to be learned from.”

“But… how can I not place the blame on myself?” you asked, your hand rather lax in his grip, and he holds it in the air between your chest. “That dead bird’s corruption didn’t absorb into my seal, I left it there to seep into the earth and water!”

Morax sighs, a gentle exhale of his breath. “You will find uncountable ways to point the blame to yourself, if the doubt is left in your mind to fester—”

“But the blame IS on me!” you don’t even notice your voice rise, you can’t remember when you properly raised your voice last—fuelled by anger and frustration towards yourself. “I—it was MY seal the failed, I decided to place it there instead of cleaning it myself and then disposing of it, if I had—”

Your nose stings and your face scrunches. You’re about to cry—you can’t cry, how pathetic will that seem?

Unfortunately for your dignity, Morax seemed to notice the prickle of tears in your eyes as well, the held up emotions and thoughts contained tightly in your chest threatening to burst forth—days of wallowing around and trying not to think of your mistake on the verge of overcoming your strength of will.

His hand around your wrist lowers and slides your palm against his. “Squeeze my hand.”

“Ha?” you’re not entirely sure you heard him, squeeze his hand? Despite the confusion, his small nod makes you look down, and you squeeze it. His hand is surprisingly… fleshy. It squishes between the bones but holds fast when he curls his fingers and squeezes in return. “Ow. Your grip…” your bottom lip juts out as you try to squeeze back harder.

You don’t even notice that you’re practically bruising each other’s hands until he stops squeezing you.

The tightness that had been coiling itself around your spine and making you tighten up and burst through the seams with misery has lessened, the energy spurned through your right arm and into the squeeze. You don’t really feel better, but you don’t think you’re going to explode anymore.

“... thank you,” you mumble, hand still resting over his gloved one, but now rather limply compared to the desperate squeeze.

“Of course…” he slowly slips his hand from under yours and you wish he hadn’t, the cool air brushing against the flesh of your palm that had significantly warmed against his. “Your grip is… weak.”

The expression on your face must have been either explicitly annoyed or deadpan, as Morax only smiles. A rare hefty tug of his lips—almost smug? No, surely not. Mock innocence? It’s impossible to read this man. “Have you not been tending to your muscle exercises?”

“That’s the other hand, why would I need to squeeze with this one?” you have your right hand vaguely. “This one is normal.”

“Hm, being bedridden affects all muscles, you should consider all of them when strengthening what atrophied,” he nods, mostly to himself as he reaches under your bed and takes your makeshift bag from under it. Your clothes rustle and the cleansing tools tucked between them clink as they touch against each other.

“H-hey, that’s my clothes…” you don’t really stop him, more curious what he’s searching for rather than hiding… what? Some robes? Your bell?

After going through your bag—does this guy not have a concept of respectful privacy?—he sets it back down just as it was, folded and everything. “No ball, no flute… you are neglecting your recovery.”

That’s what he was looking for?! Bringing that yarn ball wasn’t exactly on your mind when you hurriedly packed up… Morax sure is feeling looser than usual, he wouldn’t normally be so forthright as he’s been since you woke up, your cheeks warm slightly as you avert your eyes from his. “Well… I forgot it… in my cupboard…”

“Hm, I will find a replacement,” he touched his chin in thought.

You pulled at the blanket pooled over your lap as silence settled between the two of you, but you didn’t allow it to linger for long. “Are you… displeased that I am here?”

Morax’s eyes turn towards you, but his head doesn’t follow immediately. His legs crossed, his position next to you on the bed almost too close—the bed isn’t exactly wide to begin with. “Yes. Not because of your presence, of course. But because your safety might be at risk. You would be well cared for and safe in my palace.”

He pries your hand from pulling at the blanket, you had loosened some seams. “But… I can not fault you for leaving. Stopping humans from following their hearts is… challenging, I’ve come to learn with exposure.”

You feel slightly sheepish—the heat of your cheeks from earlier had just begun receding and now flares again, but he only shakes his head. “Then… will you allow me to help now?” your question is slightly reluctant, as if not sure whether you should ask it—or perhaps you were concerned that it would bring a crease to his brow.

But he lets out a breath, almost as if amused. “Hah… well, you are here. It would be remiss of me to not utilise free fingers.”

Your nose scrunched slightly. “Fingers?”

He inclines his head sideways only a little, bangs tilting over his eyes as a long lock from the back of his head slides from his shoulder to his back. “I thought it inappropriate to say; a pair of functioning hands.”

“Right,” you let out a breath yourself this time. “Perhaps, when you’re concerned whether you should say something or not—you should not immediately reveal what you thought was ‘inappropriate’.”

In a way, you’re relieved that Morax is both back and not outside in the storm anymore, and also that he isn’t truly upset with you… but as soon as you told him you wanted to help, he put you to work.

He clearly expects you to know your own limits and certainly seems to be testing how far you will go to prove yourself—while also observing whether you will mind your health at the same time.

You don’t intend to sit around anymore, not when you see him give orders to Millelith and attendants alike, as if anticipating that this conflict will peak soon.

You tug your thick robe around yourself tighter and step outside the open door before you—snow and sharp wind immediately stings your cheeks and you lower your face into the fur lining further. It’s nearly impossible to see in this storm, even just your feet are halfway obscured by the flying snow, out of sight.

You manage to drag yourself towards a few closed, large jars sitting by a wall and grab the rope that binds the cloth lid to drag it back inside. Thankfully the snow is soft and powdery—it also means you have to squint a lot to not get it directly into your eyeballs—and the bottom of the jar slides easily as you tug it inside, the loose flakes parting easily for your feet.

The howling wind suddenly picks up in a sharp gust, and you grab onto the wall next to you, if you weren’t holding both the couple of tens of kilogram heavy jar as well as the wall of a building, you’re sure it would have knocked you over and potentially put your face in the cold snow.

After a few seconds of heavy gusts pushing at your side, firmly attempting to push you over and into the heavy snow, it seems to lessen for a moment and you take the chance to drag the jar the rest of the way inside.

The kitchens appreciate the help you’ve brought over the last days, but you feel like just tugging heavy jars full of frozen and stored meats inside isn’t exactly ‘helping’ in the way you want to… and your body is positively aching from the labour, not to mention your poor (damned) hand.

You’re just barely starting to wrap this labyrinth around your head and after taking only two wrong turns to run to your assigned chambers to fetch some fresh socks—you always pack two pairs—you finally find the hallway that you were seeking.

Closing the door behind you, it had just clicked into place before your brain rattles.

Your mind can’t keep up as it happens, creaks and cracks bellow in your ears as the hallway before you is torn apart. You cry out in surprise and fall backwards in both surprise and a sudden shake to your balance as wood and splinters fly past you—pain shrieks from your skin as one hits your shoulder heavily and you duck quickly to not get torn apart alongside it.

Winds howl and shriek along the shattered beams that tick into the outside world, the hallway is cold as it’s laid bare to the cold air—the entire rest of the building in front of you has been blown away, leaving only stone and torn wood.

A single gust of incredible wind tore it apart, you shudder and shake as you stand, blindly grasping for the door behind you, unable to tear your eyes away from the blanket of white before your eyes.

“Depart this place!”

“There is nothing for you here!”

A voice travels alongside the winds, brushing by your ears in a scream that makes them sting. You finally find the handle and stumble backwards into the hallway behind it. The door swings closed before you and you only notice now that you have been holding your breath.

Your room was in that direction, torn apart and blown away. Your clothes, your tools—cleansing tools that you have been using for years, some that were gifted to you when you began practicing. Gifted to you by old hands, passed along and guarded for so long.

