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astoryisaloveaffair · 2 days

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Fix You - Chapter 16 - Genesis

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader

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Read on A03

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Chapter Summary: 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 4K

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: cussing, graphic violence, mentions of sex. I'm not giving more warnings than that, sorry.

A/N: Hey all. First I want to say I'm sorry. I literally had no time or motivation to write this. I'm gonna be honest, this is a really tough chapter, and it was hard to get in this headspace. Suffering a recent heartbreak, things in this chapter are things I have thought also, and so it was really hard for me to voluntarily want to address that. I also started working in veterinary medicine, i do not have the spare time that I used to. We also recently adopted a puppy who we named Bucky! And if you read my earlier posts, you know that I was SA'd last January. All that to say, sorry I couldn't do this faster.

Also want to wish a happy birthday to @musings-of-a-rose, my beloved, my bestie, and my constant support. This is for you. Sorry it's not a happier chapter....

* If a character is speaking fully in Spanish, I will put “[ ]” around the dialogue. I speak pretty decent Spanish but not good enough for this

Suggested Songs: "Exile" Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver, "I Love You" Billie Eilish, "Vampire" and "Logical" by Olivia Rodrigo, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron and Phoebe Bridgers, "Genesis" by Grimes

You didn’t even flinch at the landing, which was rough, so that’s saying a lot. When the janky cargo door (which looked like at any time during the flight would be ripped right off) opens, you barely even lift your eyes from the floor. You felt heavy and hollow, somewhere suspended in between shock and just not giving a fuck anymore. The only thing you could still fell was the pinching in your heart. It was still broken.

At some point during the journey, the co-pilot had taken pity on you and untied your arms from behind your back and bound them in front of you instead. You hadn’t struggled. There was no point. Where would you go? Jump in the ocean? You weren’t that great of a swimmer and you loved sharks and everything but the open ocean is not where you are supposed to be.

You have no sense of space and time, so you have no actual clue where you are other than not the mainland. You’re dehydrated as fuck, groggy, your vision’s blurry and you’d figured out the sticky moisture on your face was your own blood.

Because when you had suddenly blacked out it was because they’d hit you, and had absolutely no hesitation doing so. They did not care about you, they did not see you as a human being, they didn’t even bother strapping you into a seat so you had been sliding around the cargo bay the entire flight, bumping into everything. You were in deep danger, any hope that you would have some ransom protection had pretty much disintegrated. You had hoped that the boys wouldn’t come for you at first. Then you had hoped that they would, because if you’re ransom, even if at the very least you’d be alive until then, right? But “alive” doesn’t mean unharmed.

A shadow looms over you and it finally makes you look up, squinting to adjust your eyes to something so close, as well as the brightness of the sun. It feels like it takes you 10 whole minutes to process that you were being spoken to in English.

“Eh!” The man leaning over you snips, and when you simply blink in confusion and don’t answer, he slaps you lightly on both cheeks. You’re stunned enough to finally look at him, his oval face, beady eyes and unique sideburns seeming so familiar to you but quite frankly you wouldn’t trust yourself with recognizing even your dad at the moment, so you push that thought aside.

He kneels down in front of you. “You listen to me. We don’t want you. We want the money. This means if you don’t fucking piss me off, I might be nice and not kill you, you understand? Be a smart little girl, eh?.”

You nod, you probably should be feeling some sort of panic setting in but you don’t. Whatever. Who even cares anymore.

He takes your silence as submission. “Bueno.” He whispers, leaning down and grabbing you by the arm, lifting you until you are back on your feet. He tilts his head and steps to the side, revealing 5 additional men with AKs pointed straight at you. From behind, you feel the sharp tip of another poking your back, urging you forward and down the precarious ramp. The pilots.

You didn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt you, but you knew you had no other choice. Trying to fight was asking for it, and once you step out of the hold and realize you were in the fucking jungle, there would be no sensical place to go even if you did get away.

You step out of the plane onto a rickety steel ramp that bounces as the footpad of your sandals touches it and shuffle slowly down it. You feel suffocated sandwiched between four men, your hands chafe where they are tied and you have been in the same positions for so long your whole body is sore. Every touch and movement hurt.

You stumble as the ramp ends but one of the men grabs your arm and yanks you so you don’t fall. It wasn’t kindness. It was a way to hurt you that he could get away with. The tiny dirt landing strip is almost canopied completely by the jungle trees, leaving large patches here and there where the plane flew through, not noticeable from far above. It looks like you’re walking to nothing, just a dirt road that ends right into the thick middle of the jungle, but you don’t stop at the edge. You push through.

