#route courier delivery | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

owlespresso · 7 months ago

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the golden ivy which clings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not like you have much of a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

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

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

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

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

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

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

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

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

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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marlynnofmany · 6 months ago

Text

Double Dog Dare

“Are you warm enough?” I asked Paint as we walked. My fingers were chilly against the box I carried, but it was small enough that I could reach to rub them together.

“Yes,” Paint said firmly. She pulled her heat shawl close, nuzzling her scaly orange face into its yellow warmth. “This is fully charged, and much better than my old one.”

“Well, no falling in the water for you today.”

“No falling in the water for me ever!” she said. “Unless the water is warm. Then it would be nice.”

I looked around at the industrial ruins that we walked through, all damp concrete and convoluted passageways. Even the sunlight on this planet felt thin. “I don’t think anything around here is warm.”

“Not yet,” Paint said with a lift of her snout. “I’m sure they’ll get things back in working order soon. That box probably holds a key heating circuit or something, and the area will become more hospitable in no time.”

I smiled at her priorities. As a coldblooded Heatseeker, she could hardly be blamed for expecting warmth to be high on the to-do list. I would have focused more on landing pad repair personally, so visiting couriers didn’t have to walk through this maze of alien architecture to reach the inhabited area, but that’s just me.

At any rate, our delivery timeline was short but so was the best route, at least according to the map on my phone. If we kept up a brisk pace, we’d get there well before the client started to grumble. And in this chill there was no reason to dawdle.

Sudden voices echoed off the walls: laughter from a few people at once. Distinctly human laughter. The locals were Frillians, so who were these?

Paint craned her neck to pinpoint the source of the voices, looking just as curious as I was. Then we walked around a corner and met a cluster of humans in blue jackets with a logo that I recognized immediately.

“Hey, it’s the crew of the good ship Hold My Beer!” I said in greeting. “How’s the droid jousting business?”

“Hello again!” said Captain Parker, flashing that bright smile set off by his dark skin. “We’re here for an outdoor tournament. Just on the way to check in now. You guys making another delivery?” The handful of other humans nodded at us.

Paint said, “Yes! It’s probably important! But we don’t know for sure. They wanted it in a hurry.”

Captain Parker pulled out a holo map of his own, and pointed down a concrete corridor. “This is definitely the fastest route that we can see. Pretty bonkers city design.” He started walking with a glance at the gray sky.

I hitched the box up and fell in step with the group. “I don’t think it was a city originally. No idea what, but these don’t look like stores or houses.”

Paint took short-legged strides beside me, offering suggestions for what these reclaimed ruins could have been, and the walk passed quickly. We’d moved on to discuss the jousting crew’s latest wins and new uniforms — those Stabby the Roomba emblems were very stylish — when we passed through an open doorway and discovered a problem.

The passage ahead of us was a deep chasm between concrete walls, open to the sky and devoid of branching passages, with a doorway at the bottom of several concrete steps. The door was closed. And the steps were filled with water.

I stopped. “Hm.”

“Aw man,” Captain Parker exclaimed, getting out his map again.

“What do we do?” asked Paint, clicking her scaly knuckles together. “This was the fast route! Our client is on a timeline!”

I thumped my chin against the box. “I knew we should have used the hoverbike.”

“You would have crashed into a wall! These walkways are far too narrow.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

A sturdy woman from the jousting crew shone a pocket flashlight into the murky water. It was all in shadow, thanks to an awning up top that seemed ironically meant to protect from the rain. Like everything else around here, it was janky and broken, but made of metal that hadn’t rusted through yet. Canvas would have been long gone.

I eyed the many cracks in the walls, with pipes and alien rebar sticking out. “I don’t suppose anyone feels like climbing over?”

“The box doesn’t have a carry strap,” Paint pointed out. “And I am not one of you climbing experts.”

A heavyset man with gray hair chuckled at that. “You’re not the only one.”

This turned into a side conversation about how Paint was under the impression that all humans were talented climbers by her standards, until Captain Parker interrupted.

“While this would be the most direct route, I see three other possibilities that shouldn’t take us in too many circles. It really is a shame, though. This one’s a nice straight shot if we could get the door open. Can you see the catch, Ruby?”

“Barely,” the woman reported. “This light is garbage. But it looks just like those other doors. Too bad we don’t have a long pole or something to work the catch with.”

I looked up. “That awning looks like it has a couple poles! I wonder if they come off.”

Paint yelped, “The water is rising!” She pointed, clutching her shawl. “It was below that step before!”

“Dang, you’re right.” Ruby stepped back. The other crewmates gestured to cracks that reached above water, which could easily be causing leaks below.

“We should go,” decided Captain Parker. “Get a head start on one of the long routes.”

“But our client!” Paint exclaimed. “They need the package in a hurry, and will tell everyone we’re unreliable!”

While everyone voiced an opinion, ranging from “Route B” to “Route C” to “rock-paper-scissors for who gets dunked in the hypothermia water,” I shoved the box at Paint. “Hold this,” I said. Then I got a running start and leapt up for a good grip on a crack in the wall.

