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eleanorfenyxwrites · 3 months

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The Waves are Rising and Rising

|Beginning| |Previous| Chapter 3

Chapter 4 will be up on Friday!

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Jinlintai is, somehow, precisely the same as when he left.

That seems… wrong.

There are many ways in which Jin Guangyao’s life can be segmented, times in which something so momentous has happened that there is a distinct before and an equally distinct after; without fail, those times have come with not only a change in his own personal life but a change in… well, everything, really.

Before a-niang died, the world was better for her being in it. After, the cruel nature of men hurt far worse than when she could shield him from the worst of the worst. Before Nie Mingjue raised him up to one single step below the highest rank in his Sect, Meng Yao had thought he would spend the next decade at least trying to earn such a position. After, he’d had some small taste of power and the Nie Sect had enjoyed a time of well-organised prosperity the likes of which they never had before. Before his expulsion, he’d felt relatively secure both in his position and in Nie Mingjue’s regard; after, nothing at all had seemed certain as the world descended into war.

There is always a Before. There is always an After.

It seems as if Jinlintai should not be identical now that he’s living in a new after, now that he’s had (quite frankly, terrible) sex with his sworn brothers, now that he knows what it’s like to see them both naked and vulnerable and still so much themselves that it was sort of… worth it, in a way, if enduring the terrible sex meant he could at least be part of that intimacy.

Perhaps, he thinks as he walks, unseeing, through the corridors back to his own rooms to freshen up after his travelling, Jinlintai hasn’t changed in the aftermath because it’s him who has been irrevocably, visibly, altered by the events of the last 48 hours. His pace quickens ever so slightly, nothing faster than his norm on a busy day, as he fears that it’s somehow still visible on him somewhere, some irrefutable evidence marring his carefully-constructed perfection that will announce to everyone who sees him, ‘Look at me! I’ve just fucked my sworn brother!’

“Ridiculous,” Jin Guangyao mutters to himself and quickens his pace a little more… just to be safe.

His room, just like the rest of Jinlintai, is precisely the same as he left it. That, somehow, feels even stranger than the rest of it. How can this, his most private space that should reflect him and his thoughts, be utterly unchanged after everything he’s just done? He forces himself to ignore the sensation in favor of cleaning himself up as quickly as he can, little more than a perfunctory scrub with the cloth draped over the side of the wash basin in the corner of his small space (he attempts not to flush as he pays particular attention to the space between his legs, but doing so means he thinks about why he swears he can still feel something flaky and itchy on his thighs despite his equally perfunctory scrub in his guest quarters, and he is still human, after all).

Once clean, he dabs fresh oil on the ends of his hair for a bit of perfume and re-dresses in clothes that don’t smell at all of the crisp pine-scented air of Qinghe. He checks that the vermillion between his brows is still perfect and settles his hat in place again, and in less time than it takes to prepare a pot of tea Jin Guangyao is entirely himself again.

Like this it’s difficult to believe that… all of that truly happened. He looks at his slightly-distorted reflection and hunts for the signs that must be there that he’s fundamentally changed, but there’s nothing. There’s not even a mark in the shape of a hand or a mouth left behind, certainly nothing visible while fully dressed, and as much as he knows that’s good and necessary he can’t help but feel… disappointed. How can he know it happened if there’s no evidence of it? It all feels too much like a dream, hazy and surreal despite the fact that he knows that if he were to exert even the smallest effort to try he would be able to recall every moment of it — good and bad — in perfect detail.

His face warms again and he shoves all thoughts of Qinghe and his sworn brothers into a nice cozy box and slams the lid shut.

There are many things he’ll have to catch up on, there always are after he spends any amount of time away from Lanling. It’s nice to think that his presence is so vital already to the operation of Jinlintai that his absence from it is felt so keenly; it’s evidence of how much value the Sect — his father — places on his work. That doesn’t make catching up any less stressful, however, and so Jin Guangyao finishes his useless self-scrutinizing with a quick shake of his head and pats himself down to make sure all his layers are in place before he leaves his rooms again in a sweep of silk to begin tackling the list of what he’s missed.

He meets with the accountant first to go over the latest Sect expenditures; this Sect bleeds money, Jin Guangyao has found, simply because it can, even now after the war has emptied the coffers of the rest of the Great Sects. The books need constant balancing, and his theory that the head accountant is accustomed to skimming some extra allowance for himself off the top can remain unconfirmed so long as the man is too aware of his watchful eye (and perfect memory) to feel comfortable continuing to do so.

It takes the better part of a shichen to ensure the latest invoices from various merchants and establishments in Lanling are properly sorted and paid, and by the time Jin Guangyao steps out of the cloyingly warm and incense-redolent office there are two servants waiting for him, clearly each on different errands as one is one of Jin-furen’s personal handmaids and the other one of Jin Guangshan’s preferred serving girls. He offers them both a smile, but there is no question as to whose errand is to be given precedence and so he turns to the younger of the two expectantly.

“Jin-zongzhu is taking the evening meal in his garden,” she reports with her eyes properly downcast. “He wishes Lianfang-zun to attend him.”

Not ‘join’ he notes. ‘Attend’.

He takes a deep breath in as silently as he can as he turns his unmoving smile on the second servant, Jin-furen’s.

“Jin-furen has summoned Lianfang-zun for a personal matter,” she tells him, not quite able to hide the wince that signifies this ‘personal matter’ is something that’s stoked her temper.

“Please offer my apologies to muqin, I will come to her as soon as fuqin has no more need of me.”

The handmaid bows and retreats to pass along the news to Jin-furen that her husband has thwarted her in her favorite pastime, which will likely mean that her temper will be even worse by the time Jin Guangyao finds her, but that simply can’t be helped. The serving girl bows as well but she waits for him to straighten himself out so she can lead him through Jinlintai quite unnecessarily and deliver him a few minutes later to his father in his private courtyard.

The meal is, thankfully, already laid, though it’s immediately clear that yes he really is here to ‘attend’ to Jin Guangshan like any other servant, as there’s only one place setting and it certainly isn’t for him.

“Fuqin,” he greets with a bow, deeper than is technically required of him; Jin Guangshan does nothing to correct it, as always.

“Guangyao,” Jin Guangshan replies, and though his expression doesn’t change Jin Guangyao can tell that his mood sours ever so slightly despite the fact that he’d asked for Jin Guangyao to come to him.

“You may leave us now,” Jin Guangyao instructs the serving girl hovering nervously at his side. Her relief is palpable as she bows and scurries away as quickly as could be considered proper to find some other task that won’t involve being at risk of a passing grope from her Sect Leader.

“You returned quickly from Qinghe.” Jin Guangyao steps forward to take up post at his father’s side, hands folded demurely over his stomach and his eyes properly downcast, though he can’t help but grit his teeth against the frustration of being expected to play at being a servant.

“My work here should not be neglected.”

“Quite right. Still, there are things that can be done in Qinghe that would be worth delaying your precious ledgers for.”

Jin Guangyao doesn’t allow his expression to so much as twitch, no matter how badly he wants to raise an eyebrow at the disparaging tone. The accountant must have complained to Jin Guangshan about his involvement, he supposes, but there’s no denying that the Sect’s profits have ‘miraculously’ increased since his arrival, and in the end his father cares about having ever-more money for his pleasures much more than he does any one person’s complaints.

“Fuqin?”

“Did I or did I not inform you of my… thoughts in regards to Nie Mingjue?”

In the way of all prey suddenly finding themselves the subject of their predator’s undivided attention, Jin Guangyao goes very, very still.

“Yes, fuqin.”

Jin Guangshan lapses into an ominous silence for a few moments to sample some of the plethora of dishes arranged in front of him, leaving Jin Guangyao waiting on pins and needles for whatever he may say next; there’s no telling with Jin Guangshan, usually, which means that there’s no way of knowing what he can say in the meantime to attempt to do a bit of preemptive damage control.

The silence drags on, broken only by the quiet clinking of ceramic and Jin Guangshan’s unhurried chewing. He washes a bite down with a few long gulps of tea and sets the empty cup down with a hard clack! that makes Jin Guangyao jump, just the smallest twitch of his shoulders. He follows the unspoken order to refill it, kneeling gracefully next to the table and pouring a fresh cup of fragrant tea with perfect form.

“You’ve disappointed me, Guangyao,” Jin Guangshan sighs. It takes a supreme effort not to dip into a kowtow and begin apologising, to instead finish pouring the tea and set the pot back down just so in its place, to ensure that the table continues to be arranged to his father’s liking.

“I thought, perhaps foolishly, that I’d made your position in this household perfectly clear.”

“Fuqin is never foolish,” Jin Guangyao says instantly and tries not to hear Lan Xichen’s gentle voice in the back of his mind (and Nie Mingjue’s much less gentle voice beside it) chastising him for lying.

“Did you do anything at all whilst in Qinghe to acquire the sort of information I require to weaken that oaf’s influence over the rest of the sects? Did you do anything to make him less of an irritant to me?”

He was our general, he doesn’t say. He deserves that respect, no matter how you hate him.

Jin Guangyao takes a deep breath in and reminds himself that, in the hierarchy of men he should hold in regard, his father must come first. His father does come first, and it’s only his own momentary weakness that distracted him from properly utilising the opportunity that being in Qinghe had given him, that led to him returning empty-handed.

Except… well. He did get information. He got information that could, if wielded skillfully enough, strip quite a lot of shine off of Nie Mingjue’s righteous reputation amongst the rest of the cultivation world.

Gossip is a powerful tool, particularly amongst the common people and the servants of the Great Sects, and everyone knows that if enough mouths sing the same tune, it must of course be true.

What would the cultivation world do if it became common knowledge that Chifeng-zun, righteous and just nearly to a fault, is dabbling so close to demonic cultivation (that all the Nies walk that fine line, with those resentful sabres of theirs) that his health is suffering so desperately that without intervention he’ll succumb to the same madness as his forefathers sooner rather than later, younger than any Nie leader before him? And what would they say if they heard, through the grapevine of course, that his response to learning this was to proposition his sworn brothers; to beg them to take him to bed and fuck him like some common whore in an attempt to use cheap cultivation tricks to hide the truth?

It wouldn’t be enough to ruin him, of course. His reputation is built on years of working hard to truly earn the respect his lucky birth had already afforded him; but it would certainly be a heavy blow, and Jin Guangyao already knows exactly how Jin Guangshan would seek to widen the crack in his armour and leave him, in the end, politically weakened enough that he could no longer stand in the way of Jin Guangshan’s climb to the seat Wen Ruohan has so recently been forced to evacuate.

He could be the unseen hands that drag Nie Mingjue at least a few steps down from the pedestal that the entire jianghu has placed him on. He could have revenge for the day Nie Mingjue stripped him of everything he’d been given and thrown him out to make his own way in the world, alone and injured. He could fight against Nie Mingjue, and for once he could win.

But… if word of their activities were to get out, of the five people who know about the dual cultivation Nie Mingjue would naturally suspect Jin Guangyao of spreading the information before he would anyone else. In that event, no matter his protestations, no matter how desperately Lan Xichen would try to intercede, Nie Mingjue would never, ever trust him again. There would be no small hope of civility or reconciliation this time. Nie Mingjue would hate him for the rest of their lives — even more than he already does.

Bile rises in the back of his throat.

“Well?!” Jin Guangshan snaps, clearly at the end of his patience. This time Jin Guangyao does drop into a kowtow beside his father’s low seat. It pulls double duty, conveying the sincerity of his apology as well as hiding his face from his father’s sharp gaze.

His mouth moves mechanically, with no input from his mind. “This unfilial son apologises. I intend to return to Qinghe soon, I will not disappoint you a second time.”

Jin Guangshan snorts over his head, voice dripping with oily-slick disdain to sneer, “Your promises are worthless. Bring me results, Guangyao, or else what use are you to me?”

Jin Guangyao lingers in the kowtow, eyes squeezed shut against the sight of the stone tile a mere inch away from his nose.

“...Yes, fuqin.”

Jin Guangyao stays put in his deep bow for long enough that the small of his back begins to twinge, his hip threatening to lock and catch if he doesn’t at least straighten soon. He barely hears his father’s irritated admonition to stand and return to his post past the way the next warning twinge makes his head spin a little, distracting and immediate. He rolls upright to his knees and then from there to his feet, knees and ankles clicking quietly enough that he can hide the noise with the rustling of his robes as he readjusts them and brushes the dust from the front.

“What of the other matter we discussed?” Jin Guangshan eventually prompts when he’s nearly finished his meal, simply dismissive now rather than angry. It should be safe enough to proceed, then.

“Wei Wuxian continues to behave erratically,” Jin Guangyao reports, relieved that he’d received the latest missive from his spies in Yunmeng prior to leaving for Qinghe (the return to something from Before is strangely reassuring). “The construction continues slowly in Lotus Pier, Jiang-zongzhu’s goal appears to be a perfect reconstruction of what was lost rather than any improvements or simple utility to rebuild as quickly as possible. There are also murmurs among the disciples when they drink in Yunmeng inns and teahouses that Wei Wuxian and Jiang-zongzhu are frequently at odds.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. Wei Wuxian continues to refuse to carry his sword and no longer fulfils his duties as head disciple. One of the Jiangs’ early recruits from the Sunshot Campaign currently trains the shidimei in his place.”

Jin Guangshan sits back in his seat to stroke his thin beard, looking pensively at the beautifully appointed koi pond some few feet away. Gold-red flashes chase each other lazily through crystal clear water, glinting in the sun, and Jin Guangshan’s eyes track their circling like a cat waiting to pounce.

“It will take little effort to ensure Wei Wuxian’s reputation continues to suffer, he does more than half the work for us,” Jin Guangshan muses. “And what of Jiang Yanli?”

Jin Guangyao dips into a little half-bow from the waist, hands pressed neatly to his stomach. “Jiang-guniang may soon be prepared to accept our offer, should fuqin be so benevolent to extend it again. The excuse of rebuilding is nearing the end of its plausibility, and to refuse another offer from her once-betrothed could be perceived as a deeper insult than they are in a position to offend the Jin Sect with.”

Everyone knows that Yunmeng Jiang is as proud as they are carefree. Wei Wuxian’s infamous arrogance is checked by Jiang Wanyin’s glares and Jiang Yanli’s gentle admonishing, everyone has seen it, but his arrogance is far from unusual. In fact, one could say that the cultivation world’s problem with it stems not from the fact that it’s arrogance, but that the circumstances of Wei Wuxian’s birth should never have afforded him the freedom to be so arrogant in the first place, no matter the skills he’s acquired throughout the years. And he is, unequivocally, a genius of cultivation and an extremely talented disciple — unfortunately for his worst detractors, his arrogance is built on a firm bedrock of skill that can easily support the weight of his attitude.

But is it strong enough to stand against the targeted machinations of the entire cultivation world? Jin Guangyao doesn’t believe so, and neither does Jin Guangshan. Wei Wuxian’s arrogance is a strength in many ways, but it is also a weakness that’s laughably easy to exploit, especially if his own shidi — his own Sect Leader — is unwilling to lend him his support at the risk of his own pride, or the pride of his extremely vulnerable Sect. A small part of the reason for the slow rebuilding of Lotus Pier is that the artisans and engineers doing the construction are doing it to exacting standards that must be approved by Jiang Wanyin at every step of the way; but, more importantly, the Jiang also simply can’t afford to pay for the work to move any faster than it is. If Jiang Wanyin’s political and financial standing are both put in danger by his wayward disciple’s arrogance, who in their right mind wouldn’t sacrifice the personal relationship to save their public face?

Jiang Wanyin, as a young Sect Leader rebuilding his Sect after the decimation of war, has bigger things to worry about than upsetting an adopted brother slowly going mad from exposure to the resentful energy he’d commanded during the Sunshot Campaign.

“We need only apply the right pressure at the right time,” Jin Guangyao promises his father, certain that Wei Wuxian’s destruction is a matter of when, not if. “He grows more unstable by the day; it is only a matter of time before he does something shameless publicly. When he does, it will drive the wedge further between himself and Jiang-zongzhu and leave them both too vulnerable to protect themselves or each other.”

Jin Guangshan hums, considering. Jin Guangyao lapses back into silence at the cue signalling that his father would like to think uninterrupted. He finishes eating in silence and Jin Guangyao kneels to begin stacking the dishes into neat piles for whoever will be sent to take them back to the kitchens. Thankfully, even when his father demands that Jin Guangyao act as his servant, that part of the chore is still far enough beneath him that he can avoid further humiliation in front of the servants.

“Suggest to Zixuan that when it’s time to invite the Jiang Sect to Lanling next, he should take the invitation himself,” Jin Guangshan finally instructs. “Jiang Wanyin is foolish but practical — they cannot truly afford to do the work necessary to rebuild Lotus Pier to its full glory, certainly not if he wishes to continue to recruit more disciples who will need food and clothing. There are not so many nighthunts going in and around Yunmeng that the cost of his projects can be offset by the villages, they’ll be looking for an alliance with us soon enough. Wei Wuxian will either attempt to argue the proposal and do nothing to endear himself to Jiang Wanyin, or else he will be brought to heel long enough to allow the courtship to proceed, and with Jiang Yanli under our thumb we will be one step closer to the Seal. Either would serve our purposes nicely.”

Jin Guangshan is cunning, that much has never been in question. Jin Guangyao can see it easily, the pieces unfolding and revealing themselves in neat little rows. Lanling Jin will offer the weakened Yunmeng Jiang money and political alliance in one hand and steal their most dangerous asset with the other; it’ll take delicate, dedicated work, and while it will be relatively simple it will still take time.

Jin Guangyao grabs onto the task with both hands and an unclenching of the anxious ball in his chest that is the question of what to do about Nie Mingjue.

“Yes, fuqin,” he says, bows, and stands to retreat, dismissed by a lazy wave.