It’s hot as shit and you felt sweat buildup in every crevice of your body, your thighs are rubbing raw from your asinine decision to wear short shorts to the fair, and you could feel a heat rash growing under your tits that you couldn’t even scratch because your hands are bound.

You walk for forever. You walk until the friction rash on your inner thighs turn to lesions. You haven't drank water in almost 48 hours and it feels like 150 degrees out, with full humidity. You’ve had to stop twice already to vomit from heat exhaustion and you still occasionally gag even though there’s nothing in your stomach to come up anymore. All the years that you did not appeal to insects are making up for it now, they’re all over you and you can’t walk 3 steps without one getting in your eye. The jungle gets tighter and you can’t breathe because it’s pushing in on you almost as tight as the hands on your shoulders pushing you forward..

You start crying. At least, that is what you tell yourself as you whimper and sob as quietly as you can. You know you’re strong, but this is just beyond reason that any normal person could take. And when you think about how this is probably what life was all the time in Delta for the boys, you cry even harder because you feel guilty, that you have no right to complain.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the tightness of the jungle seems to loosen. More open. You notice some of the trees look more oddly arranged than others. As you get closer you realize they aren’t trees at all, but tents and dilapidated buildings built into the shadows of the trees. The huge roots and overhanging canopy of the jungle transformed a bustling camp into what looks like a little village. At the entrance, a line of guards in jungle fatigues that were impossible to detect until you got right up to them. You hear someone speak above you, alerting you to a man up in the trees on a platform tucked between the branches. There was another in the tree on the opposite side. He calls to the man with the sideburns, saying something in Spanish you can’t interpret fast enough, but it’s jovial and they laugh, and it makes you feel like you’re going to go mentally insane.

It’s like it’s not even serious to them. And it’s so serious to you.

You are pushed through the camp quickly, but not quick enough that you don’t see the insane amount of cocaine packages piled up in the makeshift buildings, sheds, and tents toward the back. Men were milling about checking them, moving them and glaring at you as you walked past.

You continue past the main camp, crossing over a bustling creek whose bridge was literally just planks of wood, but you noticed there were tire marks across them so you felt at least safe it could handle a car’s weight. Across the creek, an old stonework manor stood. You can tell at one time it must have been glorious, but the white stone-worked walls were dirty and crumbling in many places, the fountains out front had dried crusty palm fronds and dirt in them and looked like they hadn’t sprayed water since the 1980s.

It was still oddly beautiful. You thought about how this house came to be, what it might have looked like when it had been first built. A beautiful Caribbean sea mansion. A jungle that hadn’t closed in on it yet. Fountains spraying and colorful birds resting on the rooftops. But then you realize that this place has probably always been used for what it is now. Someone like Carl Lehder probably lived here and ran an entire cartel within this very jungle. Maybe it was the same one, just run by someone else.

There was a shabbily made shack to the left of the manor with padlocks, piles of debris piled next to the door. You assume that’s where you would be taken, but you were instead led up the stairs to the manor proper. And as your eyes focus in on the ground while you were being guided to the mansion instead, you realize the heap of matter by the shack that you thought was some dying plantation was actually a crumpled human body. A boy looking not much older than 17, shot execution style in the head and left to rot.

Then smell hits you, your knees buckle and you vomit on the stonework stairs, a scream of shock and realization pierces the jungle, making the nearby tropical birds explode from the treetops. When the sicarios pick you up and carry you through the mansion door, you’re still screaming.

Eventually whoever was carrying you became fed up, and simply dropped you at the bottom of the stairs and dragged you up backwards by the armpits instead. You didn’t even feel the step edges hitting the small of your back all the way up, but you would later.

You were tossed stricken and shivering on a disgusting, top-sheeted mattress on the floor in the corner of a room, your feet still bound together and your rope-bound hands looped through a radiator that was long enough only for you to lie down or shuffle over to a bucket for your business. Everything stank and you still had vomit on your chin so you curled up in a ball and slammed your eyes closed, hoping that in time the voices and smells and fear would give way to just simple numbness. You didn’t hear a female voice speaking to you for several seconds.

Your eyes snap open, skin pulled taut from dried unwiped tears,and you jolt upright to look in the direction of the voice. A woman who wasn’t even tied up was propped up against the adjoining wall, and as you take in her condition you could understand why they hadn’t even bothered. She wouldn’t have been able to run.

Her legs look..wrong, splaying at angles that shouldn’t be possible. They look like they could be broken, but you can’t tell for sure because she was wearing jeans that cover up most of her skin. The jeans were ripped in some places and stained with dark blood spots, the color turning brighter wherever her skin shows through the tears in the fabric. She’s missing several fingers on her left hand that had been burnt at the ends to cauterize, and her face was black and blue, swollen and smeared with more blood that seemed to be coming from her scalp somewhere. Her lips are pale and cracking and her eyes are glazed over and barely open. When she speaks, she already sounds like she is dead.

