#Rush courier service | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

owlespresso · 6 months

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the golden ivy which clings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not like you have much of a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

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

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

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

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

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

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

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

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

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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myemuisemo · 8 months

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It's week 3 of Letters from Watson, and there is an elephant in the room.

We're going to feel the elephant's trunk, but first I want to crawl into the mindset of a contemporary 1887 reader. It's been a long time since I watched the Jeremy Brett versions of Sherlock Holmes, so if my impressions are shaped by that experience, it's in an indirect subconscious way.

Holmes' explanation of how he spotted the courier as a retired sergeant of Marines indicates that he's storing a good deal of trivia about military services in the lumber room of his mind.

Gregson and Lestrade, the best of Scotland Yard, are blessed with the Victorian compliments of being "quick and energetic." Watson, in his rush to order a cab, is also implied to value quickness and energy over whatever thought processes Holmes is about to introduce. When not humored in his rush to be useful, he falls into a sulk.

Gregson is the whitest of whitely white guys, from pale face to flaxen hair. The fact that he's not the slightest bit red-faced suggests both that he rarely sees the sun (well, London fog) and that he doesn't drink. There's very likely a teeny bit of a joke here in calling him Gregson, since Watson would certainly have been aware of the work of Joseph Gelson Gregson, the Baptist preacher and Army chaplain whose mission in the 1860s-70s was to convert British Indian Army soldiers to total abstinence from alcohol. Will our Gregson turn out to be zealous and self-righteous?

If Gregson did not arrive in a cab, and Lestrade did not arrive in a cab, then likely there are some specific sort of tire marks in the mud.

Now, the house at 3 Lauriston Gardens came close to baffling me. Obviously, when I first read the Sherlock Holmes stories as a mid-sized child, I knew only sprawling ranch tract homes, so the description of the 3-story vacant house was just "ooh, creepy!"

That numbering really suggests its an attached rowhouse, though. That would be consistent with development down Brixton Road in the mid-19th century. There are so, so many terraces of identical attached houses in yellowish brick. Here's Google Maps demonstrating 3-story terraced rowhouses on Handforth Road, just off Brixton Road. These are a little too new, dating from the 1890s, so we've got to imagine a Brixton Road area that's still far less developed -- things that look "old" to us weren't there yet.

These remind us that as London built outward, the rowhouses usually did not have two features that Lauriston Gardens has: a front garden and a center hall. The front garden suggests that the intent of the four dwellings composing Lauriston Gardens was to be a little more suburban and bucolic than the typical urban terrace. Its general aura of mud indicates that it has failed at this promise.

But move on down Brixton Road to the 300 block, and here we are with that garden! These are 3 stories, have a yard, have pillars suggested Greek Revival (1850s-60s), and are depressing af.

Maybe it's my years in the Albany-Troy (NY) area speaking, but these are exuding "we are holding onto middle class by our slipping fingernails." I think that is actually the impression Doyle intends to give: Lauriston Gardens was never quite perfectly respectable, even in its heyday, but it was trying.

That center hall still troubles me. A middle-class rowhouse typically has a side hall, which holds the staircase volume. The parlor is then either narrow (one window) or wide (two). Lauriston Gardens is built with a center hall (pointing to a more lavish lifestyle) but only one "reception" room deep. It has "offices" (butler's pantry or whatever) and a kitchen on the main floor, not in the basement.

Something like this, a titch further out Brixton Road, might be a fit if it weren't for the extra wing on the side. I think the dormer floor is a modern addition. These super-plain houses with only the pillared doorways look so grim, especially compared to the more ornamented Victorian styles.

If the reader is meant to feel uneasy at the mismatch between 3 Lauriston Gardens' pretensions and its actuality, we're there! In any case, the carpet has been pulled up (as was common, you took it with you when you moved), the florid older wallpaper is peeling, the fireplace mantle is a faux finish (yep, aspirations above our proper class), and there is a body on the floor.

Our body is wearing a frock coat, which was the formal daytime wear of a gentleman but on its way out of fashion by the 1880s. Broadcloth of the era had a felt-like feel and was known for durability. So our corpse is respectable, practical, probably conservative in habits, and possibly punching a bit above his social class.

And he has a "simious and ape-like appearance," which worries the heck out of me in a modern 2023 sense. Watson, as the late Victorian everyman, refers to common notions of facial bone structure indicating character. Simian is never good; it's an indicator of primitive, uncouth nature. I'm going to hope hard that we are solely being set up to see the dead man as representative of the worst sort of grasping, self-centered, profit-minded, uncouth American. We're definitely supposed to "get" that, as the house is failing at its pretentions, so too is the dead body trying to be something above its class.

I am nervous for next week, and I'm determined not to look ahead. I'm going to sit with my discomfort like a proper serial-reader, so don't spoiler it for me!

#letters from watson #sherlock holmes

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yozzers · 6 months

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nautical vehicles hot rod & flamewar who live in a little port town and work with a courier service to deliver the knick knacks they find out at sea...

a little fun AU I've been chipping away at when I don't want to work on college or portfolio related work

follows the idw2 mentor-mentee concept

hotrod and flamewar are from nyon, a developing port town and were both mentored by kup

they work as a "fisher" and scrapdiver respectively

springer was also mentored by kup and runs a package delivery business

^^ arcee, blurr and drift are 3 employees that hot rod and flamewar are friendly with(ish, not really w/ drift he's just kinda there sometimes and usually shadows arcee. flamewars the first to get buddy buddy w him)

arcee is the main courier that goes between nyon and so and so

umm main relationships are with ...arcee rn actually which made me laugh shes just fun to me, shes known blurr the longest and also rooms w/ him. she initially went from kaon the most and met drift there, they end up getting buddy buddy and he's kinda just wresled into the courier job bcs sprigne considered him shadowing arcee constantly loitering and he might as well help w the work she does etc etc idk im still thinking abt it I just think he's a funny character to bounce off a bubbly arcee

shes very close w/ hot rod too as he's usually the one rushing to greet her when she arrives to nyon w/ mail n packages etc etc

shes the one dragging them both into dangerous situations while hot rod does his best to make sure they both Survive.