A hand on your shoulder tears you from your thoughts, a Millelith soldier shakes you and doesn’t wait for you to turn, he takes your upper arm and drags you alongside him away from the door.

You have to run to keep up and you’re tugged along through winding hallways, recently memorised and suddenly foreign—you can’t remember what direction you’re going.

Many bedrooms had been on that side of the camp, people finishing their shifts asleep or waking to change with others. The storage, the infirmary.

How many people had been taken away by that gust? Been torn apart?

The main hall is full of people, they are experienced with such destruction and sudden attacks and have mobilised quickly. “She has found us again,” general Huang stands at the forefront of the mass of people, the Millelith that dragged you along finally lets you go and leaves. “Take everything that can be carried and descend under the cliffside, it will provide temporary shelter until we can determine where is best to relocate.”

Immediately, people began to move even as Huang continued to speak, you look around—feeling both a bit bare without anything to go back for and grab, as well as not knowing what is important to take. Food? Medical supplies?

As you take a mere step to try and find something to take, you spot a familiar, very much out of place, green streak of hair. You hurry and shoulder through the crowd of people until you reach him. “Moon Carver!” you call as he’s about to turn away.

The adeptus stops and faces you, his expression is unreadable and he’s wearing a thick robe—not very different from yours, only far more expertly crafted and likely far more expensive, though at a price of comfort. He waits until you reach him. “Go with the attendants and hide beneath the cliffside, I will be at the rear.”

“Where is Morax?” his name slips from your lips, never have you merely called him by what his presumed name is.

Moon Carver doesn’t seem bothered by the informal address. “He engaged with Mei Lan moments after the attack, one hopes it will not be several days of chasing flakes in the wind,” he looks over your head as a Millelith guard calls for him. “Do as you are told for once.”

A small bristle comes to you involuntarily, you’re not a misbehaving child! “I want to help him.”

How you will do that, you’re not sure—you have scarce experience in combat, you could swing a bamboo stick in a mean swing when you were younger and lived in a dense forest for a while populated heavily by snakes, but you aren’t exactly on par with godlike beings.

The adeptus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, he doesn’t have time to convince you—who knows if he even can, if there’s one thing he’s learnt over just the last week is that you’re far too stubborn to just convince with normal means. “And in what way do you wish to help?”

You open your mouth, and then close it… you rattle your mind for ideas, for something—a good throw of a rock at the opposing god? A distraction? Are you even worth being distracted by? Your lips part again with an idea, but Moon Carver is quicker than you.

“Your skills are best utilised at the battle’s end, if Rex Lapis were to fell the enemy we will all be within direct effect of its fallen energy,” he says—another shout for him and Moon Carver turns his head. He sighs and gives you a look, you’re not entirely sure what it means, but can guess it’s along the lines of ‘do as this one says’. “Perhaps you can prepare a barrier to protect the ones hiding from the initial drop of energy.”

… that’s a great idea, but…

“My tools…” you point sheepishly towards a door that leads to the side of the building that was practically obliterated.

“... ah,” he starts walking away, he can’t be held up much longer—the hall is already halfway empty. “Either figure something out or hide, just don’t go close to the fighting.”

The tug in your chest appears again as you think of your poor tools, you have no cleansing bell, no parchment for talismans or seals… the only way for you to prepare proper wards without seals is to directly use your own energy for it—which is flimsy at best and entirely unreliable. You’ve gotten away with it a few times before, but it’s exhausting… and exhausting yourself in that snowstorm doesn’t sound like a bright idea.

You cross your arms over your chest in thought, you hadn’t considered the fact that Morax might simply slay Mei Lan… in that case, all of you are far too close to go unscathed—and you don’t fancy becoming sick from exposure again… neither do you have any tools to remove it from others.

As your arm moves over your torso, you feel something hard inside your robes. Looking down and reaching into the flaps over your chest, you pull out the Luo Pan… you don’t recall having placed it in this robe—in fact, it had been tucked between robes in your bag.

The needle is still pointing north unwaveringly.

At least something from your belongings remained, you sigh and tuck it back into your robe securely. You need to figure something out… you rub your temple as that damned headache rises again against your left temple, there’s not much time to sit around and ponder—everyone is leaving.

If only you could find simple parchment and ink…

#⭒ - gss #genshin impact x reader #morax x reader #rex lapis x reader #zhongli x reader #genshin x reader #morax x you #rex lapis x you #zhongli x you #multi-chapter #fics #my writing #afab reader #genshin impact

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ivanttakethis · 4 months ago

Text

End of Round 13 - Tov’s Log

Jae (64) vs. Vii (35) - Jae Win

————————————————————

Wren found Tov again that night.

Round 13 had just finished.

64 - 35

Jae won decisively.

Vii was dead.

The guards allowed both classes to mingle during free time in the hour prior to curfew.

Most people chose to stay inside. Tov and a few others ventured out into the fields.

At night, the simulated daytime of the Anakt Garden dome was switched off, allowing those inside to see the true night sky above.

The stars seemed further away somehow, but they were no less beautiful.

It was a perfect night for stargazing.

Tov stayed close to the main buildings, tucked away around back, out of view of anyone passing by.

She knew the spot from childhood. It was a good place if you wanted to be alone for a while.

“There you are!”

At least it was…

Wren sat down in the grass beside her, crossing her legs and mirroring Tov’s position.

“I figured I would find you out here.”

Wren’s tone raised her hackles.

Tov furrowed her brows, turning to look at her, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wren shrugged, but kept her eyes on the sky, unbothered by the slight edge in Tov’s voice. Her white hair seemed to glow in the moonlight. Even her roots were white.

“You seem to like the stars, and they’re awfully pretty tonight.” She said.

Tov couldn’t argue with that, so she didn’t.

“They are pretty.” She nodded, looking back up at the constellations hanging overhead.

The two were quiet for a moment, before Wren spoke again.

“What was it like performing on stage?”

Tov tried to think back to Round 10, but her mind drew a blank. She couldn’t recall much of anything.

Only fragments of that night remained scattered around the void in her memories.

The stars.

The heartache.

The first line of her song.

The gunshot.

The smell of blood.

The way Nyx hugged her like she was something fragile.

Everything else was gone.

“I don’t remember much.” She said quietly. It almost sounded like a confession. “I wasn’t really thinking about the stage, or the crowd, or the cameras.”

“Then what were you thinking about?” Wren asked, “That emotion in your voice didn’t come out of thin air.”

Tov’s eyes found Tallis’s constellation instinctively.

Was she really about to spill her sorrows to a stranger?

Regardless of how friendly Wren behaved, they didn’t know each other.

But… who else did she have in her life to talk to?

Cassio? No.

Nyx? He had enough on his plate preparing for his upcoming round.

Himei? Tov didn’t know if she would ever talk to her about this; about what she and Tallis said and did.

She’d already been isolated once because of all this grief they found themselves neck deep in.

Tov wasn’t going to add to that, or make things worse. It would just make the situation more confusing.

She briefly closed her eyes and sighed, “Did you watch Round 7?”

Wren nodded in her periphery. “Of course. I watch every round.”

How can you stomach it all?

Tov didn’t ask that thought aloud.

“The contestant that lost…”

“Tallis?”

She almost winced at the sound of his name. The wound was still too raw.

“Yeah… him.” Tov swallowed around the growing lump in her throat. “He… he meant a lot to me.”

Andromedas, why is this so painful?

“He was a friend of yours?”