There were plenty of footholds. Some of the metal bits sticking out were loose, but not enough to fall out. I focused on making sure each step was secure as quickly as possible, and reached the top in no time.

Thankfully it was wide enough to balance on without too much worry. That water wasn’t deep enough to land in safely, never mind the temperature.

Speaking of water, I thought with dawning horror, This is about to be bad.

Several rows away in this maze was a broken pipe the size of my torso, spewing water into a reservoir that was near to overflowing. Some of the water was leaking out through cracks in the sides already, leading to a puddle that was dripping through to make the one on our side.

The route back is in the danger zone too! Maybe if we’re fast enough, we can get to that open area over there. Or get everybody else up here. But I don’t trust this wall to stay intact if that dam fails all at once.

My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was Paint. I realized she’d probably been yelling for my attention, and I didn’t hear. There were sounds of pouring water up here, not to mention the blood rushing in my ears. I answered the phone.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Get the pole!”

“Right,” I said, hurrying along the wall. “We may not have enough time, even if I can get it free. There’s more water that could flood the area at any moment. I think somebody has to swim for the catch.”

“What! How much water?”

“Lots. Hang on.” I stuck the phone in my pocket to free both hands for the awning. Up close, it looked much rustier and ancient than below. The pole at the side was welded on. I braced my feet and gave it a good yank. That produced a metal screech and a rain of rust particles, but not much else. Pushing and pulling to work it loose let me fold the awning back so watery sunshine illuminated the door catch far below. The jousting crew shouted about it indistinctly.

I leaned against the awning, holding it back while I got my phone out. “It’s not coming loose,” I told Paint. “Tell him there’s a dam about to break, and one of his people needs to open the door.”

There was lots of indistinct shouting at that. I couldn’t make out all of the words, especially since the water sounds were increasing, thanks to a new crack the water levels had just reached. Captain Parker was shaking his head at Paint, who’d set down the box so she could hold the phone and gesture wildly. He waved at me to come down, and pointed back at the way we’d come. I shook my head and pointed at the reservoir, but he was already looking away.

“Paint!” I called into the phone. “Tell him he’s got to!”

“He wants to turn back!” Paint cried.

“Wait!” This was a dumb idea, but I’d had worse. “Paint, tell him you double dog dare him to do it.”

“What?”

“Human thing. If he doesn’t, he’s a coward. Use those exact words: you double dog dare him.”

Paint didn’t answer me, lowering the phone and jabbing a finger at Captain Parker. I could just make out her words over the water.

“I double dog dare you to do it! If you don’t, you’re a coward!”

He gaped at her for a moment while his crew burst into laughter. Ruby clapped him on the shoulder. A smaller man waggled his fingers like he was offering to hold the captain’s jacket. Captain Parker looked up at me, arms spread in a clear WTF.

I held the awning back and pointed emphatically downward.

Water rushed faster out of that new crack. People were laughing below. Paint repeated the phrase like an incantation.

And Captain Parker took off his jacket, handing it to the other man.

“Yes!” I breathed in relief, leaning harder against the metal. It really wanted to fold back down. But the captain would need light to see.

In moments he’d left his jacket, shoes, and pocket valuables with the crew, and was striding forward, shaking his head. Ruby aimed her flashlight at the door, though it was pretty visible now. I pocketed my phone and crossed my fingers. With a worried glance, I sent strengthening thoughts toward the dam.

Captain Parker stuck a foot in, swore loudly, then cannonballed directly into the deep end to the approving whoops of his crew. He surfaced, gasping at the cold, then took a few good breaths and submerged, going straight for the door.

The catch didn’t turn easily. Of course it didn’t. Why would any of this be easy? I watched him struggle with it, flicking my eyes back toward the straining reservoir. Water was starting to spill over the side. The big crack was spreading.

Then something clunked below me, and the door grated aside, gushing water and a very cold human into the corridor beyond.

I yelled my own wahoo along with the crew, and left the awning to jolt back into place with another rain of rust while I hurried back down. One of the pipes almost jerked out of the wall while I was holding it. I jumped the rest of the way.

“Take the box!” Paint told me. Humans were rushing down the wet stairs. I took it just as a thunderous crack filled the air, and the ground shuddered.

“Run!” I said. We dashed down the stairs to the sound of rushing water. The wall I’d just been standing on sprouted dozens of leaks, creaking ominously.

There was still a bit of a puddle at the bottom, but Paint bravely dashed through it with her heat shawl held tight. I was right behind her with the box. The other humans were already climbing dry stairs on the other side.

We made it through the door just as the wall collapsed, sending water and debris slamming into the place we’d been standing moments before.

I don’t think I’ve ever climbed stairs faster. Two of the nearest humans hoisted Paint up, her small legs kicking in the air. Water splashed behind us, wetting one of my pant legs in a terrifying moment that made me think we’d all be washed away after all, but then we were out of range and still standing.

Everybody stood in an open courtyard, breathing hard and staring. The water rushed in every direction below us, filling more passageways than I’d thought it could. We’d reached an area of high ground with the reconstruction offices in view, all freshly painted and gold in the sunlight.