I don't think ill get to this anytime soon but uhh first aid, nautica and slipstream are somewhere there too... first aids running the only clinic in nyon atm, nautica is a researcher from an island in the middle of the rust sea which nyon borders, and im imagining slipstream to be a seaplane that crahsed in nyon n that's how flamewar meets her n the whole shebang <3

bumblebee is in there somewhere bcs im a bit obsessed w how idw bumblebee is such a hater @ rodimus but rodimus is like, honestly pretty amicable in comparison to him? keeping this up, bumblebee is a little clown car in my head and works as a performer in Iacon or smt idrk who this all fits in I just think its a rlly cute idea

unrelated to the nyon group but some small things I've been thinking up is the outlier academy that I thnk blurr eventually leaves the courier business for , n that's ran by shockwave n optimus is somewhere there too as a librarian or smt (maybe. idk yet.)

hand waving I really really like soundwave and blaster too so I've been wondering what they'd do its just kinda been ooohhh what r some characters I like and what r some interactions thatd be fun as I mish mash personalities and backstories frm diff continiuties I doubt ill get to drawing most of these guys though I barely have 5 characters pinned down

#transformers #tf #maccadam #fan continuity #rodimus #flamewar #arcee #blurr #drift #ribbart #nyon port town au

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marisramblings · 1 year

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You asked for some touchstarved requests so here I am! Can I get something fluffy with mhin where kuras mentions that tonight is mhins transformation night. So the mc heads over to mhins place with some pain meds/medical supplies to help with their monster transition. First, it starts with mhin being kinda aggressive due to their monster form but ultimately ends with them cuddling afterwards once their monster form realizes the mc isn't a threat.

Went a little overkill with the word count…hope you enjoy 😅

Mhin x reader (cw cursing)

“You want me to do what?”

Kuras bites his lip. “It’s an odd request, I acknowledge that. Normally, I would go, but the most recent soulless attack has created a higher demand for my services. You’re the only other person they’re comfortable with.”

“I understand that, but I’m still lost. You want me to visit Mhin and do what exactly?” The good doctor was light on the details. Why do they require a personal home visit? Why couldn’t a courier handle this?

Voices clamor behind the clinic door. Kuras looks between it and you, eyes almost anxious. You sigh again. He’s a friend. It grates on you to see him flustered. You are close with the soulless hunter but you’re careful about it. Skittish people bolt easily, and Mhin hasn’t deemed it suitable to tell you this secret.

“Fine.”

He smiles. “Thank you, and take this.” As reticent as he seemed before, Kuras doesn’t hesitate to shove an aid kit into your hands and you out the backdoor.

“Wait,” The door slams in your face before you finish. “where does Mhin live?” You peer at the kit in your hands and see a hand drawn map taped to it. You have a strong suspicion that you’ve been played.

“I better not get eaten.”

***

How should you approach this? Mhin doesn’t know that you’re coming and imagining how the freakishly strong mercenary will react to an uninvited guest is…unpleasant. You steel yourself and knock.

“Mhin, it’s Y/N. Kuras sent me.” You wait for a minute before knocking again. You step back as the door creaks open. You can barely make out their face, but what you see isn’t good. It’s gaunt and their eyes seem even more flat and lifeless.

“Bring it in then leave.”

Whatever quip you had ready dies on your tongue. They clearly aren’t well. You nod and enter.

“Is the table fine?” You turn and see them hunched over. “Mhin, what’s wrong?” You move to their side but they push you away.

“Get back. Don’t…don’t come near me.” They collapse to the floor.

You curse Kuras. “Fuck me. Mhin, hold on.” You dive for the kit you had abandoned and start digging through it. There’s a vial marked “pain relief” and you rush back to the hunter’s side.

“Here, drink.” You lift them into your lap, but they fight.

“Mhin, hold still.”

“G—go. Before I hurt—”

Your back hits the table knocking the breath from you. You scramble to your knees as a piercing wail fills the room. You blink the stars from your vision and gasp. This is why Kuras sent you?

What used to be Mhin shakes itself and stands. A crow? A raven? Whatever it is, it stands heads taller than you with wings that span the width of the room and human-like limbs with talons longer than knives. Before you can move, you’re knocked back and pinned against a wall. You’re surrounded by large feathers that gleam in the lowlight.

“Mhinnie?” Your voice breaks.

Crazed eyes blink at you. A razor sharp beak is a few inches from slicing clean through your skull. Through the fear you feel heartache. Is this why Mhin came to Eridia? Why they also sought entrance to the Senobium?

“Ah, Mhinnie.” Even if you could unwrap the bandages, do you want to add another curse?

If you’re going to be devoured, then Mhin should know you weren’t mad in your final moments. They’ll feel guilty enough anyway.

“It’s okay.”

You close your eyes and wait for pain, but Mhin gently nudges you instead. They even angle their beak to avoid cutting you.

“Huh?”

Their eyes are calmer now, almost aware. Still not them, but the air of danger has passed.