Destroying Wei Wuxian’s reputation will be child’s play, considering the man’s own self-destructive tendencies that are only growing worse, no matter how much Jiang Wanyin shouts at him. It’s a worthwhile distraction.

Jin Guangyao pushes thoughts of Nie Mingjue as a target, as an obstacle, to the back of his mind with the rest of his thoughts about his sworn brother, and tells himself that the relief is only for having fewer things on his plate rather than anything as dangerous as sentimentality.

|NEXT|

#the untamed fanfic #3zun #The Waves are Rising and Rising #Jin Guangyao #Nie Mingjue #Lan Xichen

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allzelemonz · 11 months

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Priorities: Micah Bell X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader referred to as ‘boy’ Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: M/Near sexual encounter Warnings: Micah Bell is his own warning, Dutch is a dad, Bill is annoyed as usual, Guarma is its own warning, mentions of slavery Summary: Seeing Micah with his shirt undone brings on something that’s been building since you met him. The timing isn’t great though.

To say Guarma is hostile is an understatement. If it’s not the slavers, it’s the sun. The heat and the burn is a slow death, most would prefer being shot. Arthur’s face is a solid red. He’s burnt the worst, but everyone is so hot that they might as well be cooking over a fire. The attire isn’t helpful either. All of you were wearing suits to blend in with the city for the heist. Now half of the clothes are shed in favor of avoiding heat stroke. With Dutch working to retrieve Javier, Arthur helping the locals, and Bill stomping around grumbling about nothing, you’re left to the quiet of camp with Micah.

Micah who has unbuttoned his dress shirt to alleviate the heat and looks more like a washed up sailor than a gunslinger. Before the bank heist, you’d seen him in his suit. The white and gold reflected his taste, it was like he’d been placed in a different world. You’d been far too busy to stare, too much happened and far too fast. But now there’s not much to do. Micah is standing, leaning against an old column, with a rifle in his hands. Dutch told him to guard, so he is. You have nothing to do except look over the rifle you were given and steal the occasional glance at Micah. You’ve never seen him without a shirt, and this is likely the closest you’ll get. He’s not built like a lot of the men in the gang, his stomach protrudes a bit and the hair on his chest is a light blond. Even with the sea salt in his hair and the ever-reddening skin from the sun, he’s handsome.

“These damn bugs!” Bill yells, stomping into the camp. “I’m gettin’ eaten alive!”

Micah lets his head lull back against the stone. “Shut up, Bill.”

“I have been scouting, Mister Bell. Doing actual work instead a’ sittin’ around doin’ God knows what!”

“He’s guarding the camp, Bill.” You sigh, putting down your half-cleaned rifle.

“Oh, sure!” Bill stomps over to you. “And you’ been starin’ at him for hours. Get over yourself, all high and mighty just ‘cause you pulled me outta the water!”

You tense for a minute, Bill sold you out, but then you refocus on putting him in his place. “If you get any louder, you’ll tell those slavers were we are and you’ll a lot more than bugs to worry about.”

“You ain’t better than me.” Bill says through gritted teeth before stomping away.

His superiority complex has become much more evident here, only taking orders from Dutch and only working when Dutch is around to see. Everyone in the group has their problems, but Bill has been getting worse since the job went bad.

“Starin’, huh?” Micah says, his head tilting to look at you.

“Bill’s losing it in the heat.” You turn back to your rifle, continuing its cleaning.

Micah chuckles. “It ain’t the heat.”

He stands upright, turning to face you. He watches for a moment as you run a rag over the rifle, his eyes on the motions of your hands. Then he leans his rifle against the wall and comes closer. You’re sitting on one of the makeshift beds and you can see him from the corner of your eye.

He leans down, close to your face. “I got ya all hot n’ bothered, cowpoke?”

You swallow what little spit is in your mouth as the heat in your body spreads. Your hands grip your rifle a little tighter and you try not to look at him as he chuckles. He reaches out and pushes the rifle down until you let it go and it lays flat on the cot. You stiffen as his eyes wander from the rifle and to your hands resting in your lap.

“Hell of a time ta be thinkin’ like that.” He says, tilting his head to catch your eyes. “Maybe it’s you that’s losin’ it in the heat.”

You glance at him. He’s not as close as he feels. The heat must be playing tricks, just not to your mind. Still, it’s closer than you’ve ever been. You can see the scar that crosses his chin, the dark circles under his eyes, and the frosty blue irises that brightens his face. Even with the peeling sunburn taking over his skin, he makes your heart rate pick up and the air not quite reach your lungs. When he meets your eyes you can feel the skip in your chest and a tightening in your stomach.

Then he leans in, connecting your lips. His are chapped, yours are too from the heat and dehydration. He puts his hand on your cheek as he tilts his head a little more and presses more into it. You return the pressure, a hand resting over the one he has on your cheek.

“You have gotta be kiddin’ me!”

You pull away from each other, turning your heads to look at Bill.

“Fuck off, Williamson.” Micah says, turning back to you.

His thumb strokes your cheek lightly as his eyes look over your face. Then he kisses you again, pressing even harder against you.

Bill groans. “I thought you was supposed to be guardin’ camp!”

Micah ignores him, his other hand slowly moving your shirt up to rest on the bare skin above your ribs. You can hear the faint grumbles and footsteps as Bill storms off. Timidly, you reach out and rest your hand against Micah’s bare chest. The heat on his skin against your fingers is only half from the sunburn. He pulls away about an inch, just enough to see your eyes.

“That’s it, cowpoke?” He chuckles. “Sexy without a shirt, am I?”

You hold his gaze and let your hand run over his skin and down to his stomach. “You’re usually sexy, Micah.”

He presses his lips to yours again, his hand moving to the back of your neck to hold you in place. He slowly pushes you back onto the cot, breaking the kiss to move the rifle onto the floor, then returning with more force. You settle your hands on his sides, under his shirt, as he leans over you and grips at your hair.

“Oh, come on, boys!” Dutch yells.

Micah groans as he stands. You follow, looking at Dutch standing there with his hands on his hips. He looks like a disappointed father, he usually looks like a disappointed father but this time it’s a little different.

“You pick now?” Dutch sighs. “All that pinin’ and you pick now? With Javier gone, all of us stranded, and you pick now?”

Behind him you can see Bill in the trees and plans of murder swim through your head.

“Sorry, boss.” Micah sighs, clearing his throat.

Dutch puts his hands up. “Now I am happy that I ain’t gonna have to deal with the tension anymore, but can it wait until we’re home?”

You nod, not quite able to meet your boss’ eyes.

“Good.” Dutch sighs. “Now I am gonna go and get Javier. Micah, actually guard the camp this time.” He turns to Bill. “And mind your own damn business, Mister Williamson.”

“Sure thing, boss. I was-”

“Why don’t you go see if our generous hosts need any assistance, Bill.” Dutch waves him off.

Bill huffs and wanders away.

“Mind the camp, boys.” Dutch says firmly.

The look he gives you makes you feel like a teenager being scolded for sneaking your boyfriend into your room.

Micah nods. “Will do, boss.”

Dutch gives you both one last ‘disappointed father’ stare before he departs, leaving you and Micah alone again. You stand there for a moment, an odd energy between you. Then Micah turns and pulls you close again, his hand resting on your cheek. He kisses you softly, not as needy as before.

“We ain’t done, cowpoke.” He says, resting his forehead against yours.

You stand there for a moment, eyes half closed and just resting against each other. Then Micah pulls away and saunters back to his post, picking up his rifle and leaning against the wall. You pick up your rifle and sit back on the cot, continuing the cleaning process and stealing the occasional glance. Sometimes you’ll catch him doing the same and your eyes will linger for a second.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #micah bell #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption x male reader #micah bell x reader #micah bell x male reader #x reader #x male reader

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sopejinsunflower · 2 years

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2022.001.009: The Cat and The Car

a/n: this is the longest chapter so far (9k) but I feel like the majority of it is just about a cat lol pls bear with me. I promise you this cat is significant.

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Monday blues are the worst, made even worse at the fact that the knowledge that there are seven men in the house with me no longer excites me like it did before. Should not excite me like before after what I learnt yesterday.

I heave a sigh and drag myself out of bed to get washed and dressed. I don’t even put much effort; putting on the first thing my hand could reach (the green tie-dye hoodie perched on my desk chair) and a pair of jeans, light makeup to cover the dark circles around my eyes and my pale cheeks. I go down to breakfast without even bothering to invite them down with me, walking past their doors without another look. I felt just slightly ashamed and only hoped they hadn’t noticed the way I had looked at them these past couple of days.

I sit down at the dining table, not even noticing that no placemats have been prepared for the other seven, or three since the oldest four should be at work, keeping my head down and munching on the piece of toast that tastes like cardboard. Mrs Oliviera comes in to pour me my cup of tea and she does a small double take when she sees me. I pay her no mind, not even looking up at her, pretending to be busy scrolling through Twitter to check on the news in case the world had imploded along with my self-esteem last night.

It hadn’t, unfortunately. I put down my phone and that’s when I finally notice the housekeeper waffling by the doorway that leads to the kitchen, twisting and untwisting her apron in her hands. I blink up at her. “What’s the matter?”

She seems to be looking down at my hoodie and I follow her gaze, checking to see if I got jam on it. Nothing. It looks clean. “Something wrong?” I ask, puzzled.

“Whose hoodie is that?” she asks through a tight voice.

I raise an eyebrow, not comprehending. “What do you mean?”

“It’s too big for you,” she mutters, eyebrows furrowing.

I shrug at her. “It’s just oversized. I told you, it’s just fashion.” I wash down the toast with my tea, avoiding her eyes to hide the fact that it’s a complete lie. It makes me wonder if she knows that it came from the attic, from one of the closets upstairs. Does she memorise the clothes stored there?

Mrs Oliviera looks like she still has more to say but just then Mr Chang appears behind her, looking excited, gesturing for me to come with him. “Good, you’re awake. Hurry, come.”

Curious, I get up to follow him through the kitchen but Mrs Oliviera stands in my way. She looked a little appalled that I was about to enter the kitchen. “The landlady shouldn’t be in the back parts of the house,” she says in a sort of high-pitched, panicked tone. “It’s inappropriate and messy and you should go around-”

“Seriously,” I say, impatient because Mr Chang didn’t wait for me. “I really don’t care what the kitchen looks like and if it’s messy then shouldn’t you guys be maintaining it? Health hazard and all.”

I push past her and go straight to the kitchen trying to find the back door that leads to the back of the house. The cook looks alarmed at my presence, rushing forward and speaking in a heavy French accent. “Mademoiselle, what are you doing here? The lady shouldn’t be back here.” For a man with his look, a constant frown on his forehead, he had a sort of pitched voice that tickled my funny bone. I try hard not to smirk, pursing my lips together.

I look around the kitchen then, taking in the place. It’s my first time and honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting but surely not this. The place looks like one of those huge kitchens in a high-end restaurant; the floors wiped clean, the pots and pans that hang over the multiple stoves gleaming, the variety of silver Japanese knives sticking to the wall look like they could cut with just a touch, the stainless steel island in the middle of the room looks like it’s never been used, spotless and shiny.

There are two industrial refrigerators and two huge freezers next to them, humming quietly in one corner. Cabinets line the walls, both the top and bottom halves, and an array of kitchen appliances are arranged neatly on one side of the wall - a microwave oven, a fancy coffee maker, two air fryers, blenders of different sizes and kinds, a huge rice cooker. There was even a deep fryer in another corner. The kitchen is bright and there’s a pot of something on the stove that smells heavenly.

“I’m just passing through,” I explain as I look around in awe. The place looks like it could cater to a meal for twenty. Had there been more employees back in the old days, back when my grandaunt had been alive? “I really don’t know what the fuss is about but the kitchen is amazing! Why can’t I come in? What if I want to cook things for myself?”

There’s a look of horror on Jean’s face and he squeaks out, “Nononono, that is my job, mademoiselle. My job. Is my cooking not to your liking? Is there something I should change? Just let me know and I can do it ten times better!”

I laugh, unable to take him seriously when it looks like his moustache is talking instead of his mouth. “No, that’s not what I mean. Not at all. Sometimes I just want a cup noodle or instant ramen-”

“I can make them! I can make anything you want!”

~~~

With each raised note of the cook’s voice, Jin and Jungkook are both doubled over each other, laughing so hard that snot is coming out of Jungkook’s nose and Jin has tears down his reddening cheeks.

But Taehyung and Hoseok have it worse, holding their stomachs as they roll around the floor, laughing so hard no sound is coming out of their opened mouths. Jimin is holding on to Namjoon’s arm, the bigger man had caught him before he toppled over to the side, holding him steady by the waist. Laughter among the seven of them has the same effect as a domino set; when it hits one, it hits all of them in one fell swoop. Literally.

They can’t help but focus on Jean’s thick, handlebar moustache that covers his mouth, wriggling with every word the cook speaks. Combined with his unsuitable high-pitched voice, Jimin could barely stand anymore, laughing so hard his stomach hurts. They had almost forgotten about Jean, about why exactly they avoided the kitchen back then, mostly to not offend him. Jean is an excellent cook, would’ve been a Michelin star chef if he had had worked in a restaurant, but Namjoon can just imagine the chaos his kitchen would be in if he had been in charge of one.

Like Ollie, Jean’s family had also served the manor. Most of his skills came from his father and grandfather and the ones before that, secret recipes or personal creations passed down from one generation to the next, perfected each time a new cook steps up. And like Ollie, Jean is also very much privy to the reality of the seven men in the attic. But unlike Ollie, he had been thrilled to learn about the men coming back downstairs. He doesn’t know you that well yet but what he sees, he likes and he has high hopes. For what, he’s not quite sure yet but something tells him there’s a shift in the air the day you arrived.

Yoongi is the only one still upright, crossing his arms over his chest with a gummy smile on his face, trying his best to not get carried away. He’s more entertained with you struggling not to laugh too much, your face and ears growing red, the smile on your face only growing wider and wider while the cook’s frown only deepens, his moustache growing more animated as he chastised you, the lady of the house, for even thinking of lifting a hand in his domain.

Yoongi casually walks over to you, standing behind you, attracted by your lighter mood, watching your shoulders shake quietly. You’re wearing Hoseok’s old hoodie, something that didn’t escape them, the sheer size of the garment making you a lot smaller than usual. Yoongi isn’t one to show much emotion, he’s very shy about it, very private. But he can’t help the desire to swaddle you in his arms.

But instead, he settles on just touching your face, grazing the back of his fingers against your rounded cheek. The coldness that zings through you at his touch is enough to sober you up a little.

~~~

“Okay, okay,” I say, raising my hand in a give up gesture, rubbing the cold spot on my cheek. It must be from a gust of wind blowing in from the opened back door. “I won’t come in here again.”

Jean, the cook, points to me with the wooden spoon he had been holding in his hand. “Tell me what you want and I’ll make it, okay? Anything, anytime!”

I nod furiously, wrestling to get the smile off my face. “Got it. I’m just going to…” I trail off, pointing to the opened back door with my thumb. He waves me away, returning to the bubbling pot on the stove. Mrs Oliviera is nowhere to be seen. As I’m heading towards the door, something in the wall catches my eye. I pause, staring at what looks like a mini elevator but with doors that open horizontally.

The cook is busy tending to his soup. I walk closer to the wall, noticing the two buttons next to it with arrows pointing up and down. I’ve seen the dumb waiter upstairs but for some reason the one upstairs only had the down button and pressing it doesn’t really call it up for me to inspect. The doors open quite easily, revealing a tiny elevator box, but the door handle bangs against the top wall if not caught in time. The cook throws me a confused angry look, raising the wooden spoon above his head in a what-are-you-doing gesture.

“Sorry,” I mouth, shutting it closed once more and hurrying out the back door where Mr Chang had reappeared, curious to know what is keeping me. I join him outside the house and he immediately leads me towards the greenhouse. Just as I thought that he had wanted to show me a new flower or a new plant, we passed right by the greenhouse, heading straight towards the employee’s quarter.

“Where are we going?” I ask, a little breathless from keeping up with his big, excited strides. “Not the greenhouse?”

Mr Chang shakes his head. “No. We’re going to the vegetable patch.”

I’ve never been to the employees’ quarter before but I’ve seen it through the trees from my window. From the look of the chimney, I had guessed it was a cottage of sorts but as we neared the building, I realised it’s actually a lot bigger than that. It’s gated in by small white picket fences and the vegetable patch Mr Chang referred to isn’t exactly a patch. It’s a whole garden that spans the front yard of the employees’ quarter from end to end, minus the small footpath that leads up to the front door.

The whole look about the place is very warm; the door is painted red with white-panelled windows sandwiching it. Ivy creeps up the orange brick walls, creating a sort of drape over the top of the door. From the front, it doesn’t look too big, but from the sides, the house extends quite far back, more than enough for a shared house for three people. There’s also a small shed to the side, in the corner of the yard, and Mr Chang leads me there.

He pauses at the shed door, looking back at me with concern in his eyes. I raise my eyebrows at him. “What is it?”

He shifts his gaze upwards, almost as if he’s searching through his brains on what to say. Then he looks back at me, forehead creasing. “Do you remember that cat you saw?”

“The white one by the tree line?”

He cocks his head to the side but then nods. “Remember I told you that I was going to catch it because it keeps using the vegetable patch,” he gestures to the garden behind us, “as its personal toilet?”

“Yes?” I’m growing more and more curious, the suspense building. I wish he would just cough it up.

“Well,” he says, trailing off and scratching the back of his head. “Remember I said it would be better if it was indoors?”

I nod again, feeling my own eyebrows furrowing to match his deeply hooded ones. “Okay, and?”

Mr Chang sighs. “Well, I don’t think you would want to keep it. I mean, I just thought I’d still show it to you before I get rid of it.”

“What do you mean get rid of it?” I ask in alarm. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I…don’t really know,” he replies hesitantly. “But something is wrong. But I think it’s better to get rid of it.”