But only just.

“We’ll need another way back to the ship,” said Ruby.

“Good thing we left all our stuff behind.”

“Hey Captain, you can use my shirt to dry off with.”

“Mine too.”

Captain Parker looked a little paler than his skin tone was really meant for as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Thanks,” he managed, sounding like he was keeping his teeth from chattering by force of will.

Paint approached him and made an elaborate bow, which I’m pretty sure she got from some media about old Earth customs since that’s not the kind of thing her people do. “Well done, Captain Parker,” she declared. “Your honor is unquestionable; you are not a dog this day.”

He smiled while the crew laughed again. “Thank you. Your challenge was well-timed.” He stripped off his wet shirt and toweled dry with someone else’s, then rolled up his pant legs instead of taking them off.

“Do you need to borrow my heat shawl?” Paint asked tentatively.

Captain Parker frowned, shivering violently. “You’re coldblooded. Don’t you need it?”

“I’ll be okay,” Paint assured him. “You need it more right now. The air isn’t as bad as that water.”

“You’re not wrong.” He accepted it when she handed it to him, settling it over his shoulders with a deep sigh of relief.

When Paint met my eyes, I gave her a smile of approval, and she beamed. Crew members were busy making calls: to their ship, to their local contact, and who knew where else. It occurred to me that we should do the same.

Paint told me, “Everyone’s going to want to hear about this. And you’ll have to explain the details of the double dog thing; I’d never heard of that before.”

I shrugged one shoulder, still holding the box. “It’s not a big deal. More of a kid thing, honestly. I’m sure there are lots of cultures with similar stuff.”

“Not mine,” she said thoughtfully. “Blip and Blop would probably appreciate it. And Trrili would probably appreciate it too much.”

“Oh man, Trrili would be an unholy menace.” I thought of our most frightening crewmate’s love of scaring people. “Let’s not tell her about double dares.”