They settle against you and you carefully reach a hand into the feathers. You stroke them. “Aw, who’s a cutie?”

They give some kind of purr, a low sound you know means they’re comfortable. You squish their face and the sound grows louder. Seems like this form is separate from normal Mhin. You’re tempted to unleash every sappy thought you’ve had about them, but exercise restraint. Not content with your lack of attention, they lean more of their weight on you. You both sink to the floor near the kit. You reach for it, patting reassurance when they chirp.

You dig deeper and find books, blankets, and a bag of sweets? “Kuras, I will murder you.” You bandage your cuts and take out some cookies, giving one to Mhin and another to yourself.

Mhin wraps around acting like a makeshift pillow of sorts. They’re clearly unaware of what they’re doing in this form and the thought of the full face blush they’d have at this makes you smile. “At least you won’t know about the nickname, will you, Mhinnie?” you coo. A wing covers your body like a blanket and you settle in for the night.

#mari’s rambles #fanfic #fic #touchstarved #touchstarved game #mhin touchstarved #touchstarved kuras #touchstarved imagines #touchstarved x reader #imagines #imagine #mhin #mhin x reader

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snow-system-wol · 2 months

Text

There is a cottage on the outskirts of town, that has been occupied for at least a year or two now. It's also been a while since any stories of the fabled Warrior of Light doing any new heroic deeds have circulated. You have no reason to connect these unrelated facts.

(Maybe ~5+ years after 7.0, no DT spoilers)

Ao3 (~1.7k)

There is a small cottage, just a short foray out of town. You have made the walk before, and surely will again – though you'd hate to ask for too much, as much as he insists it is fine. Even if you wouldn't rush him, the thought of his workload getting too piled up saddens you.

Wait, you are getting ahead of yourself.

There is a small cottage, just a short foray out of town. Two miqo'te men have lived there for a couple winters now – perhaps in their 3rd decade of life, if you had to guess at age. One of them – G'raha – is a clever fellow, often ordering books to be delivered from all corners of the world and into the hands of their local couriers. If describing him to an out-of-towner, you'd likely simply say he's a bit short, red hair down to his shoulders, and visibly besotted with his husband.

Husband? Others have claimed to have seen rings, but you didn't personally look last time you saw either of them. It seems acceptable enough to assume for now, privately.

G'raha's husband is… more of an enigma. He is tall for a miqo'te, pink hair cropped at his jaw, and at times seems to struggle with walking. You've seen him use a cane the uncommon times he comes into town himself. While there is something a bit haunted about G'raha and you couldn't say anything confidently, you are entirely certain that his husband is a veteran of some sort – even with his injuries, he still carries himself like a fighter. Most mysteriously, he introduces himself as Edelweiss, with a knowing smile that says ‘yes, we both know it is a pseudonym’.

None of that is important to your town, though. Edel – as the kids started calling him, and it stuck as a nickname – and G'raha are kind. G'raha always makes friendly chatter and keeps up with people's lives whenever he is in town for groceries and supplies. Their cottage is always open to the injured when they cannot seek other care – allegedly it does not matter which you find at home, as they both seem to be trained healers, interestingly enough.

Most notably is Edel’s established services. He keeps a little box on his porch, where you can leave written requests for crafts or repairs – or G'raha can take verbal messages back to him, if you cannot write. He doesn't like to accept gil, but can be more easily convinced to take non-monetary payment (which almost everyone endeavors to do.)

While you could not say what past Edelweiss may be keeping secret, you could say your town would likely fight for him if it ever caught up with him.

You turn off the main road, onto a smaller path leading to their home. It's pleasantly shaded on the trail, with the whole area wooded, and their cottage is soon in sight. You let yourself into their front yard, taking a moment to look at their garden. Edel seemed to enjoy gardening when he was not working though crafting requests – and you are happy to see several new varieties of flowers and fruits since your last visit, several of which matched the seeds you had gifted him for his help.

You hope G'raha also helps him maintain it, with Edel being disabled. Between that and the crafting, surely it must be a bit much?

You carefully adjust your hands long enough to knock on their door – wouldn't do to drop anything. You hear a distant call of acknowledgement, and then G'raha is opening the door and greeting you with a smile. His eyes flick down in surprise at the basket you carry and you laugh nervously.

“I brought some pastries for you two. I hope that it is to your liking?”

“Of course – please, come in. I shall put tea on. If you would like, we would be glad for you to partake in your pastries as well.”

You enter their home, something you had not done any time before. It is very cozy and pleasant inside – there are some comfortable-looking couches, a small table with a few chairs, and several bookshelves. Based on what you have heard about deliveries, there are surely far more books downstairs as well.

Upon seeing you, Edel’s ears perk up and he gets off the couch with a heavy wince – heading for a doorway until G'raha shoots him a look, at which point he sighs and sits at the table instead. G'raha goes through that door instead and you can hear the thumps of him descending the stairs, into the mysterious realm of what must be their working and sleeping spaces.

That leaves you sitting at their kitchen table, alone with Edel, and not quite sure what to say or where to look. You at least take the moment to observe his face a bit closer in little glances, noting his pale green eyes and scattered scars and faint hint of sunburn on his cheeks. (Would he like a hat, when gardening? Would that be helpful? Perhaps you would suggest that to anyone next looking to barter with him.)

You try not to look at his neck, once you realize the severity of the scarring on his throat. He snorts and gives you a wry smile, and you know immediately that you were not quite subtle – but also that, for a blessing, he doesn't seem to be mad.

“I don't care much if you look. Just don't ask.”