“That’s nonsense,” I quip, determined now to prove him wrong. “Unless it’s badly injured or something. Come on, just show it to me.”

The gardener groundskeeper sighs again, relenting this time. “Fine.” He twists the doorknob and pushes the door open with a loud creak. The inside is dark but I can see a variety of garden tools kept haphazardly inside. Broken or old pots are strewn across the floor of the shed, some on their sides. Fertiliser bags are stacked on one side of the wall, so many of them that they come up to your waist in three columns. There is only a single bare bulb in the ceiling and Mr Chang is holding on to the switch looking like he’s ready for a big reveal.

In the middle of the room, I can see a metal cage, the kind commonly used when trapping bigger animals. The cat stands in the centre of it, low on its front legs, a ready-to-pounce stance that I know well enough. Its tail swishes behind it in quick movements, looking a lot bigger than the last time I saw it, though it’s probably of the distance as well as it being puffed up.

I look at Mr Chang to signal him to turn on the light and he has this look of apprehension that I can’t quite understand. He clicks on the light and I turn back to the cat to have a proper look. Finally, I understood what he meant.

The cat, once the light blinks on, suddenly relaxes, standing up and tilting its head up to look at me curiously. The eyes are what strikes me the most, having only seen it once on a cat on social media. They are dual-toned, each eye a prominent half-blue, half-yellow that seems to glow the longer I stare at them. The cat seems to be at ease, suddenly its purring filling up the room, loud and clear like motorwork. It has the most luxurious black coat I have ever seen, fluffy and clean, no signs of being a feral cat that’s been living in the wilderness behind the manor.

I’m about to argue with Mr Chang, telling him that there’s nothing wrong with the cat when it swishes its tail again and my mouth falls open. Tails. With an s. Plural. More than one. Two, to be specific, one of them white, a striking contrast to its full coat. Have you seen Midas the cat on Instagram? It has four ears. But two-tailed, one black and one white, is completely new. Definitely not normal. The cat chirps happily, swishing its tails more languidly. It rubs against the metal cage, mesmerising eyes never leaving mine.

~~~

At the sight of the cat, Jin immediately pulls back, stepping away to exchange looks with the others.

It’s him. He’s back.

~~~

“It’s got two tails,” I note the obvious, not really knowing what to say. “Genetic mutation?”

Mr Chang shakes his head but he regards the cat as if it might break out of the cage and attack him. “I don’t know but it’s not good.”

“Why is that? If four-eared cats are common enough, then two-tailed ones should probably be the same.” I squat down on the ground near the trap and the cat suddenly flops over, nuzzling the cage with its little pink nose. I reach out to touch it but Mr Chang steps forward so suddenly I pause.

“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” he says darkly. “It’s…bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard of the nekomata?”

I shake my head. “Sounds japanese.”

He nods. “Yes. It’s an evil spirit, one of the worst ones.”

I stare at him as he’s grown two heads. I know my grandaunt was a cultist but I didn’t take Mr Chang to be superstitious. The fear in his eyes is real and he wouldn’t come any closer, staring at the cat in distaste. It was clear what he had meant when he said to get rid of it. I’m not about to let him kill an innocent animal for some mythical folklore just because it looks different.

“You don’t seriously believe that, right?” I ask, incredulous. “Because I don’t.” I try to find the latch to open the trap but Mr Chang grabs my shoulder hard enough for me to turn around in surprise.

“Are you sure about this?” His eyes are wide but he loosens his grip. “I mean, it’s wild and it might not like being inside.”

I chuckle softly. “So not because it’s a yokai?”

Mr Chang looks at me sheepishly, retreating back towards the doorway. He flicks his gaze back to the cat and his face changes, not really softening but at least it doesn’t look so concerned. “I don’t know, miss. I can’t help the superstitious side of me, I was raised that way. It’s in my culture. But,” he pauses, looking at the cat again who is rubbing against the metal trap. He sighs. “Well, your choice, I guess.”

I smile up at him, feeling more at ease. I find the latch and right before I release it, he speaks, the grimness back in his voice. “But I’m warning you.”

I open the trap, half expecting for the cat to bolt. But it just slinks out, coming to rub against my leg, its double tails swishing happily. I pet it, running my hand from its head, down its back and through its lush coat. I touch its tails and it feels normal enough, the fur fluffing up at the ends. I pick it up into my arms and stand up, cradling it. “Well,” I say, looking up at Mr Chang. “What’s one more spirit in the house, right? At least this one’s cute.”

The gardener looks a little confused but he leaves the shed and waits for me to come out.

~~~

Jimin looks at the cat in your arms, his lips pouting.

“I’m cuter,” he mutters sourly. The cat turns and makes direct eye contact with him. Jimin just pulls a face at it. He jabs a finger at the cat, barely missing its nose. “Don’t think for a second that you’re taking my place.”

The cat makes a swipe at Jimin’s finger with its paws, squirming in your arms. You look down at the cat and laugh, catching one of its paws. “What are you doing, little one? Is there a bug?”

The cat seems to be looking at Jimin in a way that says yes, you’re the bug and Jimin sticks out his tongue at it before falling back. While you wait for Mr Chang to close the shed door, the seven men crowd around you. The cat looks at each of them in turn and Yoongi shares Jimin’s sentiment. He’s not about to let a cat challenge his spot in your heart, no way.

Hoseok stands a little further back, arms crossed over his chest. He’s more of a dog person but this cat he tolerates. The cat’s rare-looking eyes stare deep into his own, a knowing look shared between animal and man. Mr Chang isn’t far off about it; it’s a kindred spirit, much alike to them, neither good nor bad. But in all the cycles they have lived through, not once have the cat ever been this close, never mind directly involved.

He’s not sure if this means anything but the fact that the cat can see them in their invisible forms is a little disturbing. Ironic because there’s nothing more than they would love than to be seen, just more by you and less by a feline. Namjoon runs a finger over the cat’s head, just above it, not quite touching, and again, the cat tries to grab at him.

~~~

“What are you doing?” I laugh, readjusting my hold against the squirming cat. It’s like it’s trying to catch something, maybe an invisible insect that I can’t see with my human eyes.

I snuggle it close. “You’re very cute, you know that?”

The cat meows, nuzzling my jaw. I find it a little strange that a wild animal is very familiar with human touch, with the only explanation being that it used to be a pet, probably a lost one or one that was thrown away. Well, it’s mine now, I think as I carry it back to the main house. And I promise to give it the home it deserves. But first, what do I even name this strange fella?

***

My Monday classes feel a little better as I plop my Macbook in front of me on the bed, the mic muted and my new pet sniffing around the room.

On the laptop, I have another window tab opened on name ideas for black cats with dual-coloured tails but everything sounds so generic (not to mention there’s no other cases of a cat with double tails, much less one with two tails, both of different colours), nothing that gives it the right name it deserves, something that suits its peculiar look. He. It’s a he, I’ve checked. He needs a name. And, I think as I pull up Etsy on my phone, a new collar.

I had knocked on Jimin’s, Jungkook’s and Taehyung’s doors but none of them had answered. I had been excited to introduce to them our new housemate but I guess it will have to wait until later. I wonder what kind of programs they’re in because, wow, they can’t even break away for five minutes from their online classes. My bedroom stands open and I can see straight out across to Jin’s closed door. If I lean the right way over my bed, I can see down the hall to the others’ rooms, too.

“We have seven other people in this house,” I say to the cat who has disappeared under my desk, sniffing around behind it. “I can’t wait for you to meet them.”

He meows from somewhere behind the desk in response. “But we still need a name for you. What would you like? Ajax? Poseidon? How about Phoenix?”

The cat remains quiet but I can hear the shuffling sounds of it from somewhere in the room, exploring. “Celeste? Too feminine? Alpha? Dominic? Domino? Anything? No?”

The cat reappears from behind the desk and continues towards the closet, sniffing around and leaning up against the drawers with two paws, the tails swishing. Not finding anything, he moves over towards the bathroom door, sniffing between the gap of the door and the floor. Everytime he moves from one place to another, he pauses somewhere in between, sniffs the air, purrs and then moves along. Sometimes he stops to look up at something, nose wrinkling and flaring as it smells something that I can’t before moving along. It’s an odd behaviour but I chalk it up to him being nervous in a new environment.

~~~

The cat is one curious, strange kitty, Jungkook thinks as, once again, the cat comes up to him to sniff his fingers as it passes by towards the closet. He thinks he can even feel the wetness of its nose.

“You sure it’s the same one, hyung?” Jungkook asks Jin, eyes still following the cat moving around your room. “It’s impossible, right?”

Jin, sitting on the edge of your bed, shrugs. “I don’t know. It looks similar. The same weird eyes.”

“And same tails?” Taehyung puts his hand just above the cat’s twin-tails as it passes by, the fur barely touching him.

“That, I’ve never seen before,” Jin says, frowning. “Or not that I’ve noticed.”

“I guess you would notice if a cat has two tails,” Namjoon chuckles as it stops in front of him, staring up at Namjoon as if it understood what he said. Namjoon nods at it, adding, “Right?”

The cat moves on towards the bathroom door. Hoseok watches it for a while before turning back to Jin. “It’s not real, right? What Chang said? The nekomata thing.”

Jin laughs. “I don’t know. Some people don’t believe in ghosts either.” He raises his arms up in a here-we-are gesture before dropping them again. “But this cat has always been outside, in the forest.”

“Like a forest spirit?” Taehyung adds.

Jin frowns at him but chuckles. “I don’t know, spirit or not. But it, or its ancestors, because I’ve seen this cat before, a long time ago, before…” He doesn’t finish his sentence but jumps back to the initial one. “Well, it’s never been indoor. I mean never actually been on the property but I’ve seen it around, mostly on the edges of the forest.”

Yoongi nods along to Jin’s words. “Me, too. It feels like the same cat but…if I say it’s impossible then what are we?”

“Is this going to change anything?” Jimin holds out his hand as the cat passes by him to jump up onto your bed, avoiding his touch. You’re still spewing name suggestions, talking to the cat, trying to see if it resonates with any one of those spectacular ideas. Personally, he had liked Poseidon and Nova and Phantom and Prism and Opal- scratch that, he had liked almost all of the ones you suggested. Except for Birdie. It’s just going to give the cat an existential crisis, Jimin thinks.

Again, Jin shakes his head. He doesn’t bother to answer it in words, watching you play with the cat by moving your hand from underneath your bed cover and watching the cat pounce on it. It looks young but Jin can’t shake the feeling that something is off about it, neither in a good nor bad way, just off. It’s an unsettling feeling, creeping slowly in the back of his mind, something he can’t put his finger on just yet.

“I’d name you Genie if we don’t already have one Jin in the house,” you say fondly, tickling the cat’s fluffy tummy as it stretches out in the middle of the bed, completely at ease. “Very handsome,” you add, which makes Jin’s ears turn red, “just like you.”

Jin’s face falls into an unimpressed look and the others laugh. The cat perks up at the sound of their laughter, looking around the room at them.

~~~

“What is it, boy?”

I look up in the general direction of where he’s looking but I can’t pinpoint anything that could have caught his attention. The abrupt way he sits up is like there was a loud noise and it surprised him but not scared him. After a few seconds of looking around my room, he goes to grooming himself. I shrug it off, going back to focus on my Zoom class, completely losing the plot already.

During lunch, I search through my phone for the nearest vet and a pet store where I can get pet supplies. I found the nearest vet about thirty minutes away. Mind you, I don’t mention anything about the cat to Mrs Oliviera, a little too scared to, actually. If Mr Chang came with me about it being some mythical creature, then I’m not sure what can of worms I might open with the housekeeper once she sees the twin-tailed cat that is yet to be named. I figured maybe I should check him for a microchip first before I can officially adopt him and name him.

As Mrs Oliveira comes around to refill my glass of water, she pauses to turn away and sneezes. She tries to fill my glass again, only to turn around and lets out another sneeze followed by another one. I look up at her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she says dismissively. “Just an itchy nose.”

“If it’s a cold then you should just take the rest of the day off,” I suggest, watching her walk away with another bout of sneezing.

She shakes her head but her eyes are watery. “No, no. I’m fine. It’s not a cold. Probably just hay fever. I’ll take my medication and I’ll be right as rain. Finish your lunch. Your class will start soon.”

I’m a little amazed that she remembers my schedule, honestly, but didn’t have the chance to say anything more as she quickly makes her way back into the kitchen. I scarf down my food and rush back upstairs to check on the cat. He probably needs to go to the bathroom soon and the longer I wait around, the more prone for accidents to happen. But I still have two more classes to get through.

I scoop the cat up and open the bathroom door. “I know you probably won’t get it but if you need to go, at least do it in here, okay, buddy?”

The cat stares at me, his dual-toned eyes almost hypnotising. Somehow he looks like he understands. I put him down and he goes to check out the bathroom. I go back to the laptop on the bed and the cat comes back out five minutes later. He stretches out next to me and takes a nap, resting his little head on his front paws.

I run my fingers through his soft fur once. “You’re a chill little dude, aren’t ya?”

~~~

Yoongi turns to Hoseok, ripping his eyes away from the cat laying down next to you. “I think you’re going to have a tough competition.”

Hoseok gives him a wry smile but regards the cat in a way that can only be interpreted as distaste, his mouth turning down in the corners. The cat’s strange eyes open up in two slits, locking gaze with him practically challenging before it closes them again, stretching slightly and turning its head towards you.

“I can’t tell if it likes us or not,” Jungkook comments mildly, sitting down on the floor on the side of the bed so he’s eye-level with the cat. He reaches out to touch the twin tails but the cat curls itself up, tucking its tails close to its body.

Taehyung chuckles. “I think it doesn’t.” He’s stretched out next to you on the other side of the bed, leaning against the pillows with his hands locked behind his head. Occasionally, he listens in to the lecture, nodding along with you and peering into your notebook as you write. You keep pushing the long arms of the hoodie up to your elbows and then pulling it back down again everytime Taehyung brushes against you, the goosebumps raising your little hairs.

Then the cat sits up, stretches and jumps down from the bed. It prowls around the room, sniffing. It goes into a corner of the carpet and paws at it suspiciously. Jin stares in alarm, ready to spring to his feet if the cat does what he thinks it’s about to do. Taehyung taps on your shoulders, or tries to. “Hey, I think the cat needs to go to the bathroom,” he says but you don’t even budge, eyes focused on the lecture slide on the laptop.

The cat continues to paw at a spot on the carpet and all seven of them jump to attention. Hoseok lets out a silent curse and Taehyung tries to grab at your arm. All you did was rub at the spot, looking up only briefly towards the opened window. Jimin and Jungkook run forward towards the cat, attempting to make it move.

“Shoo, shoo,” Jimin says, waving his hands frantically. “Not here!”

“The bathroom, the bathroom,” repeats Jungkook in a panic. The cat looks up at them, hesitates for a bit and then moves along in the direction Jimin is directing him.

~~~

I look up to see the cat circling around on the carpet, looking around the room every now and again as he moves towards the bathroom. He pauses and moves, pauses and moves.

Does it need to go?

~~~

“Come on,” Jimin urges, corralling the cat with his arms, squatting down a little so he’s walking with his knees bent. “Come on, this way.”

Jungkook scoots down in front of the bathroom door, beckoning the cat with his hands. “This way, kitty. Good kitty. That’s it.”

The others watch in awe and amusement as the two guide the cat towards the bathroom. Jin is beaming wide. “Oh, good job, guys. Keep going.”

“Almost there,” Namjoon adds, a huge smile on his lips, teeth showing.

~~~

“Do you need to go?” I ask, watching the cat expectantly as it walks over to the bathroom. “Yeah, you can use the bathroom for now.”

I giggle to myself, excited at the fact that the cat is a very smart one. “You understood me, didn’t you? Go on, in the bathtub preferably so it’ll be easier to clean up.”

I lean on the edge of my bed, watching just in case.

~~~

“Well, you heard her,” Jimin says, working hard to chase the cat towards the bathroom. “In the bathroom. Let’s go, let’s go.”

Jungkook steps inside, still trying to make the cat follow him towards the bathtub. “Come here, kitty kitty. Follow me. Over here.”

Taehyung joins you as you step off the bed and quietly follows it towards the bathroom. He can sense your excitement, your face radiant, expecting the cat to go where you just told it to, completely unaware of the hard work Jimin and Jungkook are putting in.

~~~

I step over the carpet lightly so as to not scare the cat, hoping and hoping that he knows where to go to do his business.

Just a little more, I think.

~~~

Jungkook steps into the bathtub, calling out to the cat. “Come. Here, kitty. Inside.”

The cat pauses just outside of the tub, tilting its head up at Jungkook questioningly. Jimin is right behind it, waving his hands in small gestures. “Go on. Into the tub. Follow Jungkookie.”

~~~

The cat pauses just outside the tub and I stop to watch from the doorway.

I send up a small prayer, hoping that he will go in and feel comfortable enough to go. “Go on,” I whisper to myself, also hoping that it was more of a number one than a number two. The cat, though, keeps looking from the tub to me then back again.

~~~

The cat stops right in front of the tub, unmoving, staring from Jungkook to Jimin then back again.

Jungkook taps the lip of the tub, trying to coax the cat to come but it wouldn’t budge. “Come on, kitty. Come here. Over here, kitty.”

Jimin scratches his head. “Maybe it won’t go in because you’re there, Jungkookie. Maybe you should come out first?”

Jungkook obeys, climbing out of the tub and trying to make himself as small as possible in between the tub and the wall. He pats the tub again. “Come, kitty.”

The cat, surprisingly, jumps onto the edge of the tub, tails swishing in the air. It looks at Jungkook, sniffing at his hand. Gently, Jungkook makes a shooing motion with his hands, trying to chase it into the tub. “Inside, kitty. You can go inside the tub for your toilet. Go on.”

As Jungkook shoos, he tries to move out of the corner he’s in, slowly inching out as to not scare the cat. He manages to pull himself out of the nook but his hands accidentally bump into the kitty, pushing it inside the tub. Jungkook gasps at the contact, surprised that he had felt the cat’s fur on his skin. He turns to Jimin, eyes wide but the latter hadn’t seen what happened.