She swallows and winces slightly in pain, then licks her cracked pale lips.“Is…my…her–my brother. Did you see him? Out there?”

Your face scrunches in confusion, which actually hurts a little and you’re not sure from what specifically. Perhaps you look just as bad as the other girl. “Your–I—I don’t understand.”

She’s too exhausted to even be annoyed with you. “My brother. They took him from me days ago. They do not talk to me anymore. They don’t—need me anymore.” A single tear falls down her swollen cheek and you suddenly feel so much connection with this woman and how incredibly fucking strong she is. Her eyes roll over to you, meeting yours for the first time. There are burst blood vessels in them.

“I think that they killed him.”

Your lips part and you utter a shuddering breath as you connect the dots. There’s no point in sugar-coating it. You nod slowly. “I think so. But it’s not…recent.” You look away as her eyes slowly close, the additional tears she was holding back finally spilling over and cascading down her cheeks.

“Bueno.” She says. “Then at least he is not suffering like me.”

You both fall quiet and you look over her again. Her pants aren’t completely done up and her t shirt is ripped at the neckline, exposing a gashed shoulder. Almost like…

You start crying again, and you feel even worse about it this time because you have in front of you a woman who has been through much worse and is somehow NOT crying. You curl tighter into yourself to try and hide.

But she simply asks. “Who are you?”

You swallow, raising your head up off your arms, quickly wiping the access tears off on your sleeve. It’s incredible how adrenaline and fear can sometimes make you the most clear-headed you’ve ever been. Your thoughts are swirling but you knew one thing for damn sure, if they didn’t know your name yet, you weren’t going to say it now.

If I look forward I am lost. Focus on right now. Nothing else. It’s my best chance.

You know enough about trauma that compartmentalizing this moment is your best chance. You can’t think what will happen if you don’t escape, if you aren’t found, if they never come for you. You need to stay focused. You need to keep hope alive. You need to stay coherent, because if a chance pops up, you need to be able to think quickly.

“I’m no one.” You mumble. “Just happened to be dating the wrong person.”

She sniffs and looks away, but it’s muffled because her nose sounds congested. You don’t miss her tone though. “Mmmm. His new one then.”

You blink. “What?”

Her glazed over, discolored eyes snap back to yours. “Pope.” She spits. “Your man. Santia—”

“NO!” You cut her off with a shout, you know there is a guy who is in the area and you still don’t know how much these men do or do not know. “Don’t. Don’t give them names if they don’t already know it.”

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Garcia, or his friends, or anyone else, it’s their fault I am here and it’s their fault my brother is dead and..” She finally, finally starts to cry. “I told him I didn’t want to do it. They said they would let us go if we gave them what they wanted.”

“It was you.” You exhale with a shuddering breath. “They found us cause of you. You told them.” You shake your head, and for some reason you feel betrayed by this woman even though you’ve never met her. “How could you?”

“Because all I care about is my brother, do you understand?! I wish I’d never met him, Garcia, we would have just snuck away and no one would never seen us, but no, instead we listened to him and helped them steal from fucking Lorea, and now they found us and I knew they would, and YES, I gave them EVERYTHING because they said they’d let us go so long as they found you and–”

“Eh!” A voice trails in with a watchman you knew was hanging out somewhere in the hallway beyond. He slips through the doorway, a smaller man you were not expecting from that voice, and leans against the deteriorating door frame. He crosses his arms and his legs and it makes the handgun on his hip jut out prominently from his skinny hips. “No talking to each other.” His voice is silky and the words all slide together so it sounds like ‘no talkintoeeachother.’

You shrink back into the dirty wall behind you as your associate spits a bloody phlegm ball in the man’s direction. “FUCK you!” She snarls, a tirade of cuss words in Spanish flying from her lips.

A loud pop almost bursts your eardrums and your heart and you exclaim in terror as your associate is shot point blank in the head, her back slumping against the wall and her head hitting with a bang, pieces of blood and brain tissue spraying over the back wall with pieces flying in your direction.

The man remains completely motionless with his arms still raised before huffing a laugh to himself, putting the gun back on his hip, and looking at you with the such an unaffected gaze it leaves you feeling dizzy and you scream and scream and scream yourself hoarse, crumpling onto your mattress in a terrified heap, arms over your head, sobbing hysterically.

A gentle but firm palm wraps around your forearm, yanking you back up to a seated position. You look away, but the man’s other hand takes you gently by the jaw and makes you look at him. And just behind him, the woman slumped in a pool of blood and brain matter. You try to wriggle out of his grip but he tightens ever so slightly, and you can’t help but notice how different it is when Frankie would grab you like that versus this man. Frankie held you the same, sometimes harder, but you had trusted his domination and his care of you and because of that, it made it arousing. That same motion with this man has you more scared than you ever have been in your life.