She shook her head immediately, “No.”

The word “friend” was far too reductive to encompass everything that Tallis meant to Tov.

But how else could she describe their relationship?

Even with her face placidly neutral, Wren still managed to sense Tov’s internal frustration.

“Ah, more than a friend.” She mused. “Did you love him?”

“I did— I do.” Tov amended. Nyx’s words came back to her then.

“Just because he's gone doesn't mean he doesn't still love you.”

Guess that meant she didn’t have to stop loving him either.

“When I was singing, I was thinking about him.”

“I see.”

This time, the ensuing silence bordered on comfortable. Tov’s chest felt a bit lighter too. Maybe talking about it isn’t so bad.

“You named a star after him.” Wren said it like a statement, not a question. It startled Tov.

“How did you—” Her eyes snapped to the odd grey gaze staring back at her, expectant but already knowing.

“You keep looking at the same spot in the sky.” Wren explained. “You kept looking up at the stars when you performed too.”

Tov felt strangely exposed, like Wren could see through her skin and straight into her soul.

It was different from the way Tallis looked at her, though. But she couldn’t put a finger on why.

“It’s a constellation.” She conceded, finally.

Wren smiled a little, almost giddy, “Ooh which is it? Wait, wait, wait— let me guess!” She scanned the stars intently and her brow furrowed in concentration.

It made her look much younger than she probably was.

How old is Wren anyway?

She pointed upwards with one eye closed for accuracy, “Is it that one there? The one shaped like a cresting wave?”

“No, that one’s for Azure.” Tov said.

“That guy from Round 1? With the sea green eyes?”

Something about Wren’s description of Azure made Tov huff out a chuckle.

“That’s him,” She nodded. “The song he performed was called Nouvelle Vague, ‘new wave’. I thought it was fitting to name a wave shaped constellation after him.”

“It fits him well.” Wren nodded, then pointed to another constellation nearby, “What about the one that looks kind of like a thought bubble?”

“That’s Moran’s.” Tov said.

“Ah, the redhead from Round 2!”

“Yes, she was a good friend of mine. A great friend, really. She taught me a lot about philosophy; always thinking.”

Tov took over from there, pointing out each constellation she’d named after those she cared for.

Stasya. Minori. Flor. Even Min.

Min protected Himei when she didn’t have to. She was the only reason her closest friend was still alive.

For that alone, Tov cared about Min too.

“That one,” She said finally, pointing to the cluster of constellations in the shape of a harp, “That one is for Tallis.”

“I believe in you.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

For once, Wren quieted first.

Tov felt her eyes on her, but she didn’t break the silence; content to simply look at stars.

It still hurt. But it was better than the numbness from before.

“You know…” Wren started, “You look at everyone else’s constellations the same way you look at Tallis’s.”

Really?

“Really.” Wren said.

She paused for a moment. Then two.

“If you ask me, it seems like you loved all of them.” Wren murmured.

At that moment, something in Tov’s heart clicked into place. A gentle warmth unfurled inside her rib cage.

Oh.

Maybe… maybe I do…

The realization brought tears to Tov’s eyes. Her heart ached in a new, novel way.

Bittersweet. Melancholy.

It made her laugh for some reason. She hadn’t laughed in a long time.

As she stared up at the celestial memorials of everyone she’d lost, Tov found herself smiling ever so slightly.

What a terrible time to realize it was all love.

————————————————————

We love sisterly bonding, even if one of them doesn’t know it yet 😌

Plus a little feelings realization and healing, as a treat!

Tov has a lot of love for others, even if she doesn’t think she does. Only now is she beginning to realize how deeply her relationships have affected her as a person.

Tov’s current thoughts about Wren are like: “this girl is kinda weirdly friendly, and there’s something odd about her aura, but I would rather die than talk to anyone else in my life about my problems, so I will continue to trauma dump on her since she’s cool with it”

My girl probably needs a therapist, but we don’t have time for that lmao

Next up: End of Round 16!!

Jae belongs to @kofeedoggo.

Min and Vii belong to @starry-skiez.

Nyx belongs to @rockwgooglyeyes.

Tallis and Himei belong to @lookatmysillies.

Azure belongs to @azureitri.

Moran belongs to @geospiral.

Stasya belongs to @billwasnot.

Minori belongs to @minori-dash.

Flor belongs to @sotogalmo.

#alien stage #alnst #alien stage oc #alnst oc #alnst oc: tov #alnst oc: wren #alnst oc: tallis #tovallis #alien stage fan season #alnst fan season #alien stage season 39 #alnst season 39 #alien stage season 40 #alnst season 40 #tw blood mention #tw gun mention #tov’s log

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yandere-to-express · 1 year ago

Text

The wrong cranium

Gender neutral

Part 4

"He won't eat pickles," the harried mother said, one hand carrying a baby and the other feeding french fries to the bigger child, one by one, the grease coating all five fingers, bringing a dull, worn shine to the wrinkling skin, the blood-red lacquered nails. Her claws embedded into the crispy yellow sticks, she carried the great haul en-mass into the maw of the child, which opened languorously to accept the filial offering.

You could not avert your gaze from the repulsive sight. Your hands, which are holding a palm-sized notepad and a cheap dollar store pen, had gone stiff, shaking, holding back violent urges you had never felt before.

"I understand," you murmur robotically, letting yourself cling to the walls of your skin. Your hand writes down something. "I will bring a replacement."

"Wonderful," the mother praises. "What a good employee. Did you hear that, Tom? Don't cry anymore."

The child's eyes are hazy, his face slack except for the mouth. Tear tracks are lining his cheeks, but they have already gone dry and salty. You note, with a shiver going through you, that there is mucus leaking out of his nostrils, which means there will be used napkins left on the table. Please, put it in the plate. Put it in the plate. Put it in the plate, with the other messes.

"Sure thing," you talk aloud, not addressing anyone.

Absentminded, you make your way back to the kitchen. The line cook, Hannah, takes one look at you and grabs your notepad, skimming the orders and doing her work without a word of complaint or a whisper of friendliness. The notepad is stuffed back in your hands, and you're left to stand alone on the door threshold. The skin all over you has pebbled in aggression, the feeling astringent against your psyche.

You un-tense your shoulders, swallowing it down. How long has it been? All day, all you could do was watch the outside wistfully, tracking the shades of blue behind clouds drifting in and out. Darker and deeper it went, but never dark enough, never changing hue to the lovely orange that awaited the end of day. Your uniform has grown damp and saggy around your figure too. As a sweat drop drips down your temple, you notice the rigid curve of your spine, vertebrae packed tightly together.

No wonder. You feel smaller. The work has worn you down in more ways than one. You look down at your hands— and see your wrist bones, jutting out. Your veins are swollen under your skin, and when you turn them over, you can watch the visible proof of your pulse, desperate with each pump, blue and green intertwined.

Thump.

You trace it down your inner arm, dipping into your elbow. It jumps inside your bicep, like the whimper of a wound.

Thump.

Inside your neck, it climbs to your skull. You tilt your head back, unblinking, staring at the tiled ceiling and the sharp fluorescent light overhead, staring back at you. Dark flowers bloom in your vision.

…Thump.

Your neck cracks, bringing relief. You inhale, but the process is chopped. It clings to your throat before surrendering, disappearing into your lungs; you feel its function distinctly with every motion. Your chest rises almost exaggeratedly, and caves in with equal fanfare through every breath. Mechanical. A step in the algorithm.