~~~

“Yay, good boy!”

I punch the air and step inside to see if the cat is doing what he needs to do and immediately shiver. There’s a cold spot in where I’m standing but I just easily move forward, closer to the tub when another cold pocket hits me, sending shivers down my spine.

~~~

Jimin does a little full-body flutter as you step through him to look at the cat, only for you to walk through Jungkook next who lets out a tiny tremble before joining Jimin by the door.

They watch you coo and croon at the cat. “You’re such a smart boy. You knew where I told you to go.” The cat must have been holding in a full bladder because, even from the doorway, Jimin and Jungkook can hear the shhhhh sounds of the cat peeing while you watch like a proud mother.

Jimin lets out a relief sigh. He turns to Jungkook and holds out a hand. “Good job, partner.”

Jungkook shakes it, nodding in acknowledgement. He’s still thinking if he had really felt the cat or if it was just his own imagination. Sometimes it’s easier to realise a phantom feeling especially when you’ve experienced that feeling before. Everybody knows what it feels like to touch a cat and if you imagine running your hand in cat’s fur, you can feel it. That’s how Jungkook is rationalising the situation. That’s also why the phantom limb syndrome is prevalent among amputees, right?

Jimin retreats back into the bedroom but Jungkook lingers, watching you pick up the cat and put it outside of the tub as you clean up the contents. The cat slinks past him and Jungkook subconsciously steps away. He doesn’t want to deal with all these questions if he’s honest. He’s not good with thinking, prefers not to. Thankfully for him, Taehyung comes forward, crouches down and starts tickling the cat’s chin. Like Jungkook, he falls back in surprise once his fingers touch the cat’s neck floof.

He cranes his neck to look up at Namjoon. “Hyung,” he says, eyes bugging and mouth hanging open. “I can touch him.”

Namjoon furrows his eyebrows, not comprehending. “Yeah? I suppose you can.”

Taehyung’s eyes only widened even more. “No, hyung. I can touch him.”

Now, Namjoon is completely baffled by the younger man’s bewilderment of wanting to touch the cat and telling him that he can. Taehyung only reiterates himself, this time turning to Hoseok, Yoongi and Jin in turn. “I can touch him.”

He offers no further explanation, the words eluding him like trying to catch fish with his bare hands, slipping right through his grasp the moment he thinks he got them. So he resorts to only communicating with his expression, hoping that they understood him enough to get what he meant.

Yoongi steps forward and gets low on the ground next to Taehyung. He doesn’t speak but reaches out a hand to pet the cat’s head. He pulls his hand back quickly, looking up at Namjoon and Jin in the same surprised expression. “I can feel him,” he says. “I can feel his fur.”

~~~

I step out of the bathroom to find the cat sitting in the middle of the bedroom, just sitting there and looking at nothing in particular, tails swishing behind him.

He seems to be leaning into something, the posture cats do when they’re getting neck scratches; eyes closed, purring softly. And then he opens his mouth.

~~~

“Holy hell, what the fuck was that?”

Yoongi and Taehyung have both scooted back so fast their backs are pressed against the side of the bed. Hoseok is almost climbing Namjoon, grabbing the other man’s arm so tight Namjoon flinches when his nails dig into his flesh. The cat lets out another meow, or he thinks it’s a meow.

It’s loud and gruff, a combination of a mewl of a cat and the chirp of a leopard. “Whoa, boy,” you laugh, standing there with a mixture of surprise and mirth on your face. “What was that?”

Jimin circles around to stand in front of you in a protective stance, putting distance between you and the cat. Twin-tailed, strange eyes, an even stranger voice and the fact that they could touch it; Jimin doesn’t trust it. He wants the cat out of the house and as far away as possible from you. They know nothing of the cat, never appearing in past cycles before and yet here it is, suddenly planting itself in your life. It makes him uncomfortable, insecure. He doesn’t like it.

The cat turns around, eyes looking straight at Jimin as if it knows what he’s thinking. For some reason, Jimin couldn’t look away.

~~~

The cat turns around facing me but he’s looking at a spot not quite me, but somewhere higher.

I look up towards the ceiling but can’t quite pinpoint anything. I shrug, chalking it up to him just being a strange cat. I rub the cat’s head as I pass by towards the bed, checking that the Zoom class is finished. It’s ten minutes until the next one starts so I decide to get ready, leave the online class running once it starts and take the cat to the vet.

I have the Uber app searching for a car nearby while I braid up my hair and throw on a cap. The lecturer is droning on on Zoom but it’s taking Uber longer than expected. I head on downstairs and go to find Mr Chang, asking for a box. He produces one large enough to put the cat in for transportation but doesn’t seem to agree with me bringing the cat into town by myself.

I laugh at him. “Well, then, you can come with.”

He regards the box long and hard before he firmly shakes his head. “Sorry, miss. I have a lot to take care of in the yard.”

I don’t push him, already expecting the answer. “I think I might need to go up all the way to the main road if I want to get a car to take me into town,” I sigh, checking the car app. “Or maybe I’d have to do it the old fashion way, get Mrs Oliviera to call me a taxi.”

Mr Chang breaks into a smile, his concern for the cat wiped off his face. “You don’t need a taxi,” he says, “if you have a driver’s licence. Do you?”

“I do but I’d need a car to go with that,” I reply sarcastically.

His smile turns into a wide grin. “We do have one. In the garage.”

I stare at him. “There’s a garage?”

~~~

Yoongi completely forgot about it.

Standing there as Mr Chang opens the garage double doors and revealing his first ever lover, his eyes immediately soften, his heart bubbling with the emotions set aside for as long as the red vintage beauty has been neglected. Dust motes swirl in the air in the sunlight that washes in through the opened garage but the paint still gleams.

Yoongi looks at Mr Chang and he immediately understands who has been taking care of his baby.

~~~

Mr Chang looks overly pleased as he checks for my expression after revealing the car.

I got to give it to him, though. It’s a thing of beauty, the red paint gleaming in the sunlight, the silver fenders twinkling and reflecting the light back in my eyes. The convertible top is up and I peer in through the window at the red-white interior, unable to stop myself from gawking. It’s completely breathtaking.

“Whoa,” I breathe, and that’s all I could say.

“Yes, whoa,” Mr Chang says with a small chuckle. He opens the driver's door and gestures for me to sit. “Go on.”

I do, sliding into the seat and feeling myself sinking into the leather. I run my hands over the steering wheel, eyes looking wildly around at the vintage dashboard and the analogue metre gauges. There’s a slight musk inside the car, nothing unpleasant but something I’m sure I’ve smelt before, like a favourite childhood scent that immediately gives you a sense of comfort and safety yet you can’t really remember what it is if someone asks you.

“Like what you see?” Mr Chang teases as he leans against the door. “It’s vintage. 1960-”

“Chevy Impala,” I finished for him, catching myself by surprise. I look up at him but the gardener-cum-groundskeeper only sees my excitement.

“You know your cars, huh,” he comments lightheartedly. I don’t respond, not even sure how I knew but he’s already talking again. “I’ve been taking care of it since I was young and my father before me. He had been very fond of this car.”

“It’s your father’s?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s…a friend’s. We just help maintain it. A car needs to run for it to have a long life. My father used to take it out for a short spin on the property when...er, well, when he can.”

~~~

…when I wasn’t around to be able to, Yoongi thinks, finishing out the actual sentence Mr Chang had initially planned to say.

Yoongi remembers that first day he brought the beauty home, sitting proud in the driver’s seat, an elbow leaning against the door as he drove leisurely down the gravel road to the front of the house, a smug grin on his face and a pair of newly-bought shades on the bridge of his nose. You had been waiting by the front door, snorting and laughing at him but proud all the same because you had picked the colour. The other guys just stood there, arms crossed, unbelieving that he had actually gone and bought the damn car.

“Unfuckingbelievable,” Namjoon mouthed, shaking his head but it had been good-naturedly, proven by the smirk on his face that went along with the shaking of his head.

But what the others thought about his purchase didn’t matter to Yoongi. All that mattered to him in that moment, as he cruised slowly to a stop, was the look on your face, a soft smile playing on your lips, your eyes sparkling with all the love you had for him, no judgement, no sarcasm and not even focused on the new toy he was driving. Just him.

“Hey there, lover,” you had greeted him as he stepped out of the car. “Red looks good on you it seems.” Yoongi remembers everything. He remembers the way he had taken your hand, light in his, and guided you to the passenger side.

Now, he approaches the driver’s side, standing there, a slight longing of wanting to be behind the wheel again as he watches you put your hands on it, testing the grip. It’s amazing, isn’t it, love? He thinks. The wheel feels good, reliable, doesn’t it? Like it’ll take you to places you’ve never been before, safely. That’s what I wanted to do, why I bought the car. For you, my love. For you.

You look up and for a moment, Yoongi is taken aback as you look straight at him. His breath catches in his throat and his stomach does a flip. “This is amazing, Mr Chang,” you say breathlessly and his heart falls. Yoongi swallows a hard lump in his throat and steps back.

~~~

“Right?” Mr Chang replies. He leans in and flips open the sun visor above my head to produce a key. He slides it into the ignition carefully and turns, the engine starting up with a loud, luscious purr.

“Listen to that,” he says, with a grin. “It’s a total beast, isn’t it?”

I can tell that he’s very excited about the car. The pristine condition of it is an obvious proof of how much love and care he had put in in place of his father’s friend. The owner of the car would’ve been proud to know that they’re baby is being taken care of so well. The keychain dangles against my knee and I look down to see a coin-sized basketball, the colour and details worn with time. I squish it in between my fingers, rolling it around.

Three letters on the back of the ball are almost invisible now but I can still make them out: MYG. Is that the initials of the actual owner? I wonder what it stands for but something itches in the back of my mind the longer I stare at the alphabets. What was his or her connection to my grandaunt? It must be significant considering this vintage car that would have fetched for millions was left here on her property.

“You think you can take this baby downtown to the vet?” Mr Chang’s question rips me out of my thoughts and I look up, releasing the keychain.

I shake my head, nervous. “I don’t think I should. It’s too-”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The gardener is shaking his head.

~~~

“Come on, baby,” Yoongi mutters. “You know you want to. You’ve done it before.”

“I forgot about this car,” Jin says to Yoongi. “I remember that first time you brought it home.”

Namjoon snorts. “It was so fucking red I thought it was the most ridiculous thing.”

Yoongi smiles. “And then everyone wants to take it out on a spin.”

“But you wouldn’t let me drive it,” Jungkook pouts.

“Yes, I did.”

“For like five minutes,” Jungkook argues but not really seriously. “And only down this street to the main gate! You wouldn’t even let me go past thirty!”

They all laugh as they reminisce, nostalgia kicking up the memory dust. But Yoongi is just a bit more sentimental than usual, hanging back, not really laughing but just smiling although it doesn’t reach his eyes. He had loved this car, not as much as he loves you, but close. Most of his courtings were taking you out on a drive with the top down and the wind in your hair as you drew little waves with your hand out the window. The first time he had kissed you had been in this car, too, you almost in his lap, his hand cupping your cheek gently, gently because you’re the most precious thing to him.

He blinks a few times, regaining his composure, and turns to Hoseok. “If she goes, you go with her.”

Hoseok immediately rejects the idea. “No, hyung. You should go.”

“But we agreed that you should lead this cycle,” Yoongi says back quietly.

Hoseok pats him on the shoulder. “We have all the time we need. And it wouldn’t change anything if it starts with you, hyung.” He nudges the older man. “Go.”

~~~

Twenty minutes later, after having to sneak around the house avoiding the housekeeper, I have the cat sitting in the box and place it on the floor of the passenger seat and me buckle up behind the wheel.

I take one last look at the gardener, making sure that this is alright. “Are you sure about this?”

Mr Chang steps away from the car, closes the door for me and gestures to the open road ahead. “Safe journey, my lady,” he says, with a slight tip of his head. “I’ll let Ollie know that you’ll be back a little late for dinner.”