“Bebita.” He coos, thumb lightly caressing your jaw. He wipes at a small speck of blood you don’t know is even there. You can feel yourself shaking and breathing so fast you can see his half waxed back tousled locks that hang past his temples are blowing in its breeze. You can’t answer him. “Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are a dark, almost black chocolate brown, shape mismatched, a scruffy beard and goatee and thin lips. In another world you would find him devastatingly attractive and the fact that you do makes you feel absolutely violated and disgusted with yourself.

“Do not cry.” He continues. “You have no reason to if you behave, si? You be good and you listen and I will keep you safe you understand? Well, at least for now.” He shifts closer to you, you can smell his breath. It smells like orange and cloves. “There are a lot of men here Bebita. I am sure you understand what this means, si? Answer me.”

“Yes.” A final fat tear spills from one of your eyes, and it stings as it mixes with your sweat and the raw skin around your eyes.

He juts his head in the other woman’s direction. “This one, she fight the whole time. I like a easy job. Make my job easy, I make sure you always deal with me. Do not make me call in the other guys, they are not as nice. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He releases your chin and you scoot back quickly as he saunters over to the other woman’s bloody body, grabs it by the arm, and casually drags her as dismissively as possible out the door and out of your sight, leaving a bloody trail behind.

At first you just sit there in a slump staring at the opposite wall,, you don’t know for how long. Probably hours. Maybe days. The man, whose name you figured out from when he spoke to someone else in the hall, is Angel. Sometimes he would sit up and watch you, as if figuring you out, your body and the way you shift and switch positions when you are uncomfortable, what it looked like when you were crying and trying to keep quiet and unnoticed. But most of the time he ignored you. Occasionally others would come into the room and either speak to him or approach you, but upon noticing Angel watching them they would hiss or spit a curse and slink off.

The room reminded you of those old houses from the 70s that had those drafty unfinished basements that were simply concrete floors, painted stucco or white brick. To the sicarios, it served as an overflow area, there was a rotting desk along the side wall with a metal folding chair and piles of scattered papers and random household tools on them. Against the opposite side wall was a pretty nice tv, considering, which was always playing soccer. Angel seemed to make that his home base, his lithe frame sprawled across a grandma-fabric sofa, head resting on one of the puffy arm rests. He binge-smoked cigarettes and his right hand was always stretched over his head resting against his forehead in the direction of to an end table with an massive overflowing porcelain ashtray on it. You didn’t used to mind the smell of cigarettes too much but now it makes you feel sick.

You’re ashamed of how little you actually think about your current situation and like the hopeless romantic idiot you are, mostly all you can think about is Frankie. The things he said–you knew he said mean things when he was mad, or things he didn’t mean, but isn’t there always some truth to things that are said in the heat of the moment? That was enough for you to silently spiral. You thought about every memory you had of him and how it could be viewed through the lens that Frankie just wanted to fuck you. Your self confidence was low enough it was believable, and your mind races through every instance of an older man being in a relationship with someone much younger and how of course it was predatory, and how could you not see it, that you didn’t have anything in common? It’s a tale as old as time. He just wanted to fuck you, he wanted to fuck you and dominate you, his dark desires seducing you into feeling so wanted you can’t believe you thought he loved you and didn’t see right through it.

And his friends, well, they were all in on it weren’t they, because why would they want to hang out with someone like you either? Why would men such as that actually want to be friends with you when you have never experienced half of what they have.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his lying ass, he was a fucking loser addict and you’re pissed at yourself for even considering him. Like how lonely were you?? To choose an old man with a kid who served in an institution that represented everything you hated about this country? To be so easily blinded by pretty words and love bombs to immediately take your clothes off. Because how, if he actually loved you or even like you, could he possibly have lied about something so big?! Or bought you something nice with all that fucking drug money he stole. Not that you’d want it or expected it, but why wouldn’t you want to treat someone you love as much as he claimed to?

How could he sit there and make up what happened to Tom like that, when you were being so coddling and trying to be a caring ear. And Benny…Pope...if they were your friends they should have told you, that’s what real friends do…

But they weren’t your friends. They were never your friends.

And if you went the other way, and considered that it was all true, that he did love you, that they were all your friends, and that he lied to you and threw stones to hurt you and push you away, how was that any better? You couldn't even think about a future not being with him, but obviously he could. He could watch you cry and question him and not even look at you, completely ignore you, then not even think about you again. No texts, no calls. No “I’m sorry, please come back.” Silence.