When the captain had his shoes back on and his jacket thrown over the heat shawl, we all moved on toward the reconstruction office, leaving a trail of water droplets and honor in our wake.

~~~

Captain Parker and co made their other appearance in this story.

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

They're shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include some characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#the return of some fun characters from that other story #I felt like they'd be the idea people to throw into this particular set of circumstances #my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs

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novasintheroom · 8 months ago

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036. Heart Break

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 0.8k

♡ Warnings - mild angst

♡ Description: Vash's actions catch up to him in the form of a letter.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3.

Part 1 ---- Part 2 (you are here!)---- Part 3 ---- Part 4 ---- Part 5

The first letter comes three weeks and a day later.

“Got a letter for ya.”

Vash doesn’t look up from the shop’s window display of guns and bullets.

“Hey…hey!”

The man taps Vash’s shoulder. He finally flinches. “Who, me?” Vash turns, surprised to see someone just standing behind him. How far away was his mind?

The man looks him up and down. “You’re Vash, right?” He’s a thick man; stout. A broom mustache sweeps his upper lip. Small holster for a pistol at his hip. He isn’t reaching for it, but Vash keeps it in sight.

Vash lets out a nervous laugh. “Do I know you? I’m sorry, it’s been a minute since I last came to town!” A truth – it’s been almost twenty years.

A tomas-pulled wagon drives past and kicks up dust. The man – courier, Vash realizes, seeing the official symbol of an arrow with a letter on his hat – spits to the side, a hunk of tobacco splatting the dirt. “Friend o’ yers passed through a few days ago. Said to look out for someone like you if you came by.”

Again, the pistol is in sight. The man reaches for it. Vash tenses, ready to run and – the courier reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small, folded envelope. Without preamble, the man hands it to Vash. “Tall, red coat, looks like a kicked puppy…yeah, gotta be you.”

Vash takes it like it will bite his fingers. It’s a dirty little thing, crinkled horribly on one corner and bent at the other three, but intact. In neat handwriting, his name scrawled across the front: “For – Vash S.”

The courier clears his throat and holds out a hand. Vash blinks at it, uncomprehending. “Twenty-six C-cents. For the parcel delivery.”

Oh. He’d forgotten that – he hadn’t gotten a letter in – “Ah, right, um, lemme just – “ He pats his pockets, inner, outer, and finally finds a few loose coins. They clink into outstretched palm, and he hopes it’s enough.

The courier counts, then recounts. He nods and hands back two C-cents. “Much obliged. See us at the post office if you want to send something back. Just down the road, by the toma range.” He ambles off, already setting sights on someone else in town. It’s just Vash and the letter now.

Carefully, he peels back the top of the envelope. His mind is awash with dread when the first pieces of curling letters meet his gaze: your handwriting. A piece of yellow paper is tucked into the folds, and he pulls it out.

It’s upside down, and he sees the slanted, scrawling handwriting first before he knows what it says. Flipping it around and right-side up, he reads over what you’ve written him.

Vash,

I get why you left. I wish you’d talked with me beforehand, but I get it. I tried following, but you know how to disappear.

You know you can trust me. I’ll keep all your secrets, don’t worry.

You’re my best friend. I think you’ll always be. Please be careful wherever you go. I’ve drawn a map on the back of my route for the next few months. Find me when you screw your head on right. I’ll gladly be waiting.

Forever yours,

______

There’re little circular wrinkles on the paper. Tear marks. You’d been crying when you’d written this. Vash sighs and holds the papers to his head. It has the faintest smell of apples to it from the lotion of your hands.

It’s tempting to feel his heart break. He takes a quick whiff, then turns the page over.

It’s a neat but crude drawing of the southernmost area of the region. You’ve got about fourteen towns marked down, with their names underneath and a trail of arrows winding between them with approximate dates. According to this, you’re at Trenton’s Hill, three towns over. You’ll be distributing library books and trying to set up new routes along the way. All to help the education of the people.

Good. That’s exactly what he wanted. You’re using your time and your degree as you should be, instead of following him around. He almost puts the paper in his pocket when he sees you wrote something at the bottom:

P.S. – Did you hear about the guy who had his left side cut off? He’s all right now.

It startles a laugh out of him. Leave it to you to make a joke out of…well, whatever this situation is now. Again, he sighs. He won’t deny he’s missed you. But this is for the best. He looks again at Trenton’s Hill, and makes a mental note to go the opposite direction.

The letter goes in a pocket, and he goes on his way – sure to pull it out and look over the words again for nights to come.

dividers

#trigun #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #tristamp #writing #vash x reader #vash the stampede x reader #reader insert #self insert #nova writes #150 bullets

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same-day-delivery-services · 1 year ago

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hawkepockets · 6 months ago

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okay 👏 @glamfellens meet fisher!

just off the dome, here’s the gist of them—

they grew up rambling around the mojave, raised by a single mother who was also a courier in her time. their mother was solemn and practical to the point of nastiness most days, but had just a touch of the romantic in her—she loved pre-war songs and stories, and if you caught her in the right mood, listening to the right old record or having just found an intact book in the ruins of a shop, she’d tell you abour her fantasy of living the high life in new vegas, going to the movies once a week and drinking her fill of ice cold filtered water from a tap whenever she pleased. she named fisher after reading about the sea in moby dick.

fisher inherited her love of the radio, but didn’t share her dream of escaping the desert to live between air conditioned walls. they loved the mojave and the troubled hodgepodge of societies it cradled. they took up photography as a kid, and have always wanted to document the colors of the landscape and settlements and prove that the “wasteland” isn’t a waste.