You nod with a polite smile. There are many things you'd like to ask the two of them, friendly questions about where they are from, but that would simply not do in this case. Instead, you settle on something far safer.

“Is work going well for you? I hope you are not overburdened.”

He laughs, looking properly happy in a way puts you at ease.

“No, it's excellent. I'm still learning some skills, and the random requests mean I need to try new things. It's nice.”

“Have you.. not been a craftsman for long?”

He shakes his head. “No, I only started a little while before moving here.”

Immediately, your eyebrows raise. He really is an enigma. “Well, I certainly would not have known that, based on your skill. You must learn fast.”

He looks pleased, but his ears have also started flicking nervously, so you decide against layering any more of your impressed praise. Really though, if you didn't know better, you'd have guessed he'd been at this for at least a decade.

You glance down at his hands, several small scars visible that surely came about from the learning process. Your eyes land on his left hand in particular, and you speak before you can quite help yourself.

“May I ask a question?”

Edelweiss stiffens immediately and you feel guilty for what he may fear you'd ask. “You…may. No answers promised.”

Your eyes focus on the ring again. “Are you and G'raha wed?”

He relaxes with a soft laugh. “Oh, that was all? Yes, though I guess it took us long enough to get ‘round to it.” He smiled, something so warm that it made your own heart feel at peace.

“How did you two meet – ah, nevermind, I suppose.”

His smile turned a touch sad. “I fear that's a harder question to answer without talking about myself, yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

He shook his head. “You didn't mean any harm.”

It is quiet for a long moment.

Any potential awkwardness is diffused by G'raha's return. He puts a small fabric pouch on the table in front of you, and you hear a gentle clink from within.

“This, I believe, should be yours.”

You are suddenly nervous as you lift the bag, picking the tie open so slowly that G'raha places a cup of tea in front of you before you even finish. You pour it out into your palm and – oh.

You will not cry, not in front of these two in their nice little cottage, but… you never thought you'd see this necklace put back to the way you remembered it, and here it is, perfect. You suddenly wish you'd brought something more than just baked goods, even if Edel seemed disinclined to accept much.

“I – thank you. Thank you.”

You manage to keep it to mere tearing up, easy enough to blink away, but your fingers feel clumsy trying to open the clasp on your mother’s necklace.

Edel quietly clears his throat. “Would you like…?”

“Yes, please.”

He carefully stands up from his side of the table, moving around behind you. Some have said that watching Edel makes them feel a bit nervous sometimes, the tells of a trained killer, they say. You can't agree – you feel quite safe even with him fully behind you. You stay very still as he fastens the necklace, with his fingers not even so much as touching your skin.

You realize that you'd like to know him better, to maybe even be friends, but you don't know if that could fully be possible. Perhaps if he was interested in taking on an apprentice? You'd like that very much, you think.

…Another day you may ask, when you are feeling braver and not quite so emotional.

Edel steps away and you quickly take a sip of tea, the urge to cry passing easily with the warm drink in your hands.

“S-so, how fares the garden? It looks lovely.”

G'raha swallows the mouthful of pastry he'd been eating while you two were busy, brushing crumbs off of his face. “It is lovely – with thanks to your recent gift. They seem to have taken to growing here quite well, and we are always happy to see more flowers bloom and have more fresh food in our kitchen.”

You cannot help the excited smile on your face, the quick rambles spilling from your lips. “I – I can bring more seeds. Next time I visit. I can help with taking care of the garden, too, if you need anything.”

Both of them are looking at you in a way that you'd like to interpret as fond, but it is Edelweiss that speaks first.

“You're welcome here whenever you want.”

#snow-system #ffxiv-reactions #s'ria 🌸❄️#writings #here have some snowgraha retirement headcanons!#S'ria only has maybe half a decade of adventuring with his disabilities before he and G'raha would settle down #he likes his anonymity at home #the PoV char is most likely someone is their late teens or very early adulthood as far as vibes here

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makeyoumine69 · 2 years

Text

Take me Back to the Start

◥ PAIRING: Sugar Daddy!Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

◥ SUMMARY: You couldn't imagine that just one random meeting can change your life forever.

◥ WARNINGS: Swearing, Patrick being a dick, super toxic behavior.

◥ WORDCOUNT: 2k

◥ A/N: Finally, I wrote some backstory about how Cupcake and Patrick met; I hope you like the whole idea of story-driven fics!

◥ SONG REC: Pastel Ghost - Dark Beach😈

◥ LINKS: [Sweet like a Cupcake Masterlist] [Main Masterlist]

Another busy day at Pierce & Pierce turned into a full mess, as you didn’t know how to handle all the things you had to do, starting with some shitty paperwork and ending with a lot of calculations for the upcoming monthly report. Being an accountant in a company like that was hella tough, but you never used to complain because you loved your job, anyway.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), do you hear me?” Your colleague called you several more times before you finally glanced at her as you were sitting at your desk, which was littered with different documents.

“Yeah, what happened?” You grumbled, rubbing your tired eyes as if it could freshen you up a bit.

“Need your help, I know you are busy, but...”

Sighing, you put your pencil on the table, taking a sip of the awful coffee you never liked. “Surprise me, what problems do we have this time?”

“Ah,come on!” she waved away, but her face turned red. “It’s nothing crucial, just some courier stuff…”

“What stuff?”

With a dull thud, your colleague placed a thick folder on your desk, with some papers inside—it looked like something really important. “(Y/N), please, save me! I need to finish my report today or our old witch of a manager will tear me apart!”