How could it be so easy for him? How can he just go about his life like you never happened? Why did you still care?

Why did you still want him?

Why did you still love him so so much. Part of you wishes they’d get on with it and just kill you. At least then you wouldn’t have to feel this excruciating pain. You wouldn’t have to see him show up to rescue you because he has to, to have to see his fucking face and every line, crinkle, scar, the bald patch in his beard and the tousled little curls that pop out of his hat…only for him to save you and then leave again, or die and then you have the guilt of killing a man who no longer loved you.

Yea. You think you’d rather die.

You feel like you’re going to throw up again. You’d let him force his cock in your mouth as far as it could go, let him tie you up and fuck you hard enough to leave bruises you had thought of as a badge of honor. You’d let him cum on your face. You’d let him fucking cum inside you! He’d gaslit you so you actually wanted him to tie you up with zip ties—-

Your heart almost stops. You can picture how his face looked exactly when he said it.

Sometimes rope can give over time.

That’s why we always used zip ties.

You look down at your bound hands.

They’re bound with rope.

#fix you fic #triple frontier fanfic #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales x you #frankie catfish morales x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

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shamera · 5 months

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NaNo day 23-25

I LIVE back with hunter au

so the first part felt fun but then I had a really hard time writing and got distracted by rl left and right so if it feels choppy... it is. that's what editing is for, right? that is if i keep most of this, hurhur.

I had an idea for this, I swear I did, but I kept meandering. Finally coming up to the end, though. of the part? of the story? idk, but we're finally coming to the part I imagined when I first started this, even if that image was nebulous in my head.

also scene not complete but my brain is done tonight

One thing that always irritated Fang Duobing about Li Lianhua was just how easy it was to trust the man. No matter how many times Fang Duobing watched him lie or cheat or weasel his way out of things, when it came down to it, Fang Duobing instinctively trusted Li Lianhua.

At first he blamed it on his own inexperience with the world. Growing up ill, he had mostly been homeschooled until he recovered enough to be thrown into an exclusive and extremely rich private school where other children of diplomats and royalty attended, yet Fang Duobing never quite… connected the other children. He was different and intense and he didn’t share the same life goals as them.

Unlike his schoolmates, he hadn’t wanted to inherit companies or marry up or maintain rich connections. Instead, he wanted to be a Hunter, someone who needlessly endanger their lives for little gain. Fang Duobing wanted to fight, wanted to get in the middle of things and get his hands dirty saving others. His frustration grew over the years as he found no one to share or understand his dream, and the last straw had been when his parents arranged his marriage to Princess Qiaoling.

He was meant to inherit his mother’s company and his father’s name, marry the Princess and live a soft, sheltered life where his children would be even more powerful and the Fang and He lineage would be secured, and even more, of royal blood.

When Fang Duobing first ran away from home, he made mistake after mistake that had his aunt hunting closely after him. He learned to pull out his sim card from his phone, learned to dress differently and cover his face in big cities due to surveillance at every corner, and circumnavigate paper money rather than rely entirely on paying via his phone.

(Although he continued to make that last mistake again and again whenever he needed food or money, instead learning how to run faster than his aunt could catch him.)

With his inexperience with people, it just made sense that he kept getting tricked by Li Lianhua.

Or, it would make sense if Fang Duobing ever learned from his mistake.

Yet he didn’t know why, but when Li Lianhua snuck a look at him, Fang Duobing would understand exactly what he meant by the look. They communicated seamlessly in a manner that he wouldn’t notice until much later, when Fang Duobing could review the day and be breathless at how easily they navigated around each other.

It must be, Fang Duobing determined early on, the storybook friendships. That’s how people felt about best friends, right? It was the type of connection seen on tv dramas, and the type of connection that Hunters would develop after years of fighting alongside each other.

That would make sense except for the fact that Li Lianhua very obviously didn’t fight.

He complained about long walks and lost his breath on stairs, and Fang Duobing was always the one doing the heavy lifting and fixing around Lotus Tower. He would have complained about it more if not for the fact that Li Lianhua really did get very sick from time to time, with no prior warning.

And when he got sick, he would spend days in bed in a state that worried Fang Duobing tremendously. He couldn’t understand how the man survived to this point at all without someone to take care of him.

After being caught by his aunt the first time (because! Li Lianhua! Snitched! On him!), Fang Duobing spent months back home seething over the betrayal, constantly trailed by maids, servants, and bodyguards paid to not let him out of their sights. He spent the time spamming Baichuan Court with requests and shoved his application and resume in their faces the entire time, only to be rejected time and again.