when fisher was a teenager, their mother ran afoul of a deathclaw on her delivery route—which is to say, a stranger ran afoul of a deathclaw, fisher and their mother heard the screams, and instead of rushing to “help” (die) they followed their well-made protocol, turned tail and split up to better their chances. fisher zigged, their mother zagged—and ran straight into the first claw’s hunting partner. she took a hit to the face, dislocating her jaw and slicing through her lips, cheeks, and tongue, before losing the claw in a maze of slot canyons.

in case of separation, fisher and their mother’s routine was always to meet up at the nearest ncr ranger station. fisher made it to the rendezvous point. their mother almost did—but as she staggered toward the outpost, moaning and wailing out of a ruined face, a jumpy sentry mistook her for a feral ghoul and shot her dead. without taking a single second to process what had happened, fisher shot the ranger in the back. and double tapped.

fisher didn’t think they could ever take a job for the ncr after that. but they got off with a light sentence (temporary insanity), couriering was what they knew how to do, and they were hungry. so courier 6 they became.

when benny shot fisher 10 years later, the bullet ripped through their brain’s language center. they’d always been kind of a quiet, dour person, but after that they didn’t speak at all. they could understand others, but just didn’t have the words to respond, out loud or in writing. it was beyond frustrating to grasp for vocabulary that simply wasn’t there. they weren’t fortunate enough to know sign language previously, either. to communicate, they used their big brown eyes and their photographs—they tracked benny by showing every kindly stranger they met a piece of checkered shirt cloth cut into the shape of a little suit, tacked on to a cutout of a male model.

when they did find benny, they shot him before he was done talking. it didn’t cross their mind to do anything different until well after the fact, while they talked with yes man. they’d been so single-minded, considering themself a dead body animated purely by the need to kill the fucker who’d killed them. temporary insanity again, this time for weeks on end. they thought. in truth, the desire to redistribute electrical and political power among the people of the mojave and fuck house, the legion, and the ncr had gradually built up, and was waiting to catch them once benny was dead and they ran out of track on revenge. fisher had a reason to live before they accepted that they were still alive at all.

so they blew up the dam.

their closest relationship was with boone—despite their cool ambivalence toward the ncr, the two were riding the same wavelength of thinking of themselves as basically revenants, and then starting to shake off the grave dirt and face the future. boone taught them a few basic ncr military hand signs. and he even tried to make a replacement wife out of them once after hoover dam, gifting them colored pencils and carla’s old dresses in the vague hope that they would turn artsy and domestic for him. and fisher gamely tried it all on! but they’re not fanciful or feminine. it just didn’t work. it felt violating for both of then. and honestly, these days, the silent, surly butch photographer/gunslinger might be?? more to boone’s taste??? who said that?

fnv was my first fallout game, so i didn’t have the background knowledge to play a character with strong ties to any faction or settlement yet. but i did love the desert map, so that’s what i put into em! i feel like fish & harriet would be great foils honestlyyy 👀

#fallout #oc: fisher #i wrote an id for that sketch but it didnt save :( anyway the pose is #is from a charlotte rampling photo. just for the old hollywood theming

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driftward · 2 months ago

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Title: FFXIV Write 2024 - 5. Stamp Characters: Reinhardt Sauvetarre, Zoissette Vauban Rating: Teen Summary: Paid for delivery and boy is Reinhardt paying for it Notes: Weird Wild West AU this is a Desertwalkers story

Reinhardt was having a difficult day.

He wasn't having a bad day, not exactly. It wasn't good, either, but it wasn't bad. Just a difficult sort of day. A very difficult sort of day, the sort of day that tested his patience and made him wonder if there were some unseen spirits whose job it was to make his life more difficult.

The mission description was certainly simple enough. Intercept a package, inspect its contents, and bring that knowledge back to the garrison, where someone else could determine if it contained actionable intelligence or evidence of certain activities out in the wilds. It was difficult, maintaining a military presence on the frontier. The very, very large frontier they could not hope to possibly patrol in full, and it behooved them to take what advantages they could.

The details where were things got sticky. The package would be going through the Saltlick's courier network, and that meant going through Klynt's sphere of influence, which was not great for Reinhardt. He did not like that his work life was risking having him act at cross purposes to his personal life. What was worse was that Zoissette, apparently, was the courier.

He had hoped to keep an eye out, and to see if he could spot the exact dead drop location, and perhaps be able to get away with just reporting that to his superiors. That was actionable intelligence, which they would hopefully be satisfied with, and more importantly that would keep him from coming into any sort of direct confrontation with the courier, the package, or Klynt's attention. Somebody else could pull the mission to handle any follow-up on the dead drop, and he would be free to continue to pretend that his job was compatible with his love life.

But no, Zoissette was canny, and unfortunately had a tendency of being exactingly good at the jobs she picked up. He was not sure when she had done it or how, but the package she was now carrying towards her chocobo matched the description of what he was keeping an eye out for exactly.

Which meant now he had to try to convince her to let him have a peek at it.

She was off and away, and that meant he had to be soon after her, or else lose any opportunity for pulling this stupid mission off. Which he was tempted to do. But not tempted enough to risk pissing off Estinien, who would be first in line to chew him out and work him over should he screw this up badly enough. So he hurried, and soon enough, his chocobo was running after the gently receding form of Zoissette as she headed out on her duty.