He flicks his gaze to the passenger seat as if checking for something but looks back at me. “Drive safe.”

~~~

Yoongi settles himself in the passenger side, the box with the cat in between his legs. He runs his hand gingerly against the door, trying to feel it with his memories instead.

The other guys are standing just outside his door, and Jimin leans in through the window. “Have fun, hyung,” he says with a wink and Yoongi rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like I can do anything,” he mumbles, bending down to check on the cat. It seems to be behaving pretty well, looking up at him curiously but sitting down on all fours calmly, like a black, fluffy version of the Sphinx Pyramid, if the pyramid had two tails, black and white intertwining behind it. It’s unsettling and Yoongi closes one flap of the box so he doesn’t have to look at it, or for the cat to be able to look at him through its blue-yellow halfsies eyes.

You shift into gear, looking a little nervous and Yoongi is starting to doubt if this was a good idea. You said you had a licence but how skilled of a driver are you? Why didn’t Chang ask this? Yoongi holds in the sigh, sitting back and resolving himself. Well, it's too late to do anything now. You release the emergency brake and Yoongi wishes that he can at least use the seatbelt or hold on to the panic bar above him, knowing that you hate nothing more than having a passenger do the latter.

Namjoon notices the fisted hands in Yoongi’s lap and he almost bursts into laughter but decides maybe to not further egg the man. He hides his face behind Jin’s shoulders. As the car starts to glide forward slowly, not one of them remembers to check the time or the sun’s position in the sky. Not one of them thinks about how far out you’d have to drive to find the vet or how long it would take for you to get back. It doesn’t even cross their minds that when you come back, the sun will be long gone.

All they think about is how much Yoongi loves the car and how much he had missed driving it; it was his pride and joy. He’s a frugal man and it had been his one and only luxurious purchase for himself. They remembered how he would spend hours just buffing and fussing with the coat, only coming back inside when you went to fetch him, whether it was sunny or snowy. They know that by having him in the car with you could make the man a little happier to at least ride in it again, even if he couldn’t drive it.

In his panic and anxiousness, Yoongi only focuses on your driving, forgetting that he only has about two and half hours before his invisibility lets up and it’s a thirty-minute drive to the nearest veterinarian. You, on the other hand, have two stops to make. Your driving should be the least of his worries.

a/n2: introducing our new little friend! I had a friend (IG: freeddoodles) draw me this little guy that is yet to be named. I'm so excited to show him to you guys because I wanted for this one character to come to life! Yes, he's based on a Japanese folklore, the nekomata. Lmk what you think about this chapter in the comments or ask :)

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blasphemousgoggles · 3 months

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Canceled Date

Warning: Alcohol Abuse, Depression

Notes: Nothing explicit happens, sorta mentioned though. No kissing occurs.

Glancing across from you, you can see that Misato had opened another can of beer. Her clothes were wrinkled and one of her sleeves loosened off her shoulder. Misato leaned back and took a large swig of her beer. You cringe and look down, the fact that her liver is still working is a miracle.

“Um Misato not to be rude but, don’t you think you’ve had a bit too much?” Frowning you continue, “You should probably take a break.” Honestly you couldn’t care less about people's bad habits but after seeing your housemate consume at minimum, ten beers a day, it became a little too concerning.

She rolled her eyes and set the can down on the table and complained very exaggeratedly, “Aww, don’t be such a bummer!” giggles scrape out of her mouth, “This is what makes life worth living!”

You just frown at her and glance down at the food on the table. You were both sharing dinner, which is TV dinners that Misato pulled out of the fridge. It's not that TV dinners are bad per se, it's just when you have it so frequently you end up feeling gross, though Shinji and Asuka don’t complain about it anymore. Speaking of them, they were currently out, so no one could really back up your point.

“If you say so.” Deciding to ignore it for now you just continue to eat.

Misato picks up the can again and finishes it in one drink. Like Shinji and Asuka, Misato doesn’t cope well with her problems. Shinji frequently tries to run away from his problems or he just shuts himself away from the world, Asuka takes it out on other people, but in your honest to God opinion Misato copes the worst. She drinks away all of her problems in beer, trying to drown her vulnerabilities, and from what you’ve heard from Ritsuko about her relationship with Kaji…well it could be worse you suppose.

“Anything new with you?” She asks, you look up from your meal, “Ah nothing really, just work. You?”

“Same here.” She sighs, “At least there hasn’t been another Angel sighting.” Nodding you add “Yeah it has been pretty peaceful as of late.”

Once again it goes into an awkward silence, there isn’t much you can talk about other than work, yet you still try.

“Oh! Weren’t you going to go out with Mr. Kaji today?” She paused and stared at you barrenly. Welp you screwed up, who would have thought that maybe you shouldn’t bring up someone's possible boyfriend. Better yet you already know that Misato may have a love life unlike you, but her taste in men is atrocious. Even you have better taste in men! …and women but that's not the point.

“He canceled.” You wince “Oh- uh- sorry to hear that. My bad.” You should really stop trying to talk to people; it never works. Misato cracks open another beer, chugs then giggles.

She smiles then she sighs and looks down “It's fine don’t worry about it, it's not your fault anyway.”

She then looks up and makes eye contact “What about you, Are ya seeing anyone yet?”

Internally dying, you grin “Nope! Probably not going to happen anytime soon yet unfortunately” You pick at your food, quickly changing the person of interest to someone else “What about Ritsuko I haven't heard much about hers?”

Your ego is very bruised, easily you can make fun of yourself for it but when someone else brings it up, you can’t help but feel a little disheartened. Even more so right now since currently the object of your affection is asking you who is in fact obviously dating someone else. And likely doesn’t even like girls.

She gives a razor sharp grin “Why? Are you interested?”

Sputtering you quickly clear the air “No- I was only- only curious.” Somehow her grin got wider and she gave a bark of laughter, while her laugh chimed like broken glass, there was something oddly melodic about it.

Too soon her laughter died off and her smile turned bittersweet. She looked rather solemnly at you which made this dinner feel a bit more morose. In all fairness, Misato never looks happy, she looks more like an imitation of someone going through the motions of happiness. You suppose when she drinks she’s at her happiest. The point is, she has never looked at you like that, she has made that expression at Shinji, Ritsuko, and even Kaji but not you. It’s starting to feel like you shouldn’t have stayed for dinner and instead you should’ve gone out with Shinji and Asuka.

“Kaji canceled on me today.” you frown at that, you had already talked about this.

“I'm aware.”

Misato looks at you intensely. “I’m glad you’re here with me. I really…I was hoping- Sorry. I can’t figure out how to say this. Silly huh.”

She smiles at you again but this time she actually smiles at you. This feels very wrong for some reason.

“I really didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Oh. Me too… I guess.” You really don’t know what to say to that.

Misato looks at you rather expectantly …with a hint of something else. This can’t end well.

“I'm glad that he canceled. I just- I…” Misato keeps cutting herself off. Instead of continuing she crawls towards you.

Oh no.

Breathlessly she states a fact that you couldn’t bear to hear right now. “You’re lonely.” She pauses, “I’m so alone.” She crawls closer to you.

You try to stand up to avoid the inevitable but she’s already too close. She grabs both of your hands, kneeling by your legs to do so.

“We have- no- We will always be alone.” She looks at you with twisted hope.

“But we can be alone together.”

She tries to lean in but you stop her. She’s way too drunk for that, and you have standards.

“That’s not a good idea.” You sigh, “You will end up regretting it in the morning.”

As much as you love her, care about her, and even idolize her…having an intimate relationship with her would only damage her and you further.

“Kaji wasn’t there.” She looks at you desperately now, “You were.” You can clearly tell this isn’t about a canceled date anymore. Maybe it partially is, Misato’s ramblings seem to be spurred on by a multitude of things. While it is true that you stuck by her even at her worst, and even worse moments… you refuse to take advantage of this situation like that. Your crush on Misato isn’t fleeting but whatever she feels for you currently is.

She only cares for you because you won’t leave.

She moves one of her hands off of yours to cusp your face.

“I just need someone good for me.”

Tactfully you move your hand out of hers and move it to her face to push her a little further away from you.

“You wouldn’t be good for me though.” This got her to pause. Misato likely thought that because you had a crush on her you would be willing to… do whatever this was meant to be.

You continue, “As far as I’m concerned, you’re dating Kaji and I am not going to be involved in that.” Misato looks like she was about to speak so you quickly go on. “Kaji may not be the best but he at least cares about you, don’t forget you did a lot of unpleasant stuff towards him as well. Did you forget that he’s also my friend?” While you could easily make fun of who Misato is dating because it's Kaji, that doesn't mean he was a bad person. You’re fairly certain for whatever the reason he had to cancel was reasonable. Both Misato and Kaji did a lot of stupid things during their relationship so both of them should be blamed instead of Misato attempting to push all the fault on him.

“But I thought you-” Misato looks confused, you understand why.

“Yes I like you, but I know you well enough to know that being in a relationship with you is a bad idea.”

You stand up and walk to the kitchen and grab a cup. “I don’t appreciate you using my feelings towards you so that you can comfort yourself.” You fill the glass with sink water. “You’ve done this before but you either remember or choose not to.” Walking back to the living room you place the glass in front of her. “I can’t blame you though, it would be stupid to blame you when you're drunk all the time.”

Glancing over her form, it looks like she’s about to cry.

“What’s sad is that I would’ve said yes if you weren’t dating him.” You feel really pathetic saying that to her. You walk to your bedroom door and look back one more time.

Misato is refusing to look at you. You sigh.

“Regarding what you said earlier, you’re not alone. You still have Ritsuko and Shinji. Try calling them, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

You close the door. You can hear her cry outside.

#Misato x Reader #neon genesis evangelion #misato katsuragi #x reader #fem reader #misato x fem reader #end of evangelion #Alcohol abuse #Angst #Meant to be fluff originally

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seiya-starsniper · 1 year

Text

and if I get burned, at least we were electrified - Chapter 4

Link on AO3 [here]

Chapter Summary: Time for more angst for our poor boy Cory before he gets to reunite with Hob. But what will he do if Dream finds him first?

Also this chapter is now rated Explicit for events that happen in this chapter >:)

The Corinthian eats and eats, but it's not enough. It will never be enough. He can still taste Hob at the back of his tongue. He was determined to wash the taste of the immortal from his mouth but none of his meals stick around long enough. It’s the best and worst thing to ever happen to him.

He’s been gone for almost a year now and the hunger inside him is worse than it had ever been before he’d moved in with Hob.

Some days he lays around in his penthouse, aimless and drunk. Other days he drives with no destination in mind, picking up hitchhikers and leaving their bodies in cheap motels and gas station bathrooms, if he’s feeling creative. He’s reclaimed his reputation stateside after going dark for almost a decade while he lived in London with Hob. All the media outlets in the UK had thought he was just a vigilante copycat whenever they found the bodies of the criminals he and Hob hunted. It made sense, considering his M.O. was different across the pond, but it had still hurt the blond’s pride.

Tonight, he’s picked up two friends at a nightclub, two men who are disgustingly in love with one another, but seem oblivious to one another’s feelings. It’s all too easy for The Corinthian to flirt first with one, then both, and then his suggestion of a threesome is met with far too much eagerness. They drag him from the club to their shared apartment only a few blocks away.

The sex is about what he expects. They do focus on his needs at first and The Corinthian gets his orgasm, but eventually the two friends end up far too engrossed in one another, ignoring him entirely. It makes it too easy for The Corinthian to go for his knives hidden in the pile of discarded clothing. He stabs them both at the same time, making sure to go for the neck to minimize screaming. The apartments in America have such thin walls, after all.

It’s almost sad, watching the two of them reach for one another, gurgling on their own blood, trying to be close even in death. If he were a better creature, he’d kill them both now to spare having one watch the other be dissected prior to death. But he’s not a better creature, no matter how much Hob tried to guide him that way. And his mission tonight is to forget Hob. He knows it won’t work. But he still tries anyway.

The Corinthian eats his way through a happy ending the two men imagined with one another before they came across him and nearly vomits up his dinner.

–

He feels Dream’s release from the Burgess basement like a leash has suddenly been pulled taut and tight on his neck.

He’s glad that Hob isn’t around for the experience. He wouldn't have been able to hide the terror of his unmaking. He knows the immortal would have been willing to fight his creator to keep him alive, at least, until he realized who exactly Dream was. The Corinthian tells himself it was better that he left Hob before Hob could leave him. He could spare Hob the pain of having to choose between them, especially when they both knew he’d choose Dream. The Corinthian knows it wasn’t intentional, but he feels like a pathetic substitute for his creator.

The Corinthian is glad he kept track of the Burgess estate and the events that unfolded after Dream’s capture. Ethel escaping and disappearing with Dream's tools had been an unexpected boon in The Corinthian’s favor. He thinks he might be able to convince her to use them against him. It wouldn’t be hard. They’re powerful tools and they blessed Roderick himself with riches he could only previously dream of. Humans are selfish like that. Ethel would be no different, she'd want to keep her and her son’s life intact.

The Corinthian is in full survival mode now that Dream is out. He needs to make sure Dream doesn't catch up to him.

–

Going to Ethel did not work out as well as he had hoped. It’s been a long time since his body’s been completely destroyed to be reformed back in the Dreaming. He’s gotten sloppy in the years he’s been away from Hob, he thinks. Americans shirk the idea of magic a lot more easily than the Europeans do so The Corinthian had not been expecting a protection amulet of all things to be on Ethel Cripp’s person. He’s pretty sure he’s blown his only chance at getting the tools now.

“Oh good, you’ve returned,” Lucienne greets. “It’s been quite a while since you’ve been forced back here, I was starting to get worried. His Lordship will be pleased.”

Fuck. He needs to leave before Dream realizes he’s here.

“Where is Dream?” he asks, hoping he comes off as nonchalant.

“He’s away. Again. For the moment.”

Good. He still has time. The Corinthian thinks he knows exactly what his master is doing. It’s what he was doing before Ethel decided to blow him to pieces.

"Well then, I’d better get a move on."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to the Waking World. To Freedom. You should try it sometime." He knows she won't.

"Have you no loyalty to your creator?" Lucienne bites at him angrily.

“Why should I? He has no loyalty to us.”

"You misunderstand him, Corinthian." Lucienne. Lucienne. Still loyal to a fault, he sees.

"Oh no, I see him for what he is." The Corinthian responds, not even bothering to hide his disdain. "He doesn’t give a fuck about you or me. He only cares about himself. His kingdom. Well, he can have it. Cause I am leaving and I am never coming back."

The Ethel Cripps route didn’t work out for him. But maybe he can still get to Dream’s tools before his master can.

—

For the first time in centuries, a dream vortex has been born.

The Corinthian feels her powers awaken like a hurricane. She’s powerful. More powerful than any previous vortex.. She could bring down the walls between The Dreaming and the Waking. Her name is Rose Walker. The Corinthian is drawn to her like a moth to a raging inferno.

Before he knows it, an idea starts bubbling in the back of his mind. If he can get to Rose before Dream, he can talk to her, convince her to use her powers to take over the Dreaming, to take down Dream before he can take her. She’s young for a human. Barely an adult. She’ll want to live. She probably has family she wants to keep alive too. It shouldn’t be too hard.

If he can get Rose on his side, he can stop Dream from unmaking him. He could get her to stop Hob from leaving him to be with Dream instead. He could convince Rose to build him a new little corner in the universe, where only he and Hob exist, where nothing and no one can touch them and then The Corinthian can finally, truly, be absolutely free.

The possibilities are endless.

—

The Collectors find him before he finds Rose. The Corinthian is not pleased one bit at how pathetic the copycat attempts were, but his sour mood lightens when he realizes they just wanted his attention.

The idea of a serial killer convention is hilarious to him. He thinks that Hob would've loved this sort of thing, if only to take so many unrelenting murderers down in one fell swoop. The Corinthian imagines all the ways they'd hunt the hundred or so attendees. It would probably start slow, a few missing attendees here and there, so as not to bring suspicion right away. Then Hob could enter during the Keynote Speech The Corinthian was just invited to give, and then they'd smile at each other before Hob would lock the doors and unleash Hell.

Hob probably would've been less thrilled that all the attendees had been inspired to follow their dreams of death and carnage towards innocents because of The Corinthian, and that was why he was invited to give the Keynote. The Corinthian himself is conflicted. In a time where he didn't meet Hob, he knows the idea of a cult following would thrill him to no end. A small part of him is thrilled at the idea of a fanclub.

But it still feels empty. Like he felt every time he killed for the sake of trying to feel something. Being with Hob has made him realize killing for the sake of killing was not satisfying, would never be satisfying. At least, not in the long term. All he had been doing was trying to fill in a hole that continued to stay empty, no matter how much he tried.

A cult of followers is a poor substitute for his relationship to Hob, but it'll have to do, for now, until he can convince Rose to kill Dream. But first he has to find her.

—

The Corinthian knows this is it. This is the end of the line. He’s tried and failed at every attempt to destroy Dream once and for all. Deep down though, he knows for all the contempt he holds for his creator, he could probably never pull that last trigger. He hates the thought, especially when he remembers Dream did not hesitate to try to unmake him back in 1916.

In his last moments, he thinks of Hob.

I want to see him . The Corinthian thinks desperately. If I have to die now, just let me see him one last time. He pictures Hob’s flat in his mind’s eye, warm and inviting. The Corinthian wonders why he ever left. Maybe they could’ve worked something out after all. Maybe they still can.

And then suddenly The Corinthian is in Hob’s flat with his creator.

“Cory?! And Dream?! What the fuck?” Hob yells from his couch where he’s clearly been grading papers. Papers that are now scattered all over the floor from the force of their supernatural entry.

The Corinthian does not waste a second. He rushes from his spot on the floor towards Hob as fast as he can manage and tugs the man into a desperate kiss. It feels like rain after a drought.

It's over too soon because Dream yanks him back from Hob so hard he feels his brain rattle around in his head.

"You dare impose yourself upon my friend?" his creator growls angrily. "Insolent creature, I will unmake you just for this.”

“No Dream, wait!” Hob yells, and Dream somehow listens and looks at his friend.

“I do not know why he chose to run to you Hob, but whatever lies The Corinthian has told you,” Dream says, slowly. “I can assure you that he-”

“He’s the one I told you about before!” Hob interrupts. Dream’s eyes are now so wide The Corinthian would laugh if he weren’t fearing for his own life.

“The Corinthian is the lover you mentioned earlier to me? The one who spurned you with no warning, nor reason? Your lover of ten years ?” And wow, The Corinthian thought he had heard Dream angry before, but he’s never heard it quite like this. If The Corinthian had any doubt about Dream's feelings towards Hob before, well. He definitely feels some sort of way about their relationship and it is decidedly not good. What the hell had Hob told Dream anyways? And why had he even said anything at all?