It took months of intense studying and online spoofing for Fang Duobing to find a time where he managed to sweet-talk his mother into allowing him to one of her company parties, lying through his teeth about a sudden interest in a corporate career, especially since he was now not a child but in his twenties.

His escape the second time had been so narrow he heard his aunt’s angry screaming while he was still climbing down over the wall of the private retreat, rolling down through the bushes in his suit in glee at finally escaping from the excessive overprotectiveness of his family.

Goodbye, arranged marriage and arranged life and having the names of his nonexistent kids already picked out! He was going to go off and make a name for himself with his own blood, sweat, and tears, and he was going to fulfil his dreams of being a Hunter and fighting monsters and saving people—

And then, somehow, he ran into Li Lianhua again in the first town he escaped to via the first long-distance bus he could find that didn’t require his identification for a ticket.

He would have left, he really would have. He would have just turned around and made his way to the next town without acknowledging him at all, except Li Lianhua had been pale like he was still recovering from a recent bout of illness, and there was a girl standing with him that Fang Duobing recognised from a previous case together, and what was she doing there as well?

Apparently in Fang Duobing’s absence, Su Xiaoyong had taken it upon herself to trail after Li Lianhua, and Fang Duobing was having none of it. It just wasn’t proper, and so what if that view was old fashioned! Her following them had been funny originally when Fang Duobing was there the first time, but it wasn’t funny now that he wasn’t there!

So he bullied his way back into his room at Lotus Tower (which was his and not Su Xiaoyong’s!), and back into travelling with Li Lianhua again on the promise that the man wouldn’t rat Fang Duobing out to his aunt again.

It was not even three weeks after that Fang Duobing found Li Lianhua having pulled out that ancient laptop of his at the kitchen, frowning at the horrible internet connection from where they were parked.

“Why do you need that?” Fang Duobing asked then, surprised. He leaned to peek at the screen. “Does that thing even work? It must have existed along with the dinosaurs. I’ll get you a new one.”

A second later, he changed his mind.

“Are you emailing my mother?” Fang Duobing shrieked, a hand shaking at Li Lianhua’s shoulder. “Why?!”

For someone usually so sickly, Li Lianhua didn’t bat an eye at being shaken like that. “We have a rapport. She asked me about you, I thought it was only polite to respond. She wants to know if you’re still alive and standing.”

That wasn’t all of it, from what Fang Duobing could read on the screen. He Xiaohui included quips about her day and random cooking recipes, along with thanks for recommending the acupuncturist for her sore shoulder. She had jokes on the side. She used emojis in the messages.

It wasn’t until the post-script that she asked about her son’s well-being.

P.S., she wrote, is my darlingest Xiaobao still alive?

Then he saw Li Lianhua respond with ‘he's reading this right now ‘before Fang Duobing attempted to wrestle that laptop out of his hands, but not before the man managed to hit send.

And that was how Fang Duobing learned he didn’t need to be as careful with his phone use and purchases, because his mother had known where he was all along and was only mad he didn’t tell her himself.

(Although perhaps he had been a little too ambitious in thinking he could hide from his mother, the head of a company on innovative technology who happened to moonlight in R&D as well.)

“Now I’m glad you don’t have a phone,” Fang Duobing griped afterward. Despite his extensive badgering about getting Li Lianhua a phone (mostly so he could find the ever elusive man), Li Lianhua had remained steadfast in his adherence to living like an old man. Fang Duobing shuddered to think of his family on a WeChat group with Li Lianhua, who could be documenting Fang Duobing’s greatest failures on the daily. He thought of his own collections of photos and videos around Lotus Tower, mostly of Hulijing because she was the cutest dog in existence, but also of Li Lianhua cooking, or drinking tea, or tucked into a corner and reading, or—

“I somehow remember a certain someone badgering me about needing a phone for everyday use,” Li Lianhua said, even as he shut down the laptop and packed it away once more. “From messaging to paying for things, to maps…”

“Eh!” Fang Duobing made panicked noises to stop the other man from continuing. “Who said that, huh? Not just me! It’s common sense— how do you survive the modern world without Alipay, anyway? No navigation, no contacts, no access to TaoBao…”

“I make do.” Li Lianhua replied with faux demureness.

(Fang Duobing doesn’t manage to convince him to get a phone, although soon enough a brand new and high-spec tablet ends up in Lotus Tower just by coincidence, only to be thrown into the same compartment as the ancient laptop. After that, he stuck to purchasing newer kitchen appliances instead. At least the air fryer was a hit.)

Two days later, they exposed a supplier for illegal dungeon materials who attempted to drug them, only for Li Lianhua to take one look at the tea and smile sweetly before diverting attention and dumping the cup below his sleeve, barely needing to nudge Fang Duobing’s foot for him to do the same.