It was easy to catch up to her, fortunately. She had a massive black chocobo, a bird that was almost military like in its demeanor, stamina, and speed. He'd seen it in action before, and he did not relish the thought of trying to outpace it. But she was keeping, not an easy pace, but not exactly a race, either. A conservatively hurried pace that would mean she would make good time but not tire out herself or her bird. Which meant Reinhardt could catch up to her quickly with a nice short sprint.

She spared him a glance as he got close, but did not seem inclined to pay him any further mind, even as he pulled back on the reins of his chocobo and slowed to match her speed.

"Hullo, Miss Vauban," he said, deciding to try the pleasant route.

"Good afternoon, Ser... Sauvetarre, I believe?" she responded.

"Yes ma'am," he said. "I was wondering if I might ask to take a quick glance at one of the parcels you're transporting today? Garrison business, you understand."

She gave him a longer sidelong glance as her gaze swept him up and down, inspecting him. "Do you perhaps have a warrant to go along with that request, Ser Sauvetarre?" she asked primly.

"Godsdammit you know I don't, we only just heard about this shipment this morning."

Also he wasn't at all sure Kemakka would share the garrison's opinion on the value of this package, but that was an argument that was above his paygrade.

"Then I am afraid I can speak no further as to what I may or may not be carrying, nor entertain discussion about the contents of my cargo, such as it is."

"Come on, Zoissette," said Reinhardt, trying for another tack. "This is for the safety and security of all of us out here, you know that."

And also the safety and security of his current and future relationship with Klynt and with the garrison commander and gods damn it he hated this.

"I am certain. However, my responsibilities are currently to my contract and my chosen duties. I have the appropriate stamps that certify for me for postal activities. As such, if you truly wish to know more, you may come to me with an appropriate warrant."

"You know that by the time I get that warrant that whatever's in there will be out and we'll have missed our window to do anything about this," he tried, starting to feel a little desperate.

Zoissette side eyed him again.

"Your initial request was honest enough, and I do not mind it," she said. "After all, you can hardly know what the proper limits are if you do not actually ask the question. The second attempt was endearing, showing a certain level of, shall we say, earnestness. However, a third attempt begins to border on the rude, which I begin to feel I might take exception to."

Reinhardt was about to open his mouth to try to push his argument, but he stopped himself, as he considered several things at once. One, Zoissette seemed to, at some point, have increased her personal close quarters armament. Previously she had just had a short field knife, but now she had two rather longer and very impressive blades on her back. Two, she had not really been paying close attention to him up until now, keeping a closer eye on the terrain and her bird, but now she and her bird both had a definite focus to them that was centered on him. Three, Zoissette was an elf, a tall one at that, and he was almost certainly within her swinging range.

He quickly pulled on the reins of his own bird, nudged a heel into its side, and leaned hard to the side, and the bird responded immediately, making a large hop to the side, bringing him out of what he estimated to be Zoissette's reach. And then he tugged on the reins some more, and steered the bird to give her another fulm or two extra, just for politeness.

He knew Zoissette had a thing about politeness.

Zoissette's bird returned its attention to the path, and after a moment of giving Reinhardt a look fit to freeze him to his saddle, she too turned her attention forward, and he let out a breath. He could take Zoissette in a fight, but he really did not want to.

He was having a difficult enough of a day already.

The two riders and their birds continued to keep pace with one another. The two chocobos were politely ignoring one another, keeping their peace. Zoissette was ignoring Reinhardt in a somewhat more pointed fashion, and Reinhardt kept sneaking glances over at her, trying to gauge her temperament.

At last, he spoke up. "Begging your pardon, ma'am," he said. "But you are right. I was out of line. I promise to not ask further after your cargo."

He held on, jaw tight, and waited. Zoissette regarded him once more. This time, from a polite distance.

"Apology accepted, Ser Sauvetarre," she said at last. "I am choosing to recognize that you were only doing what you felt was your due duty, and I cannot fully fault that. Keep your word on the matter, and I shall consider it closed."

"You've got my word," he said.

Zoissette nodded, and her rancor seemed to evaporate, and Reinhardt felt himself relax. This was good. This was better.

"If you don't mind, though," he said. "I think we're heading the same way. Perhaps we can convoy over together? Safer that way."

She glanced him over.

"I will have your word that you will stay out of my things as well."

"Of course."

"Then I find your proposal agreeable. It is a day and a half travel, and I was planning on taking both days to do it. Stop at midday for lunch and to take care of our mounts, overnight at duskfall."

"Sounds good to me."

"Then we have an accord."

Reinhardt nodded, and settled in for the day's ride. Alright. Fine. Cracking Zoissette was out of the question, especially if he wanted to stay on Klynt's good side. Corking one of her favourite couriers would not keep him in her good graces, and for that matter, his garrison commander would have opinions on that as well. Bad ones. And that was not part of the mission, anyroad, the package itself was. But perhaps he could catch the dead drop when they got to where they were going, or try to pick up the trail of the package again once it was no longer in Zoissette's possession and try to intercept it then.

He had options.

Shit ones.

Alright, so maybe he was having a bad day.

#ffxivwrite2024 #final fantasy xiv #reinhardt sauvetarre #zoissette vauban #stamp #202409-05 #biot writes #desertwalkers

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routetrackdeliver · 1 year ago

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carnivalcarriondiscarded · 10 months ago

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another snippet! my first Flight Rising one, featuring my darling couriers Honey and Grace having a chill time <3

If he had to choose his least favorite place in Sornieth, Honey wouldn’t hesitate to name the Southern Icefield. More specifically, port Hillberg.