Dream’s hands are now in his hair and he’s pulling so hard The Corinthian thinks he’s going to be scalped by his bare hands. “Explain yourself, Corinthian. Before I unmake you, you will explain this grievous deception of my dear friend.”

“I didn’t know!” The Conthrian bites out, struggling futilely against Dream's monstrous hold. “I didn’t know he was your stupid mortal! If I knew I wouldn’t have…” but he doesn’t finish because the look on Hob’s face is enough to know that’s not true. Hob would’ve attracted The Corinthian regardless of whether he knew the man's true identity or not. In fact, the knowledge may have even made him want Hob more in the beginning.

“Wouldn’t have done what, Corinthian?” Dream demands, forcing The Corinthian to break his focus on the immortal.

“You can’t say it, can you Cory?” Hob asks, and when the Corinthian turns to look at him again, his eyes are so gentle, so damn forgiving. It makes The Corinthian want to scream so he does.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up Hob!” He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, not after everything he’s done. He’s beginning to regret wanting to come here.

Dream’s hands somehow grip him even tighter. “You dare raise your voice-”

“Dream!” Hob interrupts. “Please let him go. Please, you’re hurting him.” Hob is begging now, which seems to confuse Dream enough that he loosens his hold on The Corinthian’s scalp ever so slightly, but it doesn't last. Dream renews his hold mere seconds later and the room seems to grow colder, darker. His maker is angry now.

“Hurting him? He has been wreaking havoc on the Waking World, murdering others for sport, and with no consideration for human life. He must be brought to heel, and unmade.” Well, this is it. At least the last thing he’ll see before his unmaking is Hob. He just wishes his old lover didn’t look so heartbroken, but beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes.

Hob is quiet for a beat. “Please, Morpheus, Dream, old friend. Don't take the love of my life away from me,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

Love of my life? Had The Corinthian heard him correctly? Surely, Hob can't be referring to him?

The Corinthian, who is flawed, broken, unwanted by his own creator, filled with a bloodlust he can’t ever sate, a being born to be contrary and more importantly, impossible to love. Hob can’t possibly think such a cruel and broken creature worthy to be deemed the love of his life.

Could he?

"Y-you?" The Corinthian gasps. He has to know. "You still want me?"

“Oh darling,” Hob says, so kindly it makes The Corinthian want to weep. “Of course I still want you. I'll always want you.”

And the confession must startle something in Dream because his grip on The Corinthian goes completely slack, and the blond takes full advantage and rushes straight back to Hob, nearly bowling the entire couch over with the strength of it.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," The Corinthian chants it like a prayer. Like he's making up for all the times he was too afraid to say it before, like he'll never get another chance if he doesn't make up for all that lost time now. He has no pride now, and he must look pathetic, cradled in Hob’s lap and clutching at him desperately like a child. But he needs to feel all of Hob, so he wraps as much of his body as possible around the man and buries his face in Hob’s hair.

"I'm sorry, fuck, I'm so sorry I didn't say it before, but fuck me, I love you Hob Gadling, I love you so fucking much." He's blabbering now, he knows, but if Dream unmakes him now, he needs Hob to know how much The Corinthian has missed him, has loved him, for their entire time together.

“I know, I know darling, I love you too, I do. I'll always love you, I swear it, I swear on my own immortality I'll always love you, my one and only, my lifeline, my beautiful nightmare .”

Hob kisses him, and it’s filled with so much emotion, The Corinthian cannot help but kiss him back with his entire being. He wants and wants, but it’s impossible to completely forget that Dream is still in the room. A few kisses later, they settle, and The Corinthian turns to look upon his creator.

Dream looks shell shocked.

“I do not understand…” His master says after a time. “The Corinthian was not created to feel love and yet, I can feel it radiating from him.”

Dream seems to reach out for the two of them, then aborts the gesture. He seems deep in thought about something.

“Hob Gadling… ” Dream says. " You have changed the essence of my own creation, what sorcery is this?”

“No sorcery here, my friend,” Hob replies. ”I think he's always been capable of feeling love.”

Has he? This is news to The Corinthian. But he can feel it, surely as much as his creator feels it. He loves Hob Gadling, he’s done with denying it to himself.

“Why do you think that?” Dream asks, curious, as if Hob has presented him with a puzzle.

“Because he's yours , isn't he?” Hob says. The way Hob says it, as if Dream has as much of a claim to The Corinthian as Hob does, sparks something warm in The Corinthian’s belly. “He's your creation, so he's imbued with you, and I know you're capable of loving people so why shouldn't he?”

“Because that is not his purpose,” Dream insists.

“Oh and what exactly is his purpose, then?”

“To serve as a dark mirror to humanity. To show them all the things they are too afraid to confront for themselves.”

“I see…” Hob replies, contemplative. “Isn't change one of the darkest aspects of humanity? Probably the one which humans are most afraid to confront themselves with?”

Dream is silent which prompts Hob to continue. The Corinthian is also curious about Hob’s line of thinking so he keeps quiet for now. If Hob is willing to argue for his life to his creator, who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Keeping things the same is easy, Dream. You know this, I know this. There’s comfort in things that withstand the change of time. Confronting change is a lot more terrifying for most beings, even those less than human. Weren't you afraid just a century ago to confront our friendship?”

“You presume-”

"I do presume. Like I presumed in 1889. You were so sure you didn't need me, didn't need a human companion for friendship, but guess what? Now we're here and not that long ago you called me your friend. You've changed since we met Dream, whether you want to confront that change or not. The Dream I met in 1389 would not have called me his friend like the Dream of today. Or did you not mean it?"

“Of course I meant it,” Dream says softly. “You are correct now, as you were then,” Dream placates then adds, “My friend.”

Hob’s smile is brilliant and The Corinthian both loves how good it looks on him and hates it because it’s directed at Dream.

“Then, wouldn't it make sense that a creature meant to represent human's darkest fears, also be a creature of change himself? Shouldn't nightmares be capable of changing, of adapting…to the ever evolving human condition? Human fears change over time, Dream. When you met me, I was terrified of The Devil. Now humans don't even believe he exists! So wouldn't your nightmares need to adapt as well?"

Dream’s expression changes from confusion to thoughtful at Hob’s words.

“I concede your point there. It has come to my attention recently that many of my dreams as well as my nightmares have changed in my absence."

Hob lights up at the words.

"See? Anything you're capable of, your creations are too. They've adapted, and that's normal, admirable even. It means you've created them well." Hob then looks down at The Corinthian, fondness dancing in his eyes. "You've certainly made this one well," he says admiringly. "Maybe I’m biased, but I think Cory here is my favorite.”

That prompts a wry smile from Dream. “Of course. He is my masterpiece after all,” his creator says proudly.

Hearing that he’s Dream’s masterpiece still does something to The Corinthian’s ego. He hasn't heard pride come from Dream regarding him in a long time either, and he's not sure whether he hates it or not.

“Masterpiece, huh? So you spent the most time on him?” Hob asks.

“I did. He is one of my arcana, my most powerful nightmare.” Then, more softly. “He is my favorite, as well.”

Favorite? He was still Dream’s favorite, even after everything he’d done?

“That makes sense then,” Hob says. “He’s so much like you I should have realized it sooner.”

Like Dream? He is nothing like Dream.

“I am nothing like him,” The Corinthian hisses, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

“Oh, but you are, pet. All that pettiness and rage you hold? Comes from him, for sure. And that same interest in the human experience is what gave me my immortality after all, isn’t that right, Dream?” Hob asks.

“I-what, he doesn’t have interest in humans, he despises them-” The Corinthian starts.

“See I don’t think that’s true.” Hob interrupts. He rakes his fingers through The Corinthian’s hair, and the blond is so taut with emotion that he keens at the feeling.

“And my friend,” Hob says to Dream. “I hope you’ll forgive me for presuming, yet again , on things, but I’ve had a lot of time to think while the two of you have been gone. But when Cory first came to me, I thought he just liked eating eyes for the hell of it. But then I realized he’s able to see human memories when he eats them. Isn’t it interesting that he continues to want to eat human eyes, to want to experience humanity the only way he knows how to?”

The Corinthian has never told Hob these things, but as the immortal says them, he knows them to be true. The Corinthian is addicted to humanity, to the human experience. He wants and wants and the hunger is never ending, and he realizes now, that the hunger had only ever come to heel in the decade he spent with Hob.

“Is this true, Corinthian?” Dream asks him.

“Of course it’s true!” The Corinthian snaps. “All I've ever wanted to know was what it feels like to be human.”

The revelation hangs heavy in the air between the three of them.

“See?” Hob says, looking fondly between the two of them. “Exactly like your maker, the way the two of you just want to experience humanity.”

Dream's head snaps sharply from The Corinthian back to the immortal.

“Hob, those are not the same things,” Dream says.

“Aren’t they?” Hob challenges.

“I do not desire to feed upon human beings and hurt them!” Dream growls, but it does not deter Hob from making his point.

“No, you’re right." Hob agrees. "You don’t want to kill humans, but you long for their experiences, don’t you? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Why you and I meet every hundred years, so I can tell you what it’s like to be human because you don’t know how to experience it for yourself. It's the same desire Cory has, just a different execution Dream.” Hob says pointedly.

Dream appears to go through many emotions at once as he processes that statement. He's angry first, then contemplative, then stricken. He seems to be remembering a particularly bad memory, and The Corinthian wishes he could read his master's mind as well as his own could be read.

“You are right again, as always, my friend.” Dream finally sighs. He sounds resigned. “I am the originator of The Corinthian, and as you so aptly pointed out, his shortcomings are my shortcomings. You had once accused me of needing companionship. You were correct. I was…am lonely. And I have passed that loneliness to my greatest work.”

Dream now looks at the Corinthian, then swiftly kneels in front of the couch so they are almost eye to eye.

“My little nightmare,” Dream says and The Corinthian cannot help but whine at the nickname. He clutches at Hob’s arms for purchase, suddenly feeling unmoored. Dream notices, because, of course he does, and his creator reaches out to cup a hand to The Corinthian’s face. “All this time, I thought my mistake was that I did not give you enough love for humanity, and that is why you wandered from your purpose and began to kill in the Waking.”

The Corinthian’s entire body shakes at the intimacy between them. It has been so long since they’ve been close, so long since Dream had used a term of endearment with him. The Corinthian thought he had shed all his desires to be close to Dream, to be good for his master, but in this moment, his feelings come roaring back like a forest fire. He leans his head forward, and Dream knows what he needs. His creator delicately removes his glasses, hands them to Hob and then presses their foreheads together.

“I was wrong, though. The truth is, you love humanity too much, as I do. You love humans so much it consumes you. And so in turn, your never ending hunger drives you to consume humanity, as much as it will give you. And like your master, eventually it was no longer enough to simply devour that experience through dreams, and now here you are.”

The Corinthian feels flayed open by the revelation. Not only is he a dark mirror of humanity, but of his master as well. He had thought Dream callous, uncaring. Only concerned with ruling a kingdom with subjects he did not understand. But the truth is Dream is just as hungry as he is. More so, if The Corinthian had only received a fraction of his master’s want of humanity.

“My little nightmare,” Dream whispers. “Brought down by the same human as your master.”

And that is not what should break the dam of his emotions but it is.

The Corinthian is now sobbing openly, blood red tears staining everything. He wants to reach for Dream, but he doesn't want to let go of Hob. Dream looks up to meet Hob's eyes, and an understanding seems to pass between the two of them. He stands from his kneeling position on the floor and seats himself on the couch next to Hob, their thighs pressed together. He looks at The Corinthian expectantly.

The Corinthian can no longer take it. Hob knows what he wants before he does because before he knows it he's being shifted off the immortal's lap and into his creator's. He clings to Dream, buries his face in his jacket made of stars and night, inhales the scent of eternity from his neck.

“I'm sorry, Dream, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my lord, I'm so sorry, please I beg you-"

"Shh shh, all is forgiven." Dream calms him. "I will not unmake you, my masterpiece. We will find another way, I swear it."

Dream wraps his arms around The Corinthian then runs the back of his hand reassuringly along The Corinthian's spine. It reminds him of the day he came into creation; his master's arms enveloping him in a warm embrace, welcoming him to the dreaming, all soothing words and open affection.

Except it's different than that because Hob is also there, whispering platitudes and praise into his back. The Corinthian is pressed between his lover and his creator and he realizes there is nowhere else he would rather be.

—

They lay there, on Hob's couch, for what feels like hours. Eventually, Dream's head shoots up, and The Corinthian can tell he sensed Rose Walker entering the Dreaming.

“Rose Walker has fallen asleep.” Dream says.

“Are you still going to kill her?” The Corinthian asks and Hob’s head shoots wildly between the two of them, clearly wanting to inquire, but not knowing where to start.

“I have no choice, Corinthian. Her presence threatens the existence of The Dreaming, and humanity."

“Hmmm good luck then,” The Corinthian answers and then he moves back into Hob's lap, burrowing his face back into the other man's shoulder. “I’m staying with Hob.” Now that Dream no longer wants to unmake him, The Corinthian has lost all interest in Rose.

“You will not come with me?" Dream asks, almost scandalized. " You still look to shirk your duties-”

"If it's all the same to you, my friend," Hob interjects. "I'd selfishly like my time with Cory too. I don't know what's going on, but do whatever it is you need to do first, I promise we'll both be here when you get back.”

Dream softens. “Very well. I will return once this has been dealt with. We will continue our conversation then.”

–

After Dream leaves, Hob seems content to sit with The Corinthian in silence. Eventually though, the immortal gently nudges him.

“Love? I was kind of drinking before you and Dream showed up and I need to use the bathroom now,” he says.

The Corinthian whines when Hob shifts the blond off his lap. He knows it shouldn’t be such a big deal, but he’s been without Hob for two years. He thinks he gets to be a little bit greedy.

“I'll be back in like 10 seconds you brat!” Hob says fondly, then disappears down the hall.

When he gets back, Hob offers his hand to The Corinthian in a gesture to lift him off the couch.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

The Corinthian pads over to the kitchen and stands awkwardly at the counter while Hob pulls out mugs and begins to fill the kettle. The Corinthian notes that Hob’s kept his favorite mug.

“So do you wanna tell me what happened that night?” Hob asks once they’ve both gotten their tea. “And why exactly you ran off on me?”

The Corinthian shrugs. “It's pretty obvious, isn't it?” he asks.

“I can extrapolate, sure, but I want to hear it from you, Cory.” Hob insists.

The Corinthian has already been flayed raw tonight. What’s another revelation between them now?

“I saw Dream in your memories. And I knew I had to leave.” The Corinthian admits.

“Why? Because we were friends?”

“Because you love him!” The Corinthian almost slams his mug down but then remembers himself and decides to stare down at the tea as he chooses his next words.

“You love him still, you loved him…first.” Crap. He thought he was done with tears, thought his body wrung out, but it seems Hob can always inspire in him more emotions than he thought possible.

When The Corinthian looks up at Hob from his mug, there’s shock, then confusion all over the immortal’s face. Then, something like horror and then, inexplicably, softness.

“Oh darling, did you think I was going to leave you for Dream?” Hob asks.

“Why wouldn't you?” The Corinthian replies. The next words out of his mouth feel like chewing glass. “You said it yourself, I'm just like him. Why settle for a poor imitation when you could have the real thing?”

“You are not a poor imitation and if that's what you took from that whole conversation then you weren't listening, Cory.”

Hob sets his mug down on the counter now, and moves to stand in front of The Corinthian. He takes the blond’s face in his hands and brings it as close to his as possible.

“I love you for who you are. And yes, who you are may stem in part from Dream but it is not all that you are. You are so much more than just a simple creation to me, and I will tell you that however many times you need to hear it.” The Corinthian can see the truth and devotion in Hob’s eyes. He wonders why he ever doubted Hob. Of course Hob loves him for who he is, he’s been trying to tell the blond that this entire time, hasn’t he?

"Tell me again, then." The Corinthian does not beg, but it feels close enough.

“I'll do more than tell you, if you'll let me,” Hob whispers, and then his mouth slots into The Corinthian’s. It’s better than the kiss from earlier when The Corinthian first arrived with Dream. That kiss had been born out of desperation. It had been borne from shame. It was a kiss goodbye.

The kiss Hob gives him now is like cotton candy on a hot day in June. It’s sweet and melts in his mouth and leaves The Corinthian wanting more. Hob’s tongue prods at his lips and The Corinthian lets his mouth fall open to let it meet his own.

It feels like coming home.

“Bed?” the immortal asks in between kisses.

“Yes,” The Corinthian answers breathily. “Anywhere.”

Hob then does something he’s never done before. He bends slightly, tucks an arm behind The Corinthian’s knees, and then swoops it to lift the blond off the kitchen floor. The Corinthian flails only for a moment before wrapping his arms around Hob’s neck and burying his face in it. He inhales the scent of Hob’s sandalwood soap and sighs happily.

“All right love?” Hob asks, nosing at The Corinthian’s hair.

The Corinthian begins suckling a bruise into Hob’s neck in lieu of a response.

“Christ, all right, off we go then.” Hob does not run them to the bedroom but The Corinthian can tell the immortal is taking wide strides to make the trip short.

When they reach their destination, Hob lays him gently on their shared bed. And oh, he forgot what this bed felt like, how comfortable it was, how it bends to his body shape as if welcoming him back after a short vacation, instead of an extended absence. He can’t help but run his fingers along the sheets, to reacquaint himself with every fold and wrinkle. Hob smiles when he does this, then he takes one of the Corinthian’s hands and places a kiss to each knuckles.

“Welcome home, my love,” Hob says, and then the immortal begins the task of undressing them.

Hob has always romanticized undressing a partner. The Corinthian had never seen much point to this in the past, but after foregoing Hob for so long, he feels overwhelmed by the care Hob puts into him. Hob carefully slides the blond’s jacket from his shoulders, peppering The Corinthian’s neck with kisses at the same time. The immortal then takes The Corinthian’s face in his hands and presses a kiss to each of the ocular mouths.

“Hello darlings, have you missed me?” Hob whispers to each of them.

“Yes,” the left one whispers. “We have,” says the right one.

“I’ve missed you too,” Hob smiles before he moves back down to The Corinthian’s primary mouth and kisses him again.

The shirt comes next. Hob rucks The Corinthian’s gray shirt up to his armpits, then begins to lavish his chest with his tongue. He worries a nipple between his teeth, pinches the other between his fingers, and The Corinthian mewls at the sensation. Hob alternates his tongue and fingers between each nipple, until The Corinthian is quickly reduced to a wailing mess.

Satisfied, Hob slowly pulls the shirt completely off The Corinthian and discards it next to the bed. The Corinthian does not wait for Hob to remove his pants. He’s waited long enough, he thinks. He sits up and delivers a brutal kiss to Hob’s mouth, teeth biting down on the immortal’s lower lip until he opens his mouth and lets The Corinthian’s tongue in. The Corinthian pulls back once he’s satisfied, then shucks his pants off as quickly as he can manage before throwing them to the other side of the room.

“In a hurry are we?” Hob teases as the Corinthian reaches for his pants shortly after.

“I need you naked now, Hob,” The Corinthian answers. “Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Hob lets The Corinthian take over their undressing from there.

“How do you want things?” Hob asks once they’re both naked and rutting their hips against one another. “Tell me what you want, pet.”

“Inside me,” The Corinthian says before he can think about it too deeply. “Make love to me Hob, fuck.”