After that they managed to come up with the same plan, executing it at the same time without saying a word about it to each other. They gave the same story to the police who showed up afterward as well, even in separate rooms and even without having corroborated beforehand.

It was like having someone who knew exactly what was on his mind, and knowing exactly what was on his mind in return, even if Fang Duobing couldn’t quite comprehend his actions most of the time. The feeling was exhilarating enough that he couldn’t help but forgive Li Lianhua’s strange habits and awful lies.

Because when and where it counted, Li Lianhua did live up to everything Fang Duobing hoped of him.

He hid and he ran away and he lied endlessly, but Fang Duobing had always known the type of person Li Lianhua was, the same way they always knew each other’s decisions and actions. It was the connection of a lifetime— he met Li Lianhua and he just knew.

He knew.

Staring at the view before him now, within the domain of the boss dungeon, Fang Duobing found he really didn’t know anything at all.

With most of the tendrils of the monster cut off, it was like half the body disappeared after the sword swing (sword? What sword? Where did that sword come from?), unbalancing the large beast and bringing its heavy body crashing forward, the darkness it hide between the tendrils disappearing amidst the glow of the grass as it hit the ground, only for the shrieking noise to grow even louder, louder until Fang Duobing wasn’t sure if his ears would soon be bleeding.

Li Lianhua (tired, sickly Li Lianhua who couldn’t even be bothered to carry his own groceries) wasted no time as he dashed forward into a sprint, the faint glow of the sword blending in with the surroundings as he darted around the falling monster to jump atop it, the movements so graceful Fang Duobing almost felt like time slowed for it as he lept, weightless, landing with just one foot on the hulk of the monster before he pushed off again before gravity could set in, spinning in an effortless movement to balance atop the crashing body and evade the renewed tendrils that came from the other side of the monsters as its form split once more, shorter now, yet no less deadly in its force.

Fang Duobing was too far away to see clearly, the movements and the dust blurring the battle, but he knew that footwork. He knew the slash, that sidestep, that evasion.

He’d been studying it since he was ten years old, attempting to find every video and snippet the internet had of the famous Sigu Sect founder, eyes wide with wonder and reverence. He read every article, replayed every clip of every fight with breathless marvel as teen prodigy Li Xiangyi climbed his way to the top of the world of Hunters. Every shaky phone footage from civilians who managed to catch seconds when Li Xiangyi was challenged by other Hunters, only for him to end the fight almost instantly, within only a few moves.

The famed Whirling Steps of Xiangyi Swordplay, as light and easy as laughter.

(But it couldn’t be!)

The tendrils were moving faster now, focusing on the ones with spikes down the side, readily destroying even the body of the monster in attempts to target Li Lianhua, who evaded the attacks easy as breathing, and turned to hack those tendrils off as well, the ground shaking with each and every heavy fall of monster parts, the flash of a blue sword cutting swiftly and deftly like a knife through butter.

With the closest tendrils taken care of, Li Lianhua was pulled back into action atop the monster, amongst the splattered dark blood and gore, and the dug his sword in the body of the creature, nearly to the hilt as it thrashed and screamed, attempting to buck him off even as he clung onto the blade.

The creature’s movement seem to turn against itself, though, as the blade sank to create a deeper and wider cut as it moved, until Li Lianhua pulled the sword out and then sank it in again in a different location, doing this several times in a row until he drew away to once again battle the remaining tendrils.

Ten seconds, twenty seconds, and the creature that was the size of a house was getting hacked into pieces, and blood splattered carelessly over Li Lianhua’s pale clothes and skin, half hidden by the curtain of dark hair.

It took less than a minute before all the tendrils were gone, and the body of the beast was merely twitching on the ground, cut nearly in half by the glowing blue blade, which remained free of blood despite its owner being half covered in it by now.

And then the monster collapsed, the endless shrieking finally halted as it began falling apart like a pile of snakes to reveal the darkness it had been protecting inside, a gaping maw of abyss that grew and lifted, and Li Lianhua was standing right there—

“Look out!” Fang Duobing shouted out, immediately pushing himself onto his shaking feet as if he could make it over in time to add action to his warning.

Li Lianhua pushed himself back from the expanding darkness, expression veiled underneath his hair, and for a moment Fang Duobing thought he might have looked back at him.

And then all the glow in the dungeon went out, sending the world into a pitch black.

—

He didn’t pass out, and he didn’t merely lose sight of everything.

Between one moment and the next, all the light was gone and even the world dropped out from under his feet, leaving only the sensation of falling without wind, of dropping forevermore in a vast and empty void, like crashing and sinking in the ocean as all his senses dulled along with his vision.

It was cold and numbing, like pressure along his skin yet there was nothing there. Like there was no air to breathe, but he might yet be crushed in this nothingness, by the nothingness.