It's a slow coming realization, impeded by exhaustion: there's no instinct to your body. It moves, it acts, but it doesn't know. It obeys you. But it doesn't obey as it has done for the past decades you've had it. It obeys because it's yours, because you know it should do certain processes in the background of your daily life. It's pure, unknowing, a blank slate of renewal and reduction both.

"It's not empty," you whisper. "I'm not empty. I'm okay."

A clatter draws your attention away. In the other room, TK is helping Hannah prepare orders, which reminds you of the hours and hours left of your shift. You hurry over to help them and deliver the dishes to their respective buyers, taking payments and receiving new orders. Cleaning abandoned tables.

In one, you stop in your tracks.

The slimy napkin you dreaded to death is sitting alone in the middle of the table. You can feel the disgusting paws of the sullen child all over it, soaked into the very air it is surrounded by.

Utilizing a second napkin, you pick it up. Drop it in the plate. Done, you tell yourself, wishing away the trembling. It's over.

You go back to the kitchen. You carry perhaps a dozen plates in one weak hand, though it doesn't quiver— it doesn't have the energy to. They're put beside the sink, just like every other dish that's passed into your hands. Without hesitation (but with a certain resignation) you start washing. Rinse, soap up, scrub, rinse. Metal wool, sometimes. Extra soap for grease. Twist furiously inside the mouths of cups, then let the frothing tap water outpour down the rims, bathing your hands dull beige.

As the water keeps running, you look at the vortex above the drain and exhale.

Chest caves in, rises back up.

It's dark inside. You can see the hint of dark, murky green, laden with moss or something worse that you cannot imagine, but you don't look away.

It's so… unending. You visualize a round, wide-open mouth in its place, and think of the amount gulped down its gullet. You cannot calculate it (too tired, too uninterested) but it makes you freeze and stare a little more intently. How parched, how hungry would you need to be, to consume so wholeheartedly?

You move the cup aside to see it more clearly. The drain keeps working, and the water keeps going, and the smell of wet metal wafts over to you. The vortex, over time, loses its color, then its lines…

Then its sound.

The drain is dark and quiet. There's no telling what lies inside it, but you know. You don't need to see to know, bu̟t̰ ̫y͙o͍̼u̻̪ ̠g̤a͎z̡e into its dept̶h̸s̶,̷ ̴d̸o̶w̵n̷,̴ ̵d̶o̷w̴n̶ ̵t̶h̴e̷ ̷p̶i̵p̴e̴,̸ ̶a̶n̸d̸ ̷s̵q̴u̸i̷s̴h̶̢͍e̶͚ḑ̸ ̷̳i̸̭̱n̴̦͍s̸̫̞i̵͚̠d̶̢ę̷ͅ ̴̣t̵̗̰h̶͔ę̸ ̸̩ț̷̘i̷̩g̷̪͉h̷͎t̵͎ ̶̖t̶͚̣u̴̢n̶̻ͅn̴͓e̵͖l̷̠̬s̷̢ ̶͜a̶̟ṋ̸̪d̴̘͓ ̷̖l̶̖̼a̴̺b̴͈̖y̷̥͙r̷̮̙i̶̙̼n̵̬̦t̵͉h̶̻̞i̶̫ṇ̴̱e̴̫ ̵͎̻n̶̮ḛ̸t̷̗̣w̸̠o̴͓r̷͓k̷͇ ̷̼̩o̵̢ͅf̴͇͜ ̸̡n̶͉o̴̡̞t̶̢̖h̵̥̝i̵̗n̸͍g̵̣̹n̸̫e̸͈͇s̴̯s̶̟̲,̴̼ ̶̲y̶̥o̴͉̫u̷̖̼ ̸͚f̶̖̩e̴ͅe̵̠̜l̷̤̹ ̴̰i̵̯t̵̮ ̴̧͎p̵̱u̴͉l̵͎̥s̴̨͍̖͉̤i̸̞̞ͅn̵̞̤g̸̖̘,̴̪̱̭̝ ̴͖c̶̮͔͕͜o̴̘̰̳̖n̸͔s̵̺̳t̷̗̩r̷̲̭̖͜i̵̩̜̯c̴̡̡̣̪ͅt̴̡͍͇ͅį̵̹͓̙n̶͇̼͎g̴̤̥̠̬.̸͚̘͎̤̼ ̸͖̦͔̗D̵̨̡̼̳r̷͕̗̣͖̜a̵̜̼g̶͙͍̫̤g̴̠̣̲ͅi̶̤̯̝̭͜n̵̨̬̠g̷̨̢͈͔̭ ̵̹̬̩̤̮d̵̡͍̺ͅͅȩ̷̳̣e̷̡̞̩p̴̝̲̳̪e̸̡̳r̴̖̯ͅ,̵̫̘̤̩ ̴̙̞͖̣̝f̶̢̡̼̼͇e̵̙͕̝̤e̷̗͈͕͍ḑ̶̜̭̝̮i̷̼͉̜̪ṉ̵͚ģ̶͍̼ ̴̱̟͙o̴̫n̵͚͉ ̸̡̦͉y̷̯o̶̢͕̣̲u̶̟͓—̷̢

01101000 01110101 01101110 01100111 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100001 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101110 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110011 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01101001 01101110 01100110 01101001 01101110 01101001 01110100 01100101 01110011

||SAVE//:01100110 01100101 01100001 01110010||

You stumble back with a desperate, raspy inhale, your chest rising and stuttering in motion. Curled inward, you watch the running sink, the shards of a broken cup crunching beneath your feet.

Some animals eat their prey whole, don't they?

You shudder, sinking to your knees, uncaring for the shattered ceramic. The sharpness sinks into your skin, but doesn't break. Like how play-dough cannot be hurt, because it's not meant to be. You repeatedly and rapidly attempt to restart your breathing process, but something is not responding. The respiratory structures and organs below your neck aren't working.

There's no air. Why are you so calm?

You try to wheeze for a breath. It doesn't work. If anything, it's complicating your work. You try harder. It resists harder. You cannot breathe, you cannot breathe— you drag your hands along the floor where you're lying on your knees, thinking you could crawl away to safety.

"Hey."

You hear a voice, saying your name. It puts a new knot in your throat.

"Are you there? I heard—"

The door opens to let in TK, their eyes searching and worried. When they spot you, they are quick to run to your side.

"Oh my God," they whisper, horrified. Their hands hover for a moment, snapping left and right like they can't decide what to do, and then settle behind you, clutching your shoulder and rubbing your back. "Hey—" Your name, spilling so easily out of their lips. "Come on, calm down, it's okay. You're okay. I— Follow my breathing, okay?"

You stare at them with dead eyes, and unwilling flesh. Nevertheless, they narrow their eyes determination, and begin making their chest move. It rises, rib cage flaring, diaphragm flattening, blood rushing, and you try to follow the rhythm.

A wheeze of air passes through.

"That's it," TK encourages, voice alike a sob, as if mirroring your utter anguish. "The muscles tighten, air comes in… And they soften, air goes out."

Their chest falls back, pulse calming down. You can hear it moving inside them, the friction of bone and ligaments, and the relief of air, blooming into blood.

Your lungs let go. Air passes through, out, and when you breathe next, it goes in as it's supposed to, without error or stubbornness.

TK relaxes. "Yeah. Just like that. You're a natural, aren't you? Passed with flying colors." There's a placid, but worn lull in the atmosphere. "Are you okay?"

Are you ever? You manage a small nod, not trusting your voice— to not crackle or to not burst into wails, no idea which. You've never felt such a wild, discomfiting mix of emotions before; things that have no right lingering close had suddenly tangled together, all without your consciousness noticing.