The ramshackle town nests at the base of the Cloudscrape Crags, near where the continent starts to break apart into the Floes. It’s large, but shabby - tarp and rope holds together half of the buildings. Honey suspects that the residents simply couldn’t be bothered to rebuild time and time again. Sparse vegetation dots the steep landscape, if it could be called one. The dragons who have made Hillberg their home are just as blunt and harsh as the environment.

None of these things are strangers to Honey. Perpetual bad moods and subpar architecture aren’t what makes him dread every delivery to the region.

No, no… it’s the wind.

The constant, inescapable, Shade-cursed wind.

It isn’t that Honey doesn’t like wind - oh, he does. He hails from the Windswept Plateau, and spent his happiest years tumbling through gusts and zephyrs. His blood sings in the air.

Hillberg’s wind, though, is an utter nightmare.

At best, it’s a frigid breeze that even a tundra can feel through their thick coat. At worst, it’s a howling force barreling down from the Crag’s peaks, tearing through Hillberg with a vengeance. It carries biting flurries of ice and sleet with it, leaving a trail of frost and unfortunate frozen creatures in its wake. Everything not bolted down is lost in moments. Hillberg is lashed together and fixed to the earth to withstand the daily barrage.

It’s so terrible that ropes line the streets for dragons to cling to so as to not be blown away in the gales. Wings are bound, claws are left long for purchase. Hillberg’s larger inhabitants have an easier time of it, but they’re few in numbers. The majority of residents are too small to withstand the greatest winds.

This horrible natural force even has a name - the Crag’s Breath.

Honey wouldn’t give it such a tame title. It’s a roar, a howl, a bellow. It rivals the Crescendo’s outer winds.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to put up with the Breath’s ordeal all that often. Hillberg doesn’t get many deliveries, and Honey isn’t the only courier available on this route. More often than not Honey gets months between trips here - sometimes he gets even luckier when the Breath isn’t howling during his brief stop.

That luck isn’t holding this time around.

Honey untenses one of his talons to flex feeling back into his claws. It’s a useless endeavor, of course. It serves him right for not wearing full gloves. He shivers and puts his talon back down, curling his claws into the frozen divots they’ve carved. A gust hits him from the side, and he clenches his leg muscles to keep from staggering.

The wide, desolate landing zone offers no comfort. The frozen ground yields no natural protection from the freezing wind, and the setting sun gives no relief. The gales yank at his apparel, his tail, his tightly folded wings. Honey doesn’t dare imagine what would happen if he opened them.

It’s cold. So devastatingly cold. The chill cuts right to Honey’s bones, and he’s certain that he’ll never be warm again.

During times like these he curses his lifestyle. Being constantly on the wing keeps him fit and light. Not enough fat lingers in his muscles to provide insulation, and his lithe form struggles to withstand the wind. He rarely meets a dragon larger than himself, yet right now he feels no bigger than a fae.

Honey huffs through his nose and glares across the icy field at the lights in the distance. The debris from the Breath and the shadows deepened by the waning sunset cast Hillberg into a darkening haze. Soon all that will be left of it in Honey’s sight are the lights. Those too will vanish as everyone hunkers down to wait out the brewing storm.

At least the wind doesn’t allow ice and snow to melt on him. The only thing worse than being in the Breath is being in it while wet.

If only his welcomers would hurry. In Honey’s opinion, the protocol Hillberg has for arrivals - especially inter-regional ones - is absurd. Honey always has to wait an hour or more before they lead him into town, and more importantly, shelter. He wouldn’t mind it if the Breath wasn’t active, but at this rate he really will freeze in place. At least Hillberg would have a shiny new statue for their proverbial doorstep.

In truth, though, Honey is being dramatic. Even if he was forced to wait all night, he’d survive. It would be long and miserable, but he would make it to sunrise. It isn’t him that he’s worried about.

It’s his assistant, Grace.

Honey crouches lower and cranes his neck to try and peer into his scarf. His slush-smeared goggles blur everything into indistinct shapes and monochrome colors. He shoves his nose into the scarf and snuffles - he can smell her, he thinks, but she hasn’t moved in some time.

“Grace,” he grunts. The wind snatches his words away, and he says louder, “Grace!”

Tiny talons push his snout, and he pulls back. Grace peeks out from the navy folds to peer up at him. Getting a read on her expression is impossible - the helmet and goggles betray nothing. Despite how sheltered she is, the wind still snags at her frills and presses them around her face.

“Hanging in there?” Honey yells.

Through the blur, she nods.

“Still warm?”

Grace makes a show of shrugging before burrowing back down. She squirms further down into the scarf to rest where Honey’s neck meets his chest. Hopefully both the scarf and the thick arctic coat provide enough insulation for her, along with her own matching apparel. Not enough of his own body heat will seep through - staying warm is up to her. Still, Honey wishes that he could tuck her into his jacket.

Honey shakes out his frosty mane and casts another look at the vanishing town. The guideropes staked into the ground leading there dance in the wind, empty.

Please, he thinks as a violent tremor wracks his body. He lifts a talon and immediately lurches forward - he slams his haunches down and angles against the wind. He rests the lifted talon over Grace. The faint press of her eases the knot in his ribs, though it won’t entirely untangle until they’re both out of the cold and warming by a fire.

It was a harsher trip than usual, getting here. Usually the route takes them along the Floes, where they can rest at established checkpoints along the way. But the first checkpoint had directed Honey to make one continuous arcing journey over the ocean to Hillberg. Why, he doesn’t know yet. There was some sort of issue.

What he does know is that he’s beyond exhausted. Flying for so long unbroken is well within his capabilities, but it isn’t fun. Not to mention that the transition into Hillberg airspace had nearly knocked Honey out of the sky. The battle to the landing field almost did him in - his limbs almost gave out upon landing. Only half of his current trembling comes from the weather.

As soon as they’re in the hanger, Honey is sure to collapse and sleep for hours. It will set back their schedule, but it’s a much needed rest. Especially so if they can’t take the Floes for the return trip.