Fang Duobing knew his eyes were open, that he was reaching upward, yet he could not feel nor see his actions. Without sensation, he came the devastating realisation—

This was within the monster.

Distantly, he remembered a story about a man swallowed by a whale, and wondered if this fate could be compared to that.

He wondered until he felt something grab the back of his collar, and drag him up.

Up and up and up and this time there was a sense of direction, of place, and Fang Duobing gasped for breath and found that there was no air in this void of darkness, no existence outside of this grasp on his clothes pulling him along, and he—

He breathed.

Moreover, he choked and he coughed and he curled into a ball as gravity asserted itself on his limbs again and he felt like he weighed a thousand tonnes, pressed into the ground on shaking limbs that came away almost wet but not with a black substance like tar yet felt like it wasn’t there at all. Like black smoke if smoke were opaque at all times and clung the way tar did.

“Good,” a shaking voice said next to him, and the pressure on his collar disappeared. “Good.”

The familiarity of the voice was enough to remind him of his situation, and Fang Duobing shot out an arm to grab at Li Lianhua’s wrist. “A-are… Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Li Lianhua’s tone was full of fond exasperation, even if Fang Duobing was still blinking dark spots from his vision, only to realise it really was that dark— at least, there was only the barest of light where they were, and he didn’t know where that luminescence came from. He could barely see Li Lianhua’s shape, and even that was difficult as the other man was also covered head to toe with the solidified darkness still dripping off him in clumps from his hair. “Fang Duobing, you’re the one who— didn’t I tell you not to open your eyes or move?”

“I counted,” Fang Duobing croaked out, although he didn’t claim to have done the complete count. His throat felt like it was on fire, yet each breath of air felt cleaner and fresher than the last. “But you—”

“Forget that part,” Li Lianhua said grimmly. “We have to get out now, before the dungeon collapses. Can you stand, or should I carry you?”

The words felt like a dream. Carry me? Fang Duobing was almost tempted to laugh. If anything, he expected it to be the other way around with the two of them in a dungeon, and yet— and yet.

That wasn’t the case anymore, was it?

Fang Duobing had been prepared to charge forward into the unknown with no real weapon, determined to keep himself between Li Lianhua and danger because despite all their usual bickering and the trouble they got into regularly, Li Lianhua was often sickly and ill. He had a heart condition and a terrible immune system, and he was pale and often didn’t eat healthy enough or just enough in general, and despite the lies and the arguments and betrayals… Fang Duobing had always wanted Li Lianhua to be safe.

Li Lianhua could keep a level head in any situation, but Fang Duobing was meant to be the one keeping both of them safe.

Fat lot of good he did, and Li Lianhua—

Li Lianhua—

“No,” Fang Duobing insisted, the rasp in his voice giving way to a surge of anger. Grief. Betrayal. Of all the things, he never considered that Li Lianhua would lie about his own health, about who he was in general. Did he ever really know the other man? If they really had a connection, if they truly understood each other the way Fang Duobing always thought they did, then how did he miss this?

How could Li Lianhua hide this? Lie about this?

What a connection. What a similar mindset they had. With the monster now not an immediate threat, he couldn’t think of anything other than this. His entire being felt like his thoughts were resonating with this information. Was it truly a connection or had Li Lianhua lied about that as well? He lied about his identity, about his health, about little and big things, he’d lie about the colour of the sky right to Fang Duobing’s face if it amused him, wouldn’t he?

He would say that’s just the person Li Lianhua was, but Fang Duobing truly didn’t know, did he?

He always did think that Li Lianhua’s features looked a lot like Li Xiangyi, although he was too embarrassed to bring it up after a patient pointed out the resemblance and Li Lianhua merely laughed at that, pointing out that he would have to work on the dosage of his remedies if that’s what they thought.

But Li Lianhua’s features were both softer and sharper than Li Xiangyi’s, limbs thinner with even his stride stiffer and slower compared to Li Xiangyi’s confident movements.

Fang Duobing would know. He’d studied Li Xiangyi enough, and stared after Li Lianhua enough.

“No, tell me now.” Fang Duobing said, hand tightening around Li Lianhua’s wrist. “Tell me what actually happened. Tell me the truth.”

#NaNoWriMo #mlc nano 2023 #I barely got any writing done the last two days I'm sorry #but I think I need to let my brain recharge in December #but at the same time I want to finish the first part of this #I'm not even motivated about this anymore but I want to #hopefully write to the part where I get my point across at least #ya'll ever just have that need???#you have an idea in your head and you gotta write like 30k just to get to that image?#not to mention the PLOT you vaguely came up with is gunna take way way way way longer

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