You imagined that this is how a newborn baby, just out of the womb, would feel. Overwhelmed. Frightened. Lonely, yet not. Out of control, but simultaneously in control for the first time of its existence.

You settled on 'overwhelmed.'

"Good," TK replied, rubbing your back a bit more. "Wait, let me get you some water—"

They stood up to get it, carefully side-stepping the ceramic shards. You should probably ask them not to, but you couldn't even muster the strength to lift your head, so you couldn't protest when TK held the cup tilted for you, matching the flow to the speed of your gulps.

"Dehydration worsens everything," they said. "I remember my mom nagging me about it. She never let me leave the house without drinking a tall glass of water, and the habit stuck. Once I got into college and had my first taste of freedom, I decided I'd cut myself some slack and relax on routine."

"Didn't work?"

TK snorted. "Nope."

They took the cup and washed it at the sink. You remembered that your job won't wait for you, and the customers won't either, so you attempt to stand up… only to flinch away at the sound of clattering shards, falling from your limbs.

TK turns to look at you, but you can only stare at the debris and your unscathed arms. The fragments aren't safe— their edges are sharp, glinting like chef's knives spread out before stove fire, but despite this, as you turn your forearms over and back, you can only see unmarred flesh, without any scarring visible.

What the fuck happened to me, you think.

You were fine this morning. There was no complicated existence to panic about. While you sat beside Peter and talked about nothing, everything felt as pleasant as can be. And here you were now, frozen in fear. Unable to finish even one waiter shift because you were too busy stressing about a defective body.

"Hey," TK calls out to you, "I think you should clock out now."

"Huh?" You can't. The shift's not over yet. And in the game, wasn't today exceptionally busy? You couldn't leave TK to handle it alone— well, technically you could, but you'd feel guilty. You don't want to get used to someone picking up the slack for you, because there was a very real chance that you'd snowball down that rabbit hole.

"Thanks, TK, but I don't wanna push my luck today," you said, kneeling down, and started to collect the shards by the handful. If they didn't hurt you, why not use it to your advantage?

"Jesus— don't just scoop them up! Use a broom at least, what if you get hurt?"

"It's fine, they aren't sharp."

TK didn't seem convinced, but let you clean the mess anyway, taking over dish washing duty instead. You were grateful for that. You didn't know what looking at the drain again would do, and you intended to avoid that fate for as long as you could. Collecting all the fragments on your apron, you dropped them into the trash bin and swept the remaining dust off, rushing out to collect orders and clean tables.

All day, you slaved away in the restaurant; cleaning, serving, dealing with idiots. While you worked, you did your best to hold yourself together, to keep your pieces in one place until the time when you could fall apart, a shattered body all over the couch.

Your lifeline, as it were, was the promise of a nice night out. As you mopped the floor tiles, tidied tables, and topped up coffees along the counter row, your mind went out to the fantasy of a quiet, chilly night, the smell of earth and grass under an empty space. Maybe after the date, Peter could take you to the park? You resolved to ask him about it… once he came back.

You checked the hour: four thirty. Fifteen minutes left until your shift ends. When was he going to arrive? At the very end? That would be incredibly suspicious, and for his sake, you prayed to a higher power that he'd refrain. You didn't mind, per se, but you were the type to just blurt things out without care for propriety, and the more obvious Peter got, the more effort required to keep your fucking mouth shut and not give it away.

Sighing, you threw away an abandoned receipt into the trashcan below the register, and wondered whether it was worth it to keep quiet. He'd catch on eventually, and you'd have to talk.

That's what's scaring you, isn't it?

"Alright," came TK's voice, "out with it. What's up?"

"What's up… with me?"

"Yeah." Obviously, was what followed naturally, but you had learnt that TK had a modicum of tact, so of course they would leave it out. "You've been working here for weeks now, but never have I ever seen you sigh in all our time together— not even when the boss threatened to sack us without severance pay."

Okay, scary. Original Y/N was double scary. Props to whoever they were. "It's… kinda complicated, and I don't think I can explain it without sounding like a maniac."

They grinned. "A dash of intrigue? No prob. Just know that you can tell me any time, any day, alright?"

You seriously didn't deserve this person's kindness. You just didn't. This was such a fact that it didn't even make your heart twinge. When it all crashed down and your life was in shambles, you would have to send them some sort of consolation gift, to thank them for their care.

"Thanks, TK. I wish I could tell you."

"Glad to hear that. By the way, could you check in with Hannah? I think she needs a line chef in the kitchen— I'll handle the customers."

They glance out the window panes, squinting behind their glasses. "Oh, geez. Guess who's knocking on our door? The evening rush."

You turn to look, only to freeze at the sight of a familiar silhouette, barely visible behind the reflection. Same height, same shirt, same gangly limbs, and when you shifted for a better view, you were able to glimpse the face under the hood: a pair of wide-open, bright blue eyes, and a smile curving horrifically.

Yup. That's him.

"Is it me, or… is that guy looking in?" TK asked, discomfited.

"Lookin' in, sorry. That's, uh, my boyfriend."

"Your—" Their head span around in a perfect hundred-eighty degree to goggle at you. "Your— what? This guy? Your—"

They looked back, as though checking whether or not they were hallucinating the creep factor, but no, TK, you thought, that's one-hundred percent natural. All bio creep. No preservatives or artificial coloring added, honest-to-god, bona-fide creep. I'm so fucking sorry to subject you to this.

"Your boyfriend," they said.

"Yeah."

"Just so we're clear, it's not the eighty-year-old man leaning on the cane, but the two-meter tree branch with fangs, right?"

"You're absolutely correct."

TK stared at you speechlessly, mouth moving without words, and you let your vision zoom out into distant lands, resolutely watching the yellow leak stain on the ceiling. Please, end the conversation. Right now.

"You know what," TK said at last. "This is not my problem… If he turns out to be a serial killer, let me know and I'll call the police for you."

"TK, please stop talking. I'm dying."

"You will once he drags you into an alleyway."

You know what they say: first impressions last forever. In Peter's case, it seems he's ardently devoted to push this rule to its worst potential, constantly disturbing the peace in hopes on garnering even the slightest bit of distrust. Why was he watching you creepily at the diner when he could just hang out by your apartment window? That was perfectly private! This is public!

You caught his gaze through the glass, and waved at him. Despite his eerie appearance, Peter broke into an angelic smile, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and waved back. Seeing as you were paying attention, he began mouthing words: Hello. Something that looked like 'darling'. I'm here, followed by a pointed finger at his feet. Then, lifting his wrist and putting his index finger on it, miming a wristwatch. Okay?

Ah, was he trying to hurry you up? Was that a guilt-trip thing, or just an innocent 'Is your shift over?' You'll never know because you'll never ask, and even if you asked, he'd obviously answer with the latter just to gain brownie points. This wasn't the right time to be honest yet. For neither of you.

Before you could get tangled up in unnecessary thoughts, you sent him a thumbs-up and went back into the kitchens. Hannah did need help— there were simply too many orders at once, and Stephan just wasn't good enough of a multi-tasker to handle the extra load. You helped until the workload went back to normal, then clocked out, waving bye to TK as you went back to the entrance.

While you were gone, the sky had darkened, rain clouds gathering above to drizzle drop by drop. When you stepped a foot outside, you were immediately caught in a pair of arms, warmth swallowing you up.

"I missed you all day," your stalker whined, covering the top of your head with his chin. "How was it? Did you get fired?"