“Gladly,” Hob responds, then nips at The Corinthian’s collarbone. ”Can I prep you with my tongue?”

“Yes please, anything, I need-”

“Shh, I know what you need darling.” Hob moves The Corinthian to lie back down on the bed, then leaves a trail of kisses from neck to hip. Hob mouths at The Corinthian’s thighs, moving his head agonizing slowly downward before he reaches his target. He sighs as if he’s appreciating a rare artwork, then begins licking his way inside The Corinthian’s hole.

Hob’s tongue is hot inside him. He’s missed this, The Corinthian realizes, missed the intimacy of Hob, the gentleness, the love punctuated in every single one of his actions that The Corinthian had taken for granted in their time together. Every one of his partners in America had been looking for a quick fuck, for an escape, for something other than him, but Hob touches him like he is the only being in existence that matters. The Corinthian's cock is dripping precome, but when he moves his hand to attend to it, Hob swats his hand away.

"None of that, love," Hob says, withdrawing his tongue. His deep voice so close to The Corinthian's hole sends vibrations up the nightmare's spine, and he whines high and needy. Hob then licks a slow stripe up The Corinthian's cock, before he takes the head into his mouth and sucks, tongue flicking out at the slit on the withdraw.

The Corinthian cants his hips and moans, wanting more but not knowing how to ask. Hob lifts one of his legs, then the other, and throws both over his shoulders, lifting The Corinthian’s ass into the air. Then he resumes his earlier task and begins to tongue fuck his hole at a brutal pace.

The Corinthian thrashes at the sensation, eyes watering. His hand grasps wildly along the sheets, looking for purchase, before he finally feels Hob’s own hand grip it tightly, tongue still pushed deep inside of him.

Then Hob removes his tongue from inside him and The Corinthian whines at the loss. Hob's now mouthing at his balls, teeth lightly grazing every few licks, and The Corinthian’s hips jerk violently at the action. Hob grips his thighs to still him.

“You ready for my cock, sweet thing?” Hob asks, breathless.

“Fuck yes,” The Corinthian pants.

Hob removes The Corinthian’s legs from his shoulders, and opens the nightstand drawer to find a bottle of lube. The Corinthian wonders if Hob has used it at all in his absence. He doesn’t have time to contemplate the thought for long because Hob slicks himself quickly up and then starts pushing himself inside The Corinthian.

The stretch burns. The Corinthian loves it. He’s missed it.

“Fucking Christ, Cory, have you always been this tight?” Hob gasps, voice strained. Even with the slowed pace, it’s almost a Herculean effort for The Corinthian to relax enough to let Hob slide inside him.

“Ah fuck,” The Corinthian moans. He’d forgotten how large Hob was. “I haven’t…no one else has been inside.”

Hob’s eyes go dark at the revelation. He snaps his hips suddenly and The Corinthian keens.

“That so, love?” Hob growls possessively, sending a shiver down The Corinthian’s spine. “Not a single cock has been inside you since you left me all those years ago?”

“Fuck, no,” The Corinthian replies. “Topped a few guys stateside sure, before I- oh ," Hob's cock brushes against his prostate, interrupting his train of thought. "No one else," he finishes, brain addled with pleasure.

“Sweet Hell, Cory, warn a man before you say things like that,” Hob replies, and then the man starts fucking him in earnest. “I want this to last.”

They fall into a rhythm, Hob rocking into him and The Corinthian whispering small ahs and ohs every other thrust. The Corinthian lifts his leg and hooks his ankle to Hob’s shoulder, dragging the other man closer. Hob groans now that he’s buried to the hilt inside The Corinthian.

“God, you feel amazing, Cory,” Hob says. "Just so fucking perfect for me."

The Corinthian groans at the praise. It's another thing he's missed, he thinks. He wants to hear Hob praise him more.

"Is that so, love?" Hob says and The Corinthian realizes he's said the thought aloud.

Hob pauses his movements and begins to pull out of The Corinthian, who whines and clenches, trying to keep the immortal inside.

"Shh it's okay pet, just give me a moment," Hob murmurs, pressing a kiss to The Corinthian's forehead. Hob then maneuvers their bodies to sit The Corinthian in Hob's lap, the immortal's back to the pillows and resting against the wall.

"There we are. I want you to ride me just like this Cory, can you do that for me? Sweet thing, beautiful, gorgeous creature?"

The Corinthian nods, lifts his hips and, in a moment of impatience, sinks himself entirely on Hob's cock in one swift movement.

The burn rushes up his back like lightning.

“Fuck!” Hob yells, and he bites down on the Corinthian's shoulder. The Corinthian screams at the twin sensations of pain just on the other side of pleasure, and he thrashes underneath Hob, who grips him tight to hold him still. A few moments pass before Hob releases his grip and teeth from him, and then begins licking against the deep bite mark left behind.

“I thought you wanted soft and gentle tonight, love,” Hob murmurs into his shoulder. “But like everything else, you're just greedy for more, aren't you?”

The Corthian moans and tries to move his hips, but Hob grips them, stopping him. When he's still, the immortal then moves one hand off his hip to grab the back of his neck and pull him into a soft kiss.

“Come on then, ride my cock exactly how you want to then,” Hob pants against his mouth. “Show me what you want, take your orgasm from me. I'll give it to you.”

The Corinthian does not need to be told twice. He moves his face away from Hob’s, lifts his hips up as far as he can manage, and slams them down, over and over, searching for his prostate. Hob snaps his hips up, thrusting to meet his every movement. The Corinthian groans when Hob palms his cock, and he can hear the immortal uttering a litany of curses older than the modern world.

"Mary's tits you're so gorgeous," Hob moans. "You're so good for me Cory, so perfect, and you are mine. " Hob growls that last word like he would go to war for him, like he would tear the universe apart to keep him, and that thought is what puts The Corinthian over the edge.

His orgasm slams into him like a freight train, and he clenches so hard at the sensation that Hob roars his own orgasm into his chest shortly after. They sit there for a time, only the sound of their heavy breathing permeating the room.

"God, I missed you," Hob grunts, and The Corinthian can feel the other man grinning against him.

"Yeah, me too," The Corinthian agrees.

"You're not allowed to leave again," Hob says, suddenly serious.

The Corinthian kisses him in response. "You're stuck with me now baby." He grins.

"Good."

Later, once they've cleaned up, they lie together in Hob's bed, The Corinthian curled up against Hob's chest. The Corinthian does not need to sleep, but he finds himself nodding off, his entire body boneless and wrung out from everything that’s happened tonight.

“Cory?” Hob’s voice asks sleepily from above him.

"Hmmmm?"

“I'm not the only one with unrequited feelings for Dream, am I?"

If it were earlier in the night, The Corinthian would tense up and refuse to answer. Fucked out on Hob's bed, he barely feels the jealousy.

"It's not unrequited if he loves you back," The Corinthian replies.

"Oh? And how are you so sure about that?" Hob asks, voice more awake.

"Because of the way he looks at you. Like you're…something precious. Special." The Corinthian doesn't even blame Dream at this point, he's fairly certain he has the same dumb look on his face right now.

"Really now, because I was about to say the exact same thing about you," Hob replies.

The Corinthian snorts. "Yeah, okay sure."

"Hey, look at me," Hob insists and tips his thumb under The Corinthian's chin to raise it.

"He called you his favorite, didn't he?" the immortal asks. "And he also told me he suspected you helped keep him trapped down there in Roderick's basement, yes, he told me the gist of the story," Hob says when he feels The Corinthian tense underneath the accusation. "He knows, and I know now too."

"But that's not what I'm getting at. Do you really think Dream would still call you his favorite, his masterpiece, his little nightmare if he didn't love you as much as you love him?"

For once, The Corinthian is at a loss for words. Nothing that's happened tonight has been to his expectations. He fully expected to be unmade this night, and instead, Dream and Hob had both held him while he cried.

Hob takes pity on him when he sees his expression. He kisses him, soft and wet, then draws the Corinthian into a hug.

"There now, pet," he whispers soothingly. "You've had a lot of revelations tonight. Let's go to bed, we'll talk more in the morning."

"…Okay."

The Corinthian may not sleep, but tonight he closes his eyes and floats in the space between waking and dreaming.

#the sandman fanfic #sandman fic #hobrinthian #hob gadling #the corinthian #whew lad this was my favorite chapter to write #and even then #I got so distracted by this damn poll I forgot to post it to my blog for two days LOL #seiya writes #mystuff #seiya writes hobrintheus #seiya writes hobrinthian

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

🍊🍋Wen Chao and/or wen xu is a good guy and actually wants to end wen ruo jan's reign of terror (cloud recesses, lotus pier, xuanwu cave or all are elaborate ruses)

ao3

Untamed

“A-Chao,” Wen Xu said. “I think our father is insane.”

Wen Chao’s eye twitched visibly, his shoulders rising up to his ears. “You can’t say that! That’s treason!”

“I’ve already made sure there’s no one anywhere around us right now, not even people I trust.”

Down went the shoulders.

“Of course he’s insane,” Wen Chao said. “Some of his orders recently…”

He shook his head.

“Not much of an empire to rule if they’re all ghost puppets, is there?” he concluded. “I think the Yin Metal is poisoning his brain.”

“I agree,” Wen Xu said. “Now what do we do about it? He’s just ordered me to raze the Cloud Recesses.”

“…when you say raze –”

“To the ground.”

“What happened to just dominating the rest of the cultivation world?” Wen Chao complained. “I liked that plan. I was going to have a really great life. A palace. Servants. Good food. Even better wine. Enough clothing to keep Jiaojiao from complaining.”

“I…don’t know if that’s possible,” Wen Xu said. “Haven’t you given her three closets’ worth already?”

“I have no idea, and I’m too attached to my balls to ask.”

“Anyway,” Wen Xu said. “What do we do about it?”

“You’re asking me?” Wen Chao said.

“Well I’m certainly not going up against him by myself! He’ll kill me!”

“You think he would hesitate to kill both of us?”

“Ugh. Is there anyone we can ask for help? Anyone we haven’t pissed off?”

They both paused, thinking.

“…no,” Wen Chao said. “But in our defense, we never thought we’d need any of them, did we?”

“I don’t think anyone is going to buy that as an excuse,” Wen Xu said, scowling. “Fuck. Isn’t there anyone?”

“Well,” Wen Chao said. He did not continue.

“No,” Wen Xu said. “No. He literally wants to cut off our heads.”

“So does everyone else in the cultivation world,” Wen Chao said. “At least we know Sect Leader Nie hates Dad more than he hates us, which isn’t something that can be said about the rest of them.”

“Fuck,” Wen Xu said. “What’s our alternative plan?”

“…become ghost puppets?”

“Fuck.”

“You do remember that I want to kill you both?” Nie Mingjue said, scowling at them.

“We were betting on you wanting to kill our father more,” Wen Chao said.

“I’m not sure,” Nie Mingjue said. “You’re very obnoxious.”

Wen Chao scowled.

“He has a point, A-Chao,” Wen Xu said.

“Shut up.”

“Respect your elders!”

“If you two are going to start fighting, I’m leaving,” Nie Mingjue said.

They both squinted at him. “Does that mean you might not leave if we stop?” Wen Xu asked.

Nie Mingjue’s scowl got even worse, but eventually he begrudgingly said “…well, I really hate your father.”

They both exhaled in relief.

“What’s your plan?” Nie Mingjue asked.

“This was about as far as it went,” Wen Xu admitted, and Nie Mingjue gaped at him. “What? If we had planning skills, we’d be ruling the world.”

“Jiaojiao wants jewelry now,” Wen Chao agreed. “Lots of it. Keeping a mistress is expensive.”

“I’ll…take your word for that,” Nie Mingjue said, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“You’re always plotting against our father, right?” Wen Xu asked.

“No,” Nie Mingjue said. “If I could plot, your father would already be dead.”

“Good point,” Wen Chao said, but he wasn’t the sort of person to let little details like that discourage him. “But surely you know someone who can?”

“Just keep in mind that I’m on a deadline here,” Wen Xu said. “I have to leave to go raze the Cloud Recesses by the end of the week.”

“You want me to come up with a plan to defeat your father before the end of the week?!”

“Uh, yeah,” Wen Xu said. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Wen Chao agreed.

“I’m going to go get Meng Yao,” Nie Mingjue decided. “And Huaisang, too, why not, somehow he always gets his way no matter what I do. Maybe he can come up with something for this.”

“I think we’re going to need expert assistance,” Nie Huaisang declared. “I’m thinking this is Wei Wuxian levels of plotting.”

“He can plot?” Wen Chao said dubiously. “Are you sure? He took nearly a week to fight a mildly ominous bird.”

“…is that so?” Nie Huaisang said, and sighed. “Okay, fine. Meng Yao, guess it’s up to you and me.”

Meng Yao was blinking his eyes very rapidly.

“What?” Wen Chao said. “You have an awful father too, don’t look so shocked about us wanting to get rid of ours.”

“That’s just how his brain works when he’s thinking,” Nie Huaisang assured him. “He’s kicking it like it’s a sleeping donkey that doesn’t want to get to work; give him a minute and he’ll be coming up with all sorts of ideas.”

“Good ideas?”

“All sorts of ideas.”

“…any good ideas? Mediocre ideas, even?”

“Listen, we have until the end of the week,” Nie Mingjue said irritably. “You’ll take whatever ideas we give you and you’ll like it, you hear me?”

“Is it too late to get Wen Zhuliu in on this?” Wen Xu asked Wen Chao.

“He has that weird thing for Dad,” Wen Chao reminded him.

“Fuck,” Wen Xu said. “I’d wiped that from my memory through the application of a great deal of alcohol, but yes, you’re right. Okay. Hit me with your worst plan.”

“That’s worse than I thought it was going to be.”

“Shut up and just do it.”

“I will now, in the name of the Wen sect, attack –” Wen Xu grimaced. “– this cave.”

“It’s a very important cave, actually,” one of the Lan disciples muttered.

“Be quiet,” Lan Wangji said.

They were all pretending not to notice the main force of Lan sect disciples, led by Lan Xichen, carting their precious books and treasures out of the Cloud Recesses right behind him.

“I am attacking this very important cave,” Wen Xu clarified. “Of extreme importance to the Lan sect. So important, in fact, that it is clearly the correct target for an invasion.”

They stood around a while longer.

Someone cleared their throat. “Should we fight?”

“I can have my men beat you up if you really want,” Wen Xu said.

“…no thanks.”

“Then be quiet.”

There was a bit more standing around. Eventually Lan Qiren coughed.

“Would you like a chair or something?” Wen Xu asked, then frowned. “Never mind, I probably can’t justify that.”

“Probably not,” Lan Qiren agreed. He looked pained. Probably by the whole situation, but who knew, maybe he just had a bad back and the standing around was getting to him. “You will be taking Wangji hostage after this?”

“Along with most of the heirs of the Great Sects,” Wen Xu said. “As agreed, we’ll keep them out of the way.”

“Sometimes the most dangerous place is the safest place.”

“…yeah, that. Either way, they’ll be kept out of trouble.”

“This is not out of trouble!” Wei Wuxian shouted as they ran away from the Xuanwu.

“This stretch of river has never caused anyone any problems!” Wen Chao shouted back. “Ever! You’re the one who found the fucking cave!”

“Shut up and keep running!” Jiang Cheng howled.

“I really like your hair,” Wang Lingjiao told Madame Yu. “Also, that dress.”

Wen Chao sighed.

“Expensive tastes?” Wei Wuxian asked, pouring him some wine.

“You have no idea,” Wen Chao said glumly. “My allowance can’t cover it, so I ended up putting her as a line item in the military budget.”

“You did?” Jiang Cheng said. “Did your father, uh, object?”

“He’d have to notice.”

“I wonder how many other things he wouldn’t notice,” Wei Wuxian muttered to himself.

“You’re a young master of Yunmeng Jiang,” Jiang Cheng said, rolling his eyes. “What could you possibly want to fund that we won’t pay for?”

“I don’t know,” Wei Wuxian said. “Mad science experiments?”

“Can you pay him to stop?” Wen Xu asked. “I don’t even like flute music.”

“Shut up,” Wen Chao said. “You’ve been decapitated, remember?”

“Oh yeah, ‘decapitated’. And now I’m being force-fed lots of Qinghe barbeque,” Wen Xu said. “My life is really hard.”

“Why you…!”

Wen Xu sniggered. “How’s it going with Wen Zhuliu?”

“Fine, I think?” Wen Chao said. “He hasn’t actually noticed that the ‘demons’ we’re being hunted by aren’t really demons, but that’s because he’s been mostly drinking away his weird crush on our dad. I think Wen Ning is spiking his drink with something.”

They both turned to look at Wen Ning, who shrugged.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” Wen Xu decided. “Are they attacking the Nightless City soon?”

“I think so.”

“What happens then?”

“Dunno.”

“Going to be kind of awkward when we ‘come back from the dead’ to take over.”

“I’m going to blame it on Wei Wuxian and his new weirdo cultivation,” Wen Chao decided. “We’re all sentient corpses he’s resurrected and using to puppet the Wen sect. Wen Ning, you in on this?”

“…sure,” Wen Ning said. “But only if I get first rights on ‘Ghost General’ as a nickname.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.”

“Thanks for the patricide,” Wen Xu said.

“Think nothing of it,” Nie Mingjue said. “Also, say nothing of it. Ever. In fact, let’s never talk again.”

“Can’t do that,” Wen Chao said. “Madame Yu told Jiaojiao that she got that fancy headpiece from Qinghe, so she wants to go there on a shopping trip.”

“Our economy could use the boost, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, and Nie Mingjue sighed. “It’s going to be a really big boost. Especially if she convinces Madame Jin from Lanling to come with her.”

“I still can’t believe they made friends,” Wei Wuxian marveled. “It must come from having more money than brains.”

“Brains aren’t exactly what I look for in a partner,” Wen Chao said. “Luckily for you, neither does your boyfriend.”

“Hey, I have brains!”

“You’re certainly intelligent,” Meng Yao – now named Jin Guangyao – told him.

“See?”

“That was an insult,” Nie Mingjue said.

“…hey!”

“When are you coming back to Qinghe?” Nie Huaisang asked Jin Guangyao, who blinked. “I mean, unless you want to spend all your time slaving away for a guy who thought Wen Ruohan was neat.”

“He’s right,” Wen Xu said. “Father or not, don’t do it. It’s not worth it. You’ll end up having to rebel and ask your worst enemies for help and it’s awkward.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Jin Guangyao said. “But I really can’t accept.”

“Why not?” Nie Huaisang asked.

Wen Chao pointed at him. “Seconded.”

Jin Guangyao grimaced at them both. Possibly it was meant to be a smile.

“You don’t have to go to the Unclean Realm, A-Yao,” Lan Xichen said.

“Thank you, er-ge.”

“You can come to the Cloud Recesses instead.”

“Er-ge…”

“Did anyone ever tell the Jin sect that we were working with the Wen heirs?” Nie Mingjue wondered out loud, and everyone frowned. “Because if they don’t know, and Jin Guangshan thinks he’s being subtle with the whole trying to hire Xue Yang thing, things are going to get really awkward.”

“…well, shit,” Jiang Cheng said. “I call not being the one to tell him.”

“Seconded!”

“Cloud Recesses, you said?” Jin Guangyao asked Lan Xichen, who looked pleased.

“I’m leaving,” Wen Xu decided. “I want nothing to do with this disaster. You all have fun now, I’m fucking off back to the Nightless City to live the rest of my life as a very rich man with no life goals.”

“I want to do that,” Nie Huaisang said.

“No,” Nie Mingjue said.

“But –”

“No.”

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian said. “Unrelatedly, anyone have any ideas on what should I do with the whole resentful energy seal thing now?”

“I don’t know,” Wen Chao said. “Play a giant game of keep away with it and then fake your own death?”

#mdzs #wen xu #wen chao #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #wei wuxian #lan qiren #my fic #my fics #mutiny at the wen sect #Anonymous

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marvelouspeterparker · 3 years

Text

mine

pairing: mob!tom holland x reader

requests: wearing Mob!toms stuff? like maybe his suit jacket but without something under it, to a meeting? + mob!tom goes feral after an enemy flirted with his girl? both by anonymous

warnings: violence and smut

notes: hope you don’t mind that i combined two requests! also check out @geminiparkers mob!tom playlist which coincidentally has this same gif on the page haha + this might as well be dedicated to @duskholland as it is mob monday and she is the queen of mob!tom :)

It wasn’t unusual for you to sit in Tom’s meetings. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. He liked having you as involved as possible, he trusted you with all his heart and he didn’t want to keep you in the dark. He even got you a “throne”, as he called it, to match his in his meeting room. They were two large chairs with intricate and expensive designs on the back rests. As soon as anyone walked into the room, it was clear who was in charge.

Although you had your own seat, you rarely used it. You appreciated it, of course, and when you sat on it you felt powerful, Tom’s hand over yours, his thumb rubbing your skin softly as he barked orders at his men, intimidating every person in the room. You felt like a queen sitting proudly beside her king.

But, as much as you adored your throne, you and Tom both preferred when you sat in your rightful place, in his lap. He liked to wrap his arms around you and hold you sometimes to destress when his men were acting like fools and everything seemed to be going wrong.

Sometimes he would even distract himself, slipping his hands under your clothes, one holding you down as the other made a mess between your thighs. He didn’t care if anyone heard you, and you didn’t either––it was hard to worry about anything else when he had his hands on you.