Crossing your arms on your chest, you gave her a judging gaze, shaking your head and lamenting: “Did I tell you that your habit of procrastinating will end up badly?”

“I know… I just had a date yesterday and…”

Frowning, you stopped her with a hand. “Heard this story already! Better tell me who our courier is and when will he come?”

“Gosh, (Y/N)! You’re the best,” she nearly jumped in place before she rushed towards your desk once again and took a seat on the wooden surface of it. “I don’t really remember the name of the courier service, but I remember the courier will arrive in about… Agh-an hour and a half!”

“Okay, okay,” nodding your head, you grabbed a folder and pulled it closer to inspect it a bit. “To whom are we sending these docs? I can’t see the recipient's address…”

“Oh shit, I probably forgot to fill it in!”

“Great….” You were about to facepalm when an unexpected knock at the door got your attention.

A slightly familiar face showed up in your office, but you couldn’t remember who exactly the old woman was and your colleague seemed to be quite confused too.

“Sorry, ladies for disturbing you, but I got a call from the receptionist. It said some courier was waiting for his package.”

Now, you were furious. “But you said an hour and a half!”

“Sorry, sorry! I probably mixed something up… Wait! I have a card which belongs to the one guy from that company,” she quickly gave it to you, looking very embarrassed. “There should be an address!”

“You better hope it’s correct,” you stood up from your armchair, taking the folder with you as you were in a nervous rush, and you hated situations like that. “And when I come back, I don’t want to know how you got this card, okay?”

Scowling, you excused yourself to the old lady in the doorways as you moved past her, sensing yourself on the verge of annoyance.

The hall was very crowded at this time of the day, nothing new actually, but the long waiting for a goddamn elevator irritated you, especially now, when you needed to be as swift as you could cause you didn’t like to be late, ignoring the fact that this whole situation was already fucked up not your fault.

Looking around you were searching for the courier when you noticed a handsome guy standing near the reception desk. Still anxious, you strolled across the hall toward that man, hoping your intuition won’t fail you.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, tapping his shoulder. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Good afternoon! What a busy day!” he exclaimed, swinging his hands in the air. “Uh, I’m here to pick up some docs from a lady whose name is…”

“Cindy Harrington?” The guy looked at the small piece of paper before replying: “Yes! That’s right.”

“Well, I’m not her but I brought you the stuff you need.” Smiling, you gave him the folder, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank you so much! I thought I was gonna be here forever.”

“Erm, sorry for the delay!”

“It's not a big deal, have a nice day!” He grinned in response before turning around and walking away.

Pleased with yourself, you were watching him going through the crowd of people when you remembered you didn’t write the recipient's address and didn’t even hand him a business card, which Cindy gave you before you left your office. Damn, how could you forget?!

Breathing heavily, you broke out of the place to chase the courier, yelling: “Sir, wait!”

You could barely see his back in the endless flow of people, but you didn’t give up, almost running across the hall, fumbling with the business card in your hand.

“Sir!”

You shouted again and again, seeing nothing but his departing figure, feeling adrenaline rushing in your veins. The guy was so close and so far away but once you thought you almost got him; you felt a strong hit right against your body as it seemed like you bumped into someone, someone very solid.

The clash was so sudden; you let the business card fall on the floor and almost right away some yuppies stepped on it without even noticing. Once you got down to grab it, you spotted a pair of patent leather shoes. Swallowing hard, you raised your eyes to see a tall, good-looking man, whose facial expression caused your heart to skip a beat.

“Are you blind?” He yelled at you, taking off his headphones angrily.

“I’m sorry, sir...” You conceded, standing up and noticing how tiny you were compared to him.

“You are just sorry? Look at that!” he pointed at his shoes, with a cigar in his hand. “I bought them only yesterday! Do you even know how much they cost?”

“Sir, I’m really sorry!”

“Do you really think ya sorry is fuckin’ enough?” He blurted out, making everyone around look at you.

It was so frustrating; you even closed your eyes for a moment as you didn’t really know how to react in this situation.

“You are not only blind but deaf too?”

“Sir, I already apologised to you!” you suddenly sneered in a stern voice. “I’m sorry, but right now I don’t have a shoe brush to solve this problem!”

He seemed to be shocked, as he looked at you in disbelief before shouting in a furious voice: “You fuck…”

“Bateman!”

Shaking slightly, you flinched and glanced to the side to see a dark-haired yuppie who patted your offender’s shoulder; that was the best moment for you to run away from here, disappearing into the crowd of people.

“Hey, we aren’t finished!” Patrick screamed at your back, pushing Timothy Bryce from his way.

“What’s wrong?” Bryce asked, giving him a questionable look. “Did that chick reject you?”

“W-what?” Bateman almost choked from indignation, brushing off Timothy’s hands from his shoulders. “Did you even see her? She’s ugly as hell!”

“Yeap, definitely not your type,” he clicked his tongue before lighting a cigarette. “But seriously, what happened? I could hear you shouting from outside.”

“That bitch stepped on my shoes,” Patrick looked down at them, biting his lower lip, frowning with displeasure. “And this is the first time I’ve worn them!”

Bryce rolled his eyes, theatrically wiping away a tear. “What a tragedy, Bateman. Are you gonna fire her for that?”

Humming to himself, Patrick glanced at the place you were standing some moments ago, his mind was busy thinking about a plan… Cause, if he just fired you, that would be too easy…

“Bateman, are you here?” Timothy snapped his fingers in front of Patrick’s face.