You relaxed into the heat, the embrace, releasing a frigid breath. Your head was silent for the first time since this morning, unburdened by worries or distractions. No clutter to push out… Nothing to sigh about.

Just Peter's scent, and his hug, and his excited, pleasant voice.

"Darling?" he asked concernedly. "Was it bad?"

You wrapped your arms around him in return. Mustering the energy to speak was impossible, so you sank further into the comfort, not even feeling the rain soaking your jacket.

"Heh, not that I'm not enjoying this… but are you okay? Do you need— Do we have to reschedule? I don't mind. We definitely can. Anything you want, okay? Just, will you please talk to me?" He sounded a bit shaky. "It's… ha ha, just, it's weird to not hear you when I chatter. You know?"

You force yourself to speak. "It was—"

s̨̺͇̝o̺̱̣ą̡̪͇͇p̨̥̹͎̹̳ ̨͓͕͜u͙̣̫p̥͍̻͙̠,͎ ̢̨̤̙̹͓s̝̼̝̲͜c̡͎̭̭͚r̡͎̗̞͙̥u̺b̧̢͙̬̠͜ ̪͚E̻̞͈̫̦͇X̙̦͓̱͙T̙͓̮R̙Ạ̭ ̧͓̩S̲̗̟͎͎Ǫ͇̲̲͖A̦͕͕͇P̗͇͜ ̘̝͖͇̞f̧͚̥̹o̖͔͈r̙͉̤̪ ͍G̟̺͖R̨͉̤̠̫͓E̲͚E̲̥E̟̯̹E͕̻͙̼̟ḚA̰̮̘͉͈̼S͙̞̳E̬̻ ̢̬͚̼̗̱01101111 01101100 01100100 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110111 01110011r͎̬̭ͅo̼̘̩̯ͅụn̗̱̹̝͈d̩,̨̪̦̭̝͕ ̧̤̜̱ͅw̡͈͖̬̙͕i̱͇d̨̠̯̙͍e̙-̰̳ọ̺̩͍͕̝p̦̦̘̙ȩ͍̹̳n̩͎ ̤͓͍m̢̡͚̣̫͍o̫̰u͙͚̞t̢̜͎̮ḩ̡̜ ͓̝̥̲F̙̘͇̠E̥̪̳͕E̤̲̫̗̯D̫͜ ͍̣M͔̩E̹͕̭ ̳T͍̗̜Ḥ͓͕̭ͅȨ̗̠ ͙W̻͈O̧R̨̙̱̥L̢̨̨̯͜D̥̲ ̞̤̖D̡̗͈̻ ̧̢͓̘D̹̗ ͍̫̙̮̝̬D̫̗͉͚͉ ͉̯̣̠̙T̨̪̮̙H̡̢͇̭͖̦E̘̲͖̜ ̦T͖̗̮H̺E̩̪̳ ̲̻͇̳͖̣T̲͖̞̺͈ͅH̦̠E̗̳ ̩͔̫̞͜I̯̙͓I͙͖̤̬I̧̬̲̱͕͕I̜I̧͕̭͚̭̳I̥I̬̝I͙̦̭̫̝͎I̡̘I̞̺͎̦̬I͎̻̻I̢̢̱̲̹I̡͎̘̰I̤̥I̻̺̞̖̖

d̷̢̢̟̏̂a̶̛̬̘͊͒̾ŗ̵̣̯͇̽͐͊̑k̷̤͎͙͙̎͑̑̌ ̶̻̞̞̻̏͊͑̏d̷̳͉̱̯̽́̆ạ̸̥͙̔͂̊̾r̷͇̿́k̶̥̼̲̐́̈̏ ̵̗̪̯̪̎͆d̴͍̤̞̓a̷̰̟͚͛̊͐r̶͇̋̈́͒k̸̺̻̰͎͆̿̄͠ ̸̡̹̊̀̾͗a̴͈͉̱̻̎̀d̵̝͈̄́̓ã̵̲̩͖r̵̪̞̗̓k̵̗̊͗̀̍ ̷̛̪̖͔̗͒̌ď̵͓̊̅̈́ǟ̴̡̜̈k̶̨̘͚̈̀́ȓ̴͓̽͑k̶̳̺̙̈́̐͛k̶̖͐ ̵̡̪̄͒́̄d̴͍̥́́ȃ̷̺ȓ̶̗k̶͎͊ ̴̯͕̀͑͠k̸͈̝̗̎̑̏f̷̠̳̭͉̍̒̀k̷̛͔̓̾k̵̞̃͋͝k̸̞̎̋k̸̝̀͛̓̕ ̶̟͚̩̈̀̇̀ḍ̸̙̫̣̋̕a̴̲̦͓͒r̵͙͑̂͗k̶̨̻̽̃ ̷̓͜d̶̢͍̳̔͌ã̴̧̬̠͖̉̈k̸̖̞̾͊̇͝r̵̲͔̼͝ ̷̘͚̀̒̿̕k̴̰͈͠d̴̜̭͇̙̐̂͋ã̵̤͔ṙ̷̯̭͂k̶͍̇̑̅̒ ̶̠̥̮̓͘d̵͈̖̃́̏̄á̷̳͔̲̏̈́̚r̶̦̋k̴̨͛ ̴͍͉̄̓d̴̯̓a̵̯̓͋̿ͅr̸̦̻̟̖̄̅̈́̄k̷̲̓̆ ̴̤̤̅d̴̢̖̀̀ͅã̷̡ͅk̷̢̢̥̬̒̿̆̽r̸̥̘͌̀͑͜ ̷̻̔͝W̴͙̱̬̮͒͋̏͝W̷̘͎͠W̸̖̺̃͌̇Ẅ̶̪͙͉́̈́́W̷̔́͋̀̀̈́̔͂̔̂̄̚͝͝͝W̵̍̓͛̂̒͘͠W̸͑̽̃̐̓̒̈́W̷͊̋͑̽̌̈̈́̀͗͊̈́̇́͘͠W̶̆̎̐̊̎́̈́̌̋̀̕̚W̵͌͆̃́̅̇͐̎̑͐͘Ŵ̸̛̀̈̈́͆̈́̎̆̒̀W̶̊̏̒̋̏̐̌̈́́̚W̸̉̋̅͑͆̍͘Ẁ̴͛̂͗̓͆̐͑͌͐͒̕W̶͝ and at the bottom of the drain, you stood, awaiting y̤̏̓̐̕̚͠o̘͆͝ú̢̞͚̲͈̟̲̅̾̄̓r͍̟̝̐̾̃ͅs̢͍̤͂́͝ḙ̰̆̓̿̾̕͝l̛̟͕̬̯̬̲͇̩f̩̻͚̫̽ in your own stomach /// when will you S̸̛̥T̵͖̚O̴̯͌P̸̪̅ ̸̫̀S̸͈͗T̵̲͆Ȯ̴̜P̶̪̑ ̷̲̐S̸̠͊T̷̖̊Õ̷̬P̷̤̉?̴͎͋ ̵̱̉?̸̳̎?̴̖́ fear consumes you, pushes you down its gullet, and you stand here wondering when did you die? M̸E̵E̴E̷E̶E̶ 01100100 01101111 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 E̵E̴E̸E̷E̶E̸E̶E̸E̸E̶E̵E̶E̶—

"—fine," you answer. You were stopped from lingering on it. You recognize it now. "I missed you too. All day."

"You did?" Peter asked. "Really? Missed me? When, how did that happen?"

"Do you want me to describe it like, a case report? Like an interrogation tape? 'Where were you last night, what was your purpose' style?"