Honey hunches his shoulders higher. At least his folded wings protect the courier satchels. It would be horrific if the straps broke or the clasps came undone. Dozens of letters, documents, and parcels all spilling out and whisking away into the sea… Honey’s next tremor isn’t so much of a shiver as it is a shudder. He might throw himself into the ocean after them if that happened.

Frantic tapping against his talon shakes him from his thoughts. Honey’s eyes snap open and focus on Grace, who’s frantically waving and pointing. He follows her gaze and relief soars in his ribcage.

A tundra slowly struggles towards them in the growing darkness. They’re big and burly for their breed, though that must be the uncountable pounds of fur covering their body. They remind Honey of the giant shaggy goats he sometimes sees while flying over the Icefield.

The tundra stops, gripping the thick rope with both claws as they angle themself into the wind so that they’re nearly sideways. Their fur billows around them. When Honey lifts his head, the tundra jerks their own towards Hillberg. They carefully turn around to make the return journey.

Thank the Windsinger.

Honey helps nudge Grace back down to safety, and they spend a moment making sure she’s secure. Once they start walking, Honey won’t be able to spare her a moment of attention - he’ll be too busy staying upright.

The Breath gusts under and around Honey as he stands, filling the new openings. He curses and stumbles. One talon slips on an icy patch, nearly sending him to the ground. In any other situation, Honey would be embarrassed about shuffling forward with his hindquarters still tucked. It must look ridiculous, but it’s the most stable position.

Honey moves as quickly as he can manage, though even that is still slower than he’d like. It only takes a few minutes to catch up with the tundra. They don’t seem to be struggling, which is expected of an experienced Hillberg resident. Still, it can’t be easy.

“Would you like assistance?” Honey yells over the howling wind. The tundra looks up at him, and he moves the wrist of his wing away from his body to open up a pocket the tundra could climb into.

They regard him for a moment through their own goggles, then at the long path ahead. They nod. Honey crouches as low as he can and angles his wing to create a buffer from the wind. The tundra lets go of the rope and flings themself at him, clinging to his thickly-padded shoulder. They clamber into the offered pocket and press up against his side, their fur frigid against the seam of his wing. Once they seem secure, Honey closes his wing tight and continues the trek.

Each stride gets slower, and Honey’s legs tremble more with every one. The lights grow brighter and streak across his goggles, incandescently blinding him. The path curves up as he heads to the mountain-carved bunker.

This isn’t the worst weather he’s withstood, Honey reminds himself. Yes, it’s freezing. No, he can’t feel his own body anymore. But when has that ever stopped him? He has deliveries to make, including two lives tucked against him.

The icy soil finally gives way to an equally cold stone plaza. Honey staggers across it to the huge door. Carved stone and wood arc into an overhang, jutting directly out of the foothills and offering very little relief from the Breath. The hanger is the only area entirely safe from the wind - something carved into the earth itself can’t be blown away.

Honey slams his shoulder against the thick heartwood door, tough as iron and sturdy as the Crag. He leans desperately against it, flagging fast.

Eternal seconds drag by.

Snowflakes gather in Honey’s exposed fur.

The sun’s final light fades from the horizon.

The door shudders, groans, and lifts. The horizontal slats fold into the roof, and Honey yearns for the firelight spilling from inside. Only a couple more steps, now. Only another minute or two.

Honey squeezes through as soon as the door lifts enough for clearance. He slips into a long, warm hallway ending with the glow of a roaring fireplace. The door slams back down behind him, nearly landing on his tail. The door locks into place.

The abrupt silence almost hurts. Honey blinks hard and tosses his head against the ringing in his ears. The crackling of embers is barely audible.

A tap against his side - ah, right. Honey uncurls his wing to let his passenger out, wincing at his frozen stiff muscles. The tundra jumps to the floor and shakes themself out. Ice crystals fly from their fur to shower the ground in glittering bits.

“Thank you,” the tundra says, her voice clear in the hall’s calm. When Honey inclines his head, she butts her head against his wing and inhales deeply before trotting down the hall. He hopes she remembers his scent as an ally.

“We’re in the clear,” Honey murmurs into his scarf as he pushes himself forward once more. Just a little further.

Grace clambers out of his scarf. She shakes herself before launching into the air, flitting in Honey’s blurry peripherals and performing complex acrobatics. That’s one way to warm herself.

Only part of the bunker’s warmth reaches Honey, and he still feels frozen. His apparel crunches with every step. The stone floor seems to burn under his talons, even though it’s surely cold. Grace perches on his unbroken antler as they enter the bunker proper.

There aren’t many dragons inside, shockingly enough. The tundra he already met is settling into cushions set up by the circular fireplace. Three more tundras lounge about, along with a ridgeback that looks Arcane, a young guardian brooding in the corner, a pearlcatcher who already seems set on ignoring him, and a few specks that may be faes or spirals. Perhaps both.

Not that any of this matters much to Honey. He only has eyes for the empty cushions surrounding the blazing hearth. He stumbles towards it even as his vision tunnels until only the bright firelight remains.

Just a little further.

A few more steps.

One more…

Honey is unconscious before he hits the ground.

#this one was vaguely experimental? very vaguely. no! Practice! dragon writing practice!#i just wanted to have some fr fun!#i do want to write more little snippets for my lair #especially penumbra...#snippets from the bog #flight rising #fr writing #honey and grace are fun to think about sometimes #theyre just flying around sornieth! delivering things and meeting dragons and seeing the sights #i feel like they'd have the Worst luck and would manage to be there for every big event #the ancients reawakening? there. the obelisks emerging? delivering messages from the site. Luminax? barely dodged that bullet. etc!#honey just wants to do his job man... cmon...

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