“I have… I have a better idea. Let's go, gentlemen are waiting for us in the meeting room.” Patrick uttered, his devilish smile glowed on his face, as he moved forward, leaving Bryce completely confused.

Huffing, you nearly broke into your office and leaned against the door with your eyes firmly closed.

“(Y/N), what’s wrong?” Cindy worried, leaving her desk. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I saw worse...” You snorted, fixing your slightly messy hair.

Now, your colleague was looking as scared as you, nervously twirling a pen with her fingers. “Maybe you want some coffee?” she watched you walking back and forth around the office. “Something bad happened with docs? You didn’t make it?”

Her quiet but demanding voice brought you back to the Earth as you breathed deeply, pulling yourself together. “No, everything went fine.”

You confused Cindy, so she got closer to your table, picking up the spoiled business card you just laid on. “Is this why you look so sad?”

“I bumped into one of the Vice Presidents and it seemed like I stained his super expensive shoes!” You said quickly, and you even had to catch the air after your words, feeling your head pulsating from massive stress.

“Wow! Do you know his name?” She sounded strangely excited.

“Whose name?” You sat at your desk, leaning on your elbows as you were massaging your temples.

“Vice President you bumped into, of course! Who was that?”

“His last name is Bateman if I’m not mistaken…” You almost fell from your armchair from how she screamed at your words.

“No way!” Cindy pressed both hands to her forehead like she was about to lose consciousness. “Oh my God! He’s…He’s so hot!”

Your half-opened mouth literally froze in shock as you couldn't believe what you just heard.

“Damn, (Y/N)! I wish I were in your place!” She murmured as if she was dreaming about it right now.

“Are you kidding me?” you crossed your arms, scowling just from one thought about him. “He’s an arrogant bastard! Who knows nothing about good manners!” you nearly spitted out your words, hitting your little fist against the wooden surface of your table. “And now, my destiny is in his hands–will he fire me or not? How pathetic…”

“What are you talking about!” she rolled her eyes, wailing as if she was your teacher: “Mr. Bateman is a very kind man! I heard a lot about him, he’s the boy next door! How can he fire you? Besides, he has a weak spot for cute girls…”

“Jesus…How in the hell did you know about all of these stupid yarns?” you grabbed your head in order to close your ears. “Wait! Don’t tell me! I don’t want to hear anything about this ‘boy next door’, you understand?”

Cindy let out a small giggle, looking at you suspiciously before asking some more questions, which pissed you off completely: “You like him, don’t you? I bet he’s so handsome…How does it feel to stand beside him? Ohhhh… Which girls do you think he likes the most?”

Sighing helplessly, you gave her a killing gaze, cutting her off with a stern statement: “Why don’t you go there and ask him yourself about all this bullshit you want to know about him?!”

Thank God, your phone rang–never in your life have you felt happier getting a phone call than now.

Confidently, you picked up the phone. “I'm listening...”

“Hi, (Y/N)!” your boss's slightly grumpy voice echoed in your ear. “My colleagues told me you had a conflict with Mr. Bateman in the hall today. I just wanna know if you resolved that situation. Everyone in our company must appreciate their superiors!...”

You made a loud gasp, not really paying attention to your boss's instructions anymore as your mind was occupied by the only one thought, which would bother you for a long time–how had this bastard managed to bring you so many problems so quickly all of which you had never had during all the time you’ve worked here?

#american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x you #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale x reader

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everybodyknows-everybodydies · 10 months

Text

“Well,” says the woman at the foot of the bridge, sheepishly swiping a windblown lock of dark hair out of her mouth and tucking her hands into her sleeves, “I was told you have a library.”

Faralda’s expression does not change. “Many educational institutions do, yes.”

“Some of the collection dating back to the Second Era?” A nervous, crooked little smile. “Middle Third is the earliest I’ve handled. But—er—your archivist said—”

“You’ve spoken with Urag?”

“Yes!” She goes to dig through the bag over her shoulder, a flash of some delicate floral design sewn carefully into the inner lining. It matches the pattern twined around the ends of her sleeves. “Or, well, written. Letters.” The stranger offers a neatly folded sheet of familiar letterhead.

Faralda takes it. No doubt on closer inspection: it’s Urag’s distinctive, sparse handwriting. Halfway down the page—gentler on finer leather detailing. If you’re ever in the area (ha!) stop by and take a look, but the effect should be the same on a darker dye.

Then, on a fresh line: Tell Laghra the new frames are nice.

She folds it back. The woman gives her a wider smile, hopefully swaying back onto her heels and then forward onto her toes again, unbalanced. “I brought my own glue. Just in case, I mean. Not water-based, so I didn’t think I’d have as much trouble maintaining efficacy, but the first time it got dark coming up this way I did lose one of the littlest jars—is it always so cold at night or just this time of year?”

“Always, I’m afraid.” Glue. Not quite what she had been expecting to hear. “And what is it you do, exactly?”

“Oh, you know, this and that,” she takes half a dizzy step to the side (more stagger than step, really); “tried a matchmaking service for chickens, but that’s not much of a living. Hard to, uh, make hens meet.”

Something twitches across Faralda’s face and evulses an ungraceful sound out her nose before she can stop it. She flattens her mouth into a straight line.

The wind, suddenly, seems very loud.

“…no, you’re right,” the woman scratches awkwardly at her cheek with a pained grimace, “that one wasn’t ready yet I think. I’m—I do book repair and conservation. Down at sea level, mostly; do you mind if we sit somewhere?”

---

“I think Urag’s new assistant had more glue with her than she did food,” Mirabelle says, holding up a form and squinting at the looping penmanship.