"Why not?"

Well, there was it: why not? Maybe it'd make him happy.

"The first time," you started, burying your face into his shoulder. "I was taking orders, and this middle-aged lady came in and tried to ask for a second order on the house because she dropped the first one on the pavement. But in a really polite, aggravating way. You know how some rude people act well-mannered? I wanted to punt her into the curb."

"And then you thought about me?"

"Yeah. I wished you were there so I could get you a second order on my paycheck."

"…You mean, you weren't thinking of me because you wanted someone more reasonable, but because… actually, I don't know. Why did you think that?"

"Well," you murmured, "obviously, because I like you."

Suddenly craving contact, you removed your tired arms from around his waist and put them over his shoulders, around his neck. You had to stand on your tip-toes for that, but somehow, the position wasn't as taxing as it was in your before-life.

Luckily, Peter was there to support you. He crouched a little to reach your legs, then hauled you up under your thighs, carrying you on one bicep with no visible strain.

...Woah.

You were abruptly eye to eye with him— and better, you were privy to the tender little flush on his face, close enough to savor the sight without shame.

"So you'd— put up with me being an asshole just cause you… like me."

You averted your eyes. This closeness seemed to be a two-way street, unfortunately. "Not exactly 'put up with'. I imagined you there and thought, even if you were being a jerk, I'd give you a meal cause you'd look cute eating it."

Was that weird? Double standards existed for everyone--- people would have different thresholds for different people, right? You weren't abnormal in that regard. Were it anyone else, you'd be insulted, exasperated, impatient— with him, your priorities lay somewhere else. You'd have rather died than compensate that customer, but somehow, the image of him stuffing his face full warmed you head to toe.

Your mind flashed back to your dinner date last night. The glow of Peter's round cheeks, the happy sigh of relieved hunger, his languorous, steady heartbeat as it pulsed under your touch. A healthy, full heart. Flowing blood.

Uh, you thought, embarrassed for no reason. Let's not linger.

"You know what," you said. "This is mortifying. Let's talk about something else."

He made a cute little snort, then laughed with bared teeth, molars glinting in the street light. You could barely suppress the urge to smash your mouths together. How dare he smile like that? How dare he make you so happy, with only the movement of his face? You released the want through your breath, let it dissipate.

"Let's go to the van," Peter suggested. Without waiting for a reply, he started carrying you across the crosswalk, one hand gently braced on your hip.

"Peter? Peter! Oh God, I can walk, I can walk I can walk I can walk— let me down, people are gonna look!!"

He paid no heed to your desperate wails, merrily making his way down the road. What an asshole, what a bastard. Your heart was so warm, so squished, so warm.

#your boyfriend game #peter dunbar #yandere #yb #yb peter #your boyfriend #ybf #tw: yandere #yb fandom #yandere games #your boyfriend peter #ybgpeter #yb game #yb fanfic #your boyfriend fanfic #peter yb #peter king

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swede1952 · 10 months ago

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Sky Hunter

I took this photo of a red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) flying overhead about a year ago.

"The oldest known wild Red-tailed Hawk was at least 30 years, 8 months old when it was found in Michigan in 2011, the same state where it had been banded in 1981." - allaboutbirds.org

You know, the photographs that I post here are not quite a vivid as the same photographs that I post at my pixel's gallery, because here, I reduce the size of the photos and usually make a slight reduction in the quality of the photos to make them easier to load.

Take a look: https://swede1952-photographs.pixels.com

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dailyanarchistposts · 24 days ago

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Topics: health care, monopoly

In a recent article for Tikkun, Dr. Arnold Relman argued that the versions of health care reform currently proposed by “progressives” all primarily involve financing health care and expanding coverage to the uninsured rather than addressing the way current models of service delivery make it so expensive. Editing out all the pro forma tut-tutting of “private markets,” the substance that’s left is considerable:

What are those inflationary forces? . . . [M]ost important among them are the incentives in the payment and organization of medical care that cause physicians, hospitals and other medical care facilities to focus at least as much on income and profit as on meeting the needs of patients. . . . The incentives in such a system reward and stimulate the delivery of more services. That is why medical expenditures in the U.S. are so much higher than in any other country, and are rising more rapidly. . . . Physicians, who supply the services, control most of the decisions to use medical resources. . . . The economic incentives in the medical market are attracting the great majority of physicians into specialty practice, and these incentives, combined with the continued introduction of new and more expensive technology, are a major factor in causing inflation of medical expenditures. Physicians and ambulatory care and diagnostic facilities are largely paid on a piecework basis for each item of service provided.

As a health care worker, I have personally witnessed this kind of mutual log-rolling between specialists and the never-ending addition of tests to the bill without any explanation to the patient. The patient simply lies in bed and watches an endless parade of unknown doctors poking their heads in the door for a microsecond, along with an endless series of lab techs drawing body fluids for one test after another that’s “been ordered,” with no further explanation. The post-discharge avalanche of bills includes duns from two or three dozen doctors, most of whom the patient couldn’t pick out of a police lineup. It’s the same kind of quid pro quo that takes place in academia, with professors assigning each other’s (extremely expensive and copyrighted) texts and systematically citing each other’s works in order to game their stats in the Social Sciences Citation Index. (I was also a grad assistant once.) You might also consider Dilbert creator Scott Adams’s account of what happens when you pay programmers for the number of bugs they fix.

One solution to this particular problem is to have a one-to-one relationship between the patient and a general practitioner on retainer. That’s how the old “lodge practice” worked. (See David Beito’s “Lodge Doctors and the Poor,” The Freeman, May 1994).

But that’s illegal, you know. In New York City, John Muney recently introduced an updated version of lodge practice: the AMG Medical Group, which for a monthly premium of $79 and a flat office fee of $10 per visit provides a wide range of services (limited to what its own practitioners can perform in-house). But because AMG is a fixed-rate plan and doesn’t charge more for “unplanned procedures,” the New York Department of Insurance considers it an unlicensed insurance policy. Muney may agree, unwillingly, to a settlement arranged by his lawyer in which he charges more for unplanned procedures like treatment for a sudden ear infection. So the State is forcing a modern-day lodge practitioner to charge more, thereby keeping the medical and insurance cartels happy—all in the name of “protecting the public.” How’s that for irony?

Regarding expensive machinery, I wonder how much of the cost is embedded rent on patents or regulatorily mandated overhead. I’ll bet if you removed all the legal barriers that prevent a bunch of open-source hardware hackers from reverse-engineering a homebrew version of it, you could get an MRI machine with a twentyfold reduction in cost. I know that’s the case in an area I’m more familiar with: micromanufacturing technology. For example, the RepRap—a homebrew, open-source 3-D printer—costs roughly $500 in materials to make, compared to tens of thousands for proprietary commercial versions.

More generally, the system is racked by artificial scarcity, as editor Sheldon Richman observed in an interview a few months back. For example, licensing systems limit the number of practitioners and arbitrarily impose levels of educational overhead beyond the requirements of the procedures actually being performed.

Libertarians sometimes—and rightly—use “grocery insurance” as an analogy to explain medical price inflation: If there were such a thing as grocery insurance, with low deductibles, to provide third-party payments at the checkout register, people would be buying a lot more rib-eye and porterhouse steaks and a lot less hamburger.

The problem is we’ve got a regulatory system that outlaws hamburger and compels you to buy porterhouse if you’re going to buy anything at all. It’s a multiple-tier finance system with one tier of service. Dental hygienists can’t set up independent teeth-cleaning practices in most states, and nurse-practitioners are required to operate under a physician’s “supervision” (when he’s out golfing). No matter how simple and straightforward the procedure, you can’t hire someone who’s adequately trained just to perform the service you need; you’ve got to pay amortization on a full med school education and residency.

Drug patents have the same effect, increasing the cost per pill by up to 2,000 percent. They also have a perverse effect on drug development, diverting R&D money primarily into developing “me, too” drugs that tweak the formulas of drugs whose patents are about to expire just enough to allow repatenting. Drug-company propaganda about high R&D costs, as a justification for patents to recoup capital outlays, is highly misleading. A major part of the basic research for identifying therapeutic pathways is done in small biotech startups, or at taxpayer expense in university laboratories, and then bought up by big drug companies. The main expense of the drug companies is the FDA-imposed testing regimen—and most of that is not to test the version actually marketed, but to secure patent lockdown on other possible variants of the marketed version. In other words, gaming the patent system grossly inflates R&D spending.

The prescription medicine system, along with state licensing of pharmacists and Drug Enforcement Administration licensing of pharmacies, is another severe restraint on competition. At the local natural-foods cooperative I can buy foods in bulk, at a generic commodity price; even organic flour, sugar, and other items are usually cheaper than the name-brand conventional equivalent at the supermarket. Such food cooperatives have their origins in the food-buying clubs of the 1970s, which applied the principle of bulk purchasing. The pharmaceutical licensing system obviously prohibits such bulk purchasing (unless you can get a licensed pharmacist to cooperate).

I work with a nurse from a farming background who frequently buys veterinary-grade drugs to treat her family for common illnesses without paying either Big Pharma’s markup or the price of an office visit. Veterinary supply catalogs are also quite popular in the homesteading and survivalist movements, as I understand. Two years ago I had a bad case of poison ivy and made an expensive office visit to get a prescription for prednisone. The next year the poison ivy came back; I’d been weeding the same area on the edge of my garden and had exactly the same symptoms as before. But the doctor’s office refused to give me a new prescription without my first coming in for an office visit, at full price—for my own safety, of course. So I ordered prednisone from a foreign online pharmacy and got enough of the drug for half a dozen bouts of poison ivy—all for less money than that office visit would have cost me.

Of course people who resort to these kinds of measures are putting themselves at serious risk of harassment from law enforcement. But until 1914, as Sheldon Richman pointed out (“The Right to Self-Treatment,” Freedom Daily, January 1995), “adult citizens could enter a pharmacy and buy any drug they wished, from headache powders to opium.”

The main impetus to creating the licensing systems on which artificial scarcity depends came from the medical profession early in the twentieth century. As described by Richman:

Accreditation of medical schools regulated how many doctors would graduate each year. Licensing similarly metered the number of practitioners and prohibited competitors, such as nurses and paramedics, from performing services they were perfectly capable of performing. Finally, prescription laws guaranteed that people would have to see a doctor to obtain medicines they had previously been able to get on their own.

The medical licensing cartels were also the primary force behind the move to shut down lodge practice, mentioned above.

In the case of all these forms of artificial scarcity, the government creates a “honey pot” by making some forms of practice artificially lucrative. It’s only natural, under those circumstances, that health care business models gravitate to where the money is.

Health care is a classic example of what Ivan Illich, in Tools for Conviviality, called a “radical monopoly.” State-sponsored crowding out makes other, cheaper (but often more appropriate) forms of treatment less usable, and renders cheaper (but adequate) treatments artificially scarce. Artificially centralized, high-tech, and skill-intensive ways of doing things make it harder for ordinary people to translate their skills and knowledge into use-value. The State’s regulations put an artificial floor beneath overhead cost, so that there’s a markup of several hundred percent to do anything; decent, comfortable poverty becomes impossible.

A good analogy is subsidies to freeways and urban sprawl, which make our feet less usable and raise living expenses by enforcing artificial dependence on cars. Local building codes primarily reflect the influence of building contractors, so competition from low-cost unconventional techniques (T-slot and other modular designs, vernacular materials like bales and papercrete, and so on) is artificially locked out of the market. Charles Johnson described the way governments erect barriers to people meeting their own needs and make comfortable subsistence artificially costly, in the specific case of homelessness, in “Scratching By: How the Government Creates Poverty as We Know It” (The Freeman, December 2007).

The major proposals for health care “reform” that went before Congress would do little or nothing to address the institutional sources of high cost. As Jesse Walker argued at Reason.com, a 100 percent single-payer system, far from being a “radical” solution,

would still accept the institutional premises of the present medical system. Consider the typical American health care transaction. On one side of the exchange you’ll have one of an artificially limited number of providers, many of them concentrated in those enormous, faceless institutions called hospitals. On the other side, making the purchase, is not a patient but one of those enormous, faceless institutions called insurers. The insurers, some of which are actual arms of the government and some of which merely owe their customers to the government’s tax incentives and shape their coverage to fit the government’s mandates, are expected to pay all or a share of even routine medical expenses. The result is higher costs, less competition, less transparency, and, in general, a system where the consumer gets about as much autonomy and respect as the stethoscope. Radical reform would restore power to the patient. Instead, the issue on the table is whether the behemoths we answer to will be purely public or public-private partnerships. [“Obama is No Radical,” September 30, 2009]

I’m a strong advocate of cooperative models of health care finance, like the Ithaca Health Alliance (created by the same people, including Paul Glover, who created the Ithaca Hours local currency system), or the friendly societies and mutuals of the nineteenth century described by writers like Pyotr Kropotkin and E. P. Thompson. But far more important than reforming finance is reforming the way delivery of service is organized.

Consider the libertarian alternatives that might exist. A neighborhood cooperative clinic might keep a doctor of family medicine or a nurse practitioner on retainer, along the lines of the lodge-practice system. The doctor might have his med school debt and his malpractice premiums assumed by the clinic in return for accepting a reasonable upper middle-class salary.

As an alternative to arbitrarily inflated educational mandates, on the other hand, there might be many competing tiers of professional training depending on the patient’s needs and ability to pay. There might be a free-market equivalent of the Chinese “barefoot doctors.” Such practitioners might attend school for a year and learn enough to identify and treat common infectious diseases, simple traumas, and so on. For example, the “barefoot doctor” at the neighborhood cooperative clinic might listen to your chest, do a sputum culture, and give you a round of Zithro for your pneumonia; he might stitch up a laceration or set a simple fracture. His training would include recognizing cases that were clearly beyond his competence and calling in a doctor for backup when necessary. He might provide most services at the cooperative clinic, with several clinics keeping a common M.D. on retainer for more serious cases. He would be certified by a professional association or guild of his choice, chosen from among competing guilds based on its market reputation for enforcing high standards. (That’s how competing kosher certification bodies work today, without any government-defined standards). Such voluntary licensing bodies, unlike state licensing boards, would face competition—and hence, unlike state boards, would have a strong market incentive to police their memberships in order to maintain a reputation for quality.

The clinic would use generic medicines (of course, since that’s all that would exist in a free market). Since local juries or arbitration bodies would likely take a much more common-sense view of the standards for reasonable care, there would be far less pressure for expensive CYA testing and far lower malpractice premiums.

Basic care could be financed by monthly membership dues, with additional catastrophic-care insurance (cheap and with a high deductible) available to those who wanted it. The monthly dues might be as cheap as or even cheaper than Dr. Muney’s. It would be a no-frills, bare-bones system, true enough—but to the 40 million or so people who are currently uninsured, it would be a pretty damned good deal.

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