“Perhaps it’s edible in a pinch.”

Amusement tugs at the corners of her mouth as she flips to the next page, eyes flicking up to meet hers for just a moment. An ink stain on the knuckle of her ring finger, half-faded, matches one on her other thumb, as though she’s been idly rubbing at it. “…her closest emergency contact is on the other side of the Druadachs. Remind me to check rush rates for couriers that way, would you?”

As though she’ll forget to do so herself. Unlikely. “Do you really keep track of those?” Faralda raises a brow from the other side of the desk, hands clasped behind her back.

“Of course. Yours is not especially nearby, either, you know,” she shuffles the forms and then taps the edge of the stack on the desk to straighten them, “but I have been meaning to have you update your file—”

“There’s nothing to update.”

“Hmm.” A lesser woman might be swayed into unnecessary protest by the well-practiced look of patient skepticism Mirabelle gives her. The stray dark lash on her cheek undercuts the overall effect, just a bit.

She holds her gaze, unswayed.

“You’ll still have to sign it again.” Mirabelle stands, going to add the new file to the drawer. “You spoke on the way in, yes? What did you make of her?”

“An interesting background.”

“Oh?” She turns expectantly.

Faralda, straight-faced, says, “You should ask about her chickens.”

#writing tag #Kharish gra-Shatul #how long does it take her to make someone laugh: part one (<- don't take this too seriously lol)#(would you believe I've been sitting on this one for a bit mostly bc I can't find anything solidly delineating #where the mountain range changes names. laying out maps on top of each other like 🔍)#anyway. speech level not 100 but Humor Is Often In Short Supply Here :')#flings some silliness into your yard and cycles away to go to bed!

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neonlinelogist · 2 years

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Legal document delivery service

At Neonline Logistics, we have a dedicated team of highly trained and experienced drivers who are ready to deliver any package of any size at any time to its customers. So if you are looking for reliable and safe legal document delivery services, you can trust us. We are just a call away!

#legal document delivery services #same day delivery courier service #rush express delivery #healthcare courier services

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talesofthedm · 1 year

Text

Shopping Trip (Pt. 1)

I want to write that one ballroom scene we never got because it's on my mind and that starts with a shopping trip, because we need fancy outfits before pissing off Gortash at his own event.

Not finished (hence part 1)

Contains spoilers for Act 3, and some references to Act 1 and 2

No i have not proofread this (or edited it)

Summary: Figaro the facemaker has had a very eventful past five minutes and he does not handle it well.

Word count: 1.6k (its short)

CW: Blood. Much blood. No combat, but it's the aftermath of one. Mentions of murder, cults, Astarion being a flirt for like 1 line.

Excerpt:

“No, that— just let me.” Astarion slung off his pack. “Gale, hold this.” The elf began rummaging through it, shoving bits and bobs in the wizard’s direction before he could even respond. Random blades, a balled-up piece of cloth that was more rag than shirt at this point, a sack of something inexplicably squishy, a severed head— “I think we forgot to deliver Nere.” There was a certain disinterest in Shadowheart’s voice that left Figaro somehow more concerned. “We can just mail him.” He tossed the severed head towards Karlach, taking pity on the poor wizard before the mountain of books and bits and useless knickknacks toppled over onto the floor. “That courier service owes us for getting rid of his cat problem.”

Freya dragged herself up from the floor, a deep gash along her side that certainly cut through deep muscles if not straight to the bone. The fire of her hair was nothing more than a ruddy brown with how much blood was caked through it. She pulled a large purse from her pack and slammed it onto the polished counter, leaving bloody handprints and a dripping trail. “How much for a rush job?”

Under normal circumstances, Figaro would scream at her and her friends for ruining his nice countertops, toss them out onto the street, and threaten to call the guards if they ever stepped foot in his shop again.

The twisted bodies lying on his polished hardwood floors reminded him that these were not, in fact, normal circumstances. He was trying not to stare at them, their bat-like faces and needle-like fangs lying beside the now charred corpse of a dwarf. If he hadn’t sipped the wine himself, if he hadn’t been forced to watch helplessly as the red dwarf unfurled his supply of saws and scalpels, if he hadn’t watched as the elf in front threw her body between Figaro and his would-be murderer with his own eyes, he would have never recognized the body as anything but an over-the-top decoration meant to scare children.

His extremities were still cold, buzzing in that sort of way it did when he would lean on his hand for too long while drawing new designs. No matter how he shook or massaged them, it would take years to get feeling back in the tips of his fingers.

But the elf woman in front of him only confirmed what he initially thought about her when she have blindly dived between him and the scalpel with her one question: this woman was mad. Completely, utterly, mad. Bleeding out on his floor, surrounded by a pile of bodies. He wasn’t sure what blood was hers or its or his or the dwarf’s or her companion’s.

To be honest, he wasn’t even sure if he still had a shopfront. What wasn’t burned to cinders was frozen solid, what wasn’t frozen solid was water and blood-logged, what wasn’t water and blood-logged was charred beyond repair. They were all mad, slinging spells left right and center as if this was some kind of fighting pit and not his entire livelihood.

What was strangest to him, though, was the woman kneeling in prayer. It was natural, he supposed, to try to find solace after such a harrowing event. But she wore armor the same as the rest of them, she brandished weapons more fearsome than that of the giant red tiefling beside her. She had flung around one of the changelings between her and her green companion with no more effort than one would play ping-pong! What could she be praying for?!

And then came the wash of light that emanated from her, cool and soothing both in color and feel. There was nothing on him to physically heal, but he watched as Freya stood straighter, her side stitching itself together as if nothing was ever wrong in the first place.

Astarion wiped his blades on the sides of hid armor, the bright red of the cloth doing absolutely nothing to hide it. He stepped over to Freya, taking her chin in his hand and pulling her to him before licking the layers of blood from her cheek. “You need a bath,” he responded to the non-question. She wasn’t even phased, accepting it with no more attention that an owner would give a pet.

They were all mad.

Freya reached up and removed a glove so she could tap the counter with the edge of her nail, directing the tailor back to the coin pouch. “Tonight. Archduke’s celebratory-coronation-whatever-it-is ball. How much?” He must have been paralyzed again. Yes, that was it. Someone had shoved a bottle of paralytic in his mouth and he couldn’t remember it. Why else would he be standing there, mouth gaping as pathetically as a caught fish. She reached up and closed it for him.

“I think we broke him,” Wyll whispered.

The simple statement was enough to snap him out of it, however. “There’s seven of you!” They all looked around, as if counting to confirm the statement, before nodding as if he was the fool. “You’re all insane!”

Freya’s response was to place another equally fat pouch beside the first. Figaro stared, dumbstruck. “I—I’ll see what I have on hand that can be fitted… Do you all know your measurements?” They all just stared blankly. Even Wyll, who had had almost monthly trips to this very shop as a youth, no longer knew the answer. Between his years banished and how unfamiliar his new body was, it was a mystery to him.

“Seriously?” Astarion threw his head back, groaning. “How do you all not know something so basic?!”

“I am one and a half blade’s long.”

“That’s not a measurement!”

“It is among the Gith. I can also provide it in arrows, if that is any easier.”

“I think we forgot to deliver Nere.” There was a certain disinterest in Shadowheart’s voice that left Figaro somehow more concerned.

“We can just mail him.” He tossed the severed head towards Karlach, taking pity on the poor wizard before the mountain of books and bits and useless knickknacks toppled over onto the floor. “That courier service owes us for getting rid of his cat problem.”

“Tressym. And her name is Tara!”

“She is cute, has a general air about her that says ‘I’m better than you’, and eats pigeons. That’s a cat.”

“So, you’re a cat?” Freya poked.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, dear, but we have more pressing matters at hand— hold this.” Astarion pulled a rather strange dagger from his pack, the blade like blown sea glass and the unmistakable iconography of Baahl expertly crafted into the ferrule. He placed it directly into Gale’s open hand.

“Is that the dagger? I told you I wasn’t touching the damn murder weapon!”

“I would never make sure your fingerprints are all over a weapon used to kill one of the most beloved priests in the city.” Next came out of the bag were the torn-up letters, the strands of delicate strands of beads, and the shining rings. A single one of them could buy out Figaro’s entire shop—no wonder the woman had thrown down bags of coin like nothing.

Finally, the white-haired elf gave a silent cheer. “Gale, buddy, put that stuff away for me, will you?” He stacked the now empty pack atop the giant pile in Gale’s arms and reached over the counter and handed a folded-up piece of paper to Figaro. “You’re going to want to double check the breast—”

“Why in the nine hells do you have everyone’s measurements?!” Wyll yelled.

“What do you mean breast?!” Shadowheart yelled at the same time.

“I’m not sure if I should be impressed or holding you at knifepoint,” Lae’zel added.

Astarion threw up his hands in defense. “We were in the Shadowlands, you all sleep like rocks, there was nothing to hunt, and I was bored. What did you expect me to do?”

“Read a book!” Wyll called to the heavens. “Like a normal person!”

“Not touch me in my sleep?!”

“You saw my collection,” Astarion waved to the now shrinking pile of books in Gale’s hands, each one meticulously being stowed away with the ghostly blue mage hand he had summoned. “I finished those in, like, one night. And I would never do that!”

“Without permission,” Freya added.

“Without permission!” he agreed. “Plus, it makes it easier to patch everyone’s clothes if I know what it is I am supposed to be patching.”

Figaro continued to stand, watching the odd collection of people bicker over something he considered so mundane. His sister (the golden child) was a tailor, his father (the bastard) was a tailor, and he (the rightful heir) was a tailor. He'd guess inseams and shoulder width at a glance when he was bored, and he assumed the elf in front of him could do the same.

“So, what, you were just randomly guessing at the size of my thighs while we were killing Myrkul?”

Figaro waved in their general direction, the last of his sanity snapping at the way it was said so bluntly, before pointing at each one individually. You’re all insane! You’re insane,” Freya. “You’re insane,” Karlach. “You’re insane,” Gale. “You’re especially insane—”

“I’m a vampire.” Astarion smiled, flashing the poor tailor his blood-stained fangs in the process. Figaro crumpled under his own weight, eyes rolling back in his head as he hit the ground with a thunk.

“Now look what you did,” Shadowheart scolded. “Now we have to wait.”

“We could always try his sister.”

“You,” she jabbed a finger in his chest. “Nearly tried to kill a man in there. I doubt she’d want us anywhere near that place again.”

“He was annoying me! It is not my fault Freya kept talking to him!”

“He was funny,” Freya retorted. “Mostly because he annoyed you.” Astarion just stood, pointing at Freya like a child placing blame.

“Annoying someone is not a reason to try to stab them.”

“Then what the hell have we been doing for the past month?!”

“I agree with the elf. That man would have been killed day one of training for simply speaking.”

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #balders gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion #astarion x tav #karlach #shadowheart #lae'zel #bg3 gale #wyll ravengard #at some point there will be fluff #rn its just banter

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