The men knew not to look at you, only making eye contact with Tom as he spoke, as if nothing were happening. If they did look, they’d be punished. Simple as that. And no one wanted that.

You had just finished eating a snack when you made your way over to the meeting room. You knew that Tom would need your company today, his meeting was with Lorenzo, one of the worst in the business. His actual business was good, and it would be very beneficial to join forces with him, but he was a nightmare. Which is why Tom considered him to be one of his enemies.

The meeting had started a little while ago, but there hadn’t seemed to be any shouting, so you assumed it was going well. You slipped in quietly and noticed Tom perk up when he saw you, but then his eyes trailed over your body and he licked his lips, partially tuning everyone out as he focused on you. You were wearing one of his shirts with a belt tied around your waist, accentuating your figure.

He spread his legs and sat back, waiting for you as you walked along the long table, saying hi to Harrison as you walked by him. You bit your lip and smiled as you reached Tom, his hands immediately pulling you in by your waist. You bent down and gave him a kiss and he smacked your ass before grabbing it possessively, making you squeak and giggle softly.

You sat down on his lap, your body turned into him, your arm hanging loosely around his neck, legs over the chair as you faced the front. He leaned in to whisper in your ear, one arm wrapped around your side, the other on your thigh. “You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?” He bit your earlobe and you could tell he wanted to take you right then and there.

You bit your lip as you looked down at him and that was all the answer you needed. “Christ, you’re trying to kill me.”

You both turned your attention back to the front and you tried not to make a face when you noticed Lorenzo staring at you shamelessly. You took a sharp inhale, knowing this wouldn’t be good––for him. You saw that none of his men were with him, he was so arrogant he often left without backup, stupid, really.

“Y/N,” Lorenzo spoke up, smiling menacingly at you and you felt Tom’s hold tighten. “How are you, beautiful?”

You tried your best not to roll your eyes but your voice was monotone when you responded. “Fine, thanks.”

You could practically hear Tom’s blood boiling as he growled out his next words. “If we could focus on the task at hand, please.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek and felt a little at ease when you noticed his demeanor lighten up a bit. He squeezed your thigh appreciatively.

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, annoyingly confident. “Well I’m just saying hello to the pretty girl in your lap.” He licked his teeth, suddenly perking up and you knew this couldn’t possibly be a good thing. “Tell you what. I’ll agree to the terms.”

“Great––”

“If,” he interrupted, “I get one night with the beautiful lady.”

You tensed, your eyes widening and just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, he went on. “All I need is one night for you to realize how much better I am than him, sweetheart.” He winked, “Promise I’ll have you screaming my name.”

Tom made a gesture so fast you barely even saw it, but before you knew it, two of his men grabbed Lorenzo and brought him over to the other end of the table.

Tom tapped your waist and kissed your cheek and you got the message and slid off his lap. You sat in your chair, your legs curled under you, bracing yourself for what was to come.

Lorenzo still had an obnoxious smile on his face and Tom wanted nothing more than to punch it off. So he did. His arm swung forward with no warning, knocking the man’s head back momentarily as Tom’s henchmen held him up. He groaned, wincing as blood coated his teeth, his skin already red. There was no doubt his nose was broken, Tom trained almost every day and he knew how to use his hands, in more ways than one. His fists kept pounding into the man, beating him to a pulp. No one disrespected you and got away with it. By the time he was done, the man could barely stand on his own.

Tom lifted his head roughly, gripping his hair. “You don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as her.” He looked at him, pure loathing in his face as he fixed his suit nonchalantly. “Darling?” He held his hand out for you, his eyes softening immediately as they found you.

You took his hand eagerly and stood next to him. He looked over to the man groaning in pain, his gaze hardening again as he held his head up. “Apologize.”

When he said nothing, Tom raised his fist again and Lorenzo screamed in protest. “Okay okay! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

Tom dropped his head and stood back, watching him indifferently as he weakly rolled his neck back to lift his head on his own.“Do you accept his apology, love?” His tone was sweet when he talked to you and the shocking contrast in how he treated you turned you on more than it should have.

You let go of his hand and stepped forward. You slapped Lorenzo with all the force you had, your hand stinging from the pain, as he grunted, but you sucked it up. “Fuck no.” You stepped back and found yourself in Tom’s embrace.

Harrison handed Tom a handkerchief to wipe his knuckles and he looked at the two men holding Lorenzo up, “Deal’s off. Take him out of here.” He flicked his wrist towards the door and everyone rushed out, the man’s screams and curses becoming muffled as he was shoved out.

Before the door even shut, Tom threw the handkerchief aside and kissed you, pouring all his frustrations, love and want into it. You sighed and brought your hands up to his hair, loving the way he groaned and pressed himself into you when you pulled at his curls lovingly.

He brought his hands to your waist and pulled off the belt and ripped the buttons open as you sat on the table. “Look at you,” he cooed.You felt your skin heat up under his gaze as he lifted your legs over his shoulders, kneeling down in front of you. When he looked between your legs, he gasped quietly, “Naughty girl, you’re practically dripping.” He looked up at you as he started mouthing at your thigh. “Seeing me defend your honor got you that hot and bothered?”

You nodded unabashedly. “Love seeing you get violent,” you muttered quietly, “It’s my guilty pleasure.” Your hand found it’s way back into his curls, the other holding you up on the table.

He grinned, “Then I guess we’re a perfect match, huh?” He licked into your wet cunt, savoring your taste on his tongue, and you sighed.

“Oh fuck, Tommy.”

“That’s it,” he licked all over your pussy, spreading your wetness and making an even bigger mess as he spit on your clit before sucking it into his mouth, his hands holding your thighs tightly around his head. “Want you to cum all over me. Want you to scream my name, let everyone know you’re mine.”

He buried your face between your legs, moaning as you used him to get off, clearly enjoying himself. He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, letting you squeeze your thighs and grind against him, whines and expletives flying from your mouth freely. It wasn’t long before your head dropped back, a long and breathy “Shit––” falling past your lips as you tensed for a few moments before your body went slack, sinking into the table.

Tom stood up and grabbed you before you could lie back though, pulling a small whine from you. He got rid of his belt and unbuttoned his pants before pulling his cock out. He was hard, leaking, his tip a prominent red. Seeing you in his clothes, then seeing you slap the shit out of Lorenzo really did something to him.

He grinned, his lips still shining from your release, and pulled you back into his lap. With shaky legs, you climbed up and slung one leg over him, grabbing his cock and sliding him in slowly. “Oh god––” you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you leaned your forehead against his.

His hands slid up your legs all the way to your waist before one hand slid up to the side of your face. He tilted his head up and pressed his lips against your parted ones, practically inviting him to capture them in his own. “Look at me baby, can you do that? Wanna see your pretty eyes while I fuck you.”

You whimpered and clenched around him making him buck into you and hiss. You opened your eyes slowly, the dazed look in them making him twitch inside of you. You turned your head and kissed his palm before leaning in and kissing him again, practically melting into him, your mouths merging together, your bodies pressed as close as possible as he guided your movements with one hand.

You were grinding into him, too focused on the pleasure to think about the cold room and the fact that you were fully naked and he was still clothed. But you knew if you did think about it, it would only turn you on even more.

His hand on your waist slid down and grabbed your ass, smacking it occasionally as the other held the back of your neck and pulled you into him. The kiss was messy and wet and filled with tongue and passion, but you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way––you just wanted him.

You pulled away reluctantly to take a breath, panting as you watched each other hungrily. You started bouncing up and down on his cock and both his hands grabbed your ass, slamming you down onto him. “That’s it, princess. Just like that. You know how to take my cock, don’t you?”

Even though the question was rhetorical, only meant to rile you up, you nodded, bouncing faster with purpose, your eyes glued to his, your hands digging into his shoulders as you moved yourself up and down.

He grabbed you, taking charge and thrusting his hips into you with force and speed, your high the only thing on his mind, his not far in tow.

“Want you to give it to me, darling. Can you do that for me?”

You cursed in response, your eyes shutting as you stopped your movements, leaving Tom to hold you up and buck his hips into you, desperately chasing his own release. You whimpered, your body still sensitive as you stared at him, your jaw dropped open. “Cum for me baby. Please. Wanna––feel you.”

His gaze darkened and he came not long after, a loud groan escaping him as his thrusts slowed down and eventually stopped. He pulled you down onto his cock, letting you rest on him and you whined, your whole body feeling like a live-wire.

He ran his hands up and down your back, before sliding down to grab your ass. You arched into his touch and leaned into his chest, purring softly and kissing his neck. When he spoke up you trailed your kiss up to his cheek before pulling back to look at him, your hands on his chest.

“Next time anyone tries anything like that I’m fucking you in front of them, I don’t care who it is. Then I’m beating them to a bloody pulp.” His grip tightened, “It’ll be the last thing they ever see.”

Oh there was definitely something wrong with you, because hearing his threat only made you clench around him. But maybe you really were the perfect match for each other, as he said, because as soon as he felt your reaction, he smiled up at you and you knew from the look in his eyes that you wouldn’t be leaving this room any time soon.

#queue tell em #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland request #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #mob!tom holland #mob!tom holland x reader #mob!tom holland imagine #mob!tom holland fic #tom holland oneshot #mob!tom holland oneshot #mob!tom holland smut #tom holland smut

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dreamkidddream · 3 years

Note

May I request 15 y/o chuuya having an older brother/sister that’s an executive in the port mafia please?

Thank you! And keep writing because you do an amazing job!! ( sorry for my bad English)

Aw thank you 🥺💙 and your English is great don’t apologize! So this somehow turned out a bit on the angsty side, but it has a happy ending. Reader is gender neutral!

CW: Spoilers for Dark Arc/Season 2, minor language

Chuuya with an Older Sibling that’s a Port Mafia Executive

Okay so, you and Chuuya are practically inseparable, and you being the oldest one took on the responsibility of making sure that he was taken care of, no matter how much he claimed that he should be the one protecting you

It led to a lot of petty bickering obviously but you didn’t care and it didn’t really matter in the end, because you both will always have each other’s backs regardless. There was just one problem-

The Port Mafia

You told him about some guy from the Port Mafia approaching you outside one day, speaking about how his boss needs to speak to you and Chuuya. You were already on high alert, how exactly does this guy even know you two, and what exactly does he want with your brother?

You hated to admit it, but what this guy was saying was making you consider his offer, which was scaring you. The Mafia could help in the long run, even if what they did left a bad taste in your mouth. The Sheep was good for now, but you can see the cracks forming between the group, and there’s no telling how long it would hold together. Yes, your brother was- is a great leader to them, but how long would that last? There’s already tension, and it’s not fair to him to take on all of this responsibility and added stress when he didn’t need to. You care about the Sheep too, making bonds that you thought would last, and you hated to sound like a horrible person, but you would rather turn on them before they turn on him, because if they tried to do anything to your brother…you didn’t want to think about what you would do

You had your mind made up: you’ll go talk and make sure that this isn’t some kind of setup but the main goal is to talk to Chuuya first about it. You weren’t doing or making any choices without him, no matter what. And you know that he wouldn’t exactly be happy with you, but maybe, hopefully, you can get him to somewhat listen to you-

Well as expected that didn’t happen

Instead it led to some harsh words being exchanged and him storming out the room. You know that he sees these people as a family, one that you both missed out on having, and he clung onto that sentiment. Leaving the Sheep to him was like leaving home, and he didn’t understand why the hell you would want to trade them out for the Port Mafia of all people! You had to had been threatened, because there is no way that you really believe the Port Mafia is better than what you guys built together

You knew that when that bandaged guy spoke to you, it wasn’t necessarily an option, and that if he found you that quick then the next time he comes back he might bring reinforcements and won’t be as…polite. So you did what you had to do to protect your brother and the Sheep- you left. With tears welling in your eyes threatening to fall, you left long before he came back. But not before promising to come back for him, you swore on your life that you would

So imagine his shock when he came back early in the morning, before the sun was even out, to notice you missing

Something had to happen. Maybe you were threatened, or someone threatened to do something to the Sheep or to him? They didn’t even have the courage to try anything when he’s with you, they had to snatch you in the middle of the night?! And of course, of course it would be when he wasn’t there, the one night when you both had a blow out

He doesn’t believe that you would just up and leave him like that, so you had to be in danger. He never gave up searching for you, never believed that you would purposely just…leave him. You wouldn’t just do that to him-

You went missing, just disappeared without a trace and while he didn’t want to assume the worst, but his faith was slowly dwindling the more time passed. He’s stubbornly holding onto the hope that you’re still alive, he knows you are, but it’s hard when he tries to sleep at night and he has no idea if you’re hurt or laying under a shallow grave taking your last breath-

He tries not to think like that, but what explanation is there? You wouldn’t just leave the Sheep without reason, you wouldn’t abandon him without a good reason. But what reason would be good enough to leave behind your own blood? You guys had your arguments and anger towards one another sometimes, but what sibling didn’t? This just wasn’t making sense to him, none of it was!

And it was not helping in the slightest when the same scumbag kept approaching and bothering him and honestly just making things worse. It seemed like no matter how much he threatened him to tell you where you were or to even tell him if you were still alive, his lips were sealed

Even though he had the Sheep, he still felt abandoned and…alone

So of course he was relieved, heartbroken and pissed when he finally found you, or rather when you found him

He had to blink back tears (was it from the burning sensation of being stabbed with poison or the fact that you’re really standing in front of him, alive?) when he saw that you’re actually here and not a hallucination, but the sense of dread in his stomach worsens when he sees you dressed up in expensive clothes and standing next to the very bastard that he’s coming to despise more and more, with what seemed like your own set of men that you were ordering around

It didn’t help that he was bleeding out after being stabbed by the very people he was beyond loyal too

You however couldn’t help the tears welling in your eyes, running straight to him and gripping him in a tight hug. Your pants are getting dirty and you have tears streaming your face, but you don’t care. You just hug him tighter, with him slowly coming to weakly embrace you back

You just kept spewing out apology after apology, but he just kept his arm wrapped around you, keeping the other on his stab wound. He had so many questions, so many things to say, but-

“Awww, this is so touching! But (Y/N), don’t you think we have some business to take care of before you start your family reunion?”

He couldn’t even spit out an insult quick enough before he could feel himself passing out, but he did hear you calling out to him…

When Chuuya awoke, he saw you by his side, loosely gripping his hand. When you felt him shift, you jumped up. While you’re both glad that you’re finally reunited with one another, he was furious and you had a lot of explaining to do

The icing on the cake was that you admitted that you still watched over him- you never completely left him alone. You couldn’t approach him without raising suspicion of possibly trying to abandon the Port Mafia, let alone get close with Dazai breathing down your neck, but you always settled for just making sure that he was still breathing, still living, even if you weren’t there by his side

A lot of tears were spilled, voices raised, just like the fateful night you left him, but this time it wasn’t out of anger- it was out of pain. You both were hurting in this situation- you because of having to leave your little brother behind to protect him, and him because you left him and he blamed himself this whole time because of it

“(Y/N) you need to understand that just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you get to call the shots, got it?! This isn’t the first time we ran into problems, into dangerous situations and it won’t be the last. But you need to get it through your thick head that we do it together. Stop acting like you’re the only one who has to go through these things alone, because you don’t. It’s never been like that and it sure as hell won’t start today.”

So even though things aren’t exactly back to normal (it felt weird having your little brother sit next to you as an executive too) you got each other back. In a twisted kind of way, the one organization you guys couldn’t stand was the same one that brought you together again

But you wouldn’t be separated anymore. The Port Mafia got what they wanted in the end unfortunately, but so did you and Chuuya

#bsd chuuya x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs reader insert #bungou stray dogs x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara

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highqueenofelfhame · 3 years

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fafs, twenty four

so i was definitely going to wait to post this until tomorrow or the day after but then decided to say fuck it and in the spirit of rowaelin month am just giving it to you now, whatever. who needs rules. or regulations. not me.

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It was nowhere near the worst injury she’d ever had, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.

The living room floor of one of her smaller sanctuaries had been turned into a makeshift operating room. A trash bag was laid out beneath her, rustling with every move she made. The first aid kit that had been untouched and hidden under the kitchen sink was open with all its pieces scattered around her. A brand new bottle of vodka sat to her right, several shots worth already buzzing through her veins. It would take at least one more swig before she got started, but it was already difficult to slide the thread into the needle, so she was holding off until she was just about ready to begin.

Gods damn the agent that shot her. Aelin would bet money that it was Remelle, the blonde bitch that had been pawing at Rowan for years. Before, when she was Lilian, she’d heard a wide array of stories about the woman and her unwanted advances. Ever since Aelin had been introduced to the FBI as a criminal informant, she had shot daggers at her in every meeting, likely angry Aelin was spending so much time with Rowan. Despite how much of that time was angry banter from Rowan, no matter if Aelin was trying to thaw out his icy inner and exterior.

None of that mattered now. She could have Rowan if she really wanted him. Maybe they were already together and--

Aelin stopped those thoughts in their tracks, eyes focusing on the task at hand. There were bigger things to worry about, like getting out of the city and, most importantly, the bleeding wound on her thigh. She chewed on her lip until the thread finally made it into the curved needle, and she held back a cheer as she sloshed some vodka over the wound on her thigh. Hissing through her teeth, she thanked the gods that it wasn’t any worse.

It wasn’t even that bad, considering everything else she’d experienced. There was the time Arobynn had stabbed a dagger through her palm, and she’d had to stitch up the injury herself. She wasn’t sure how many times she’d been sliced and jabbed in training. Her list of broken bones and scars was a long one. Once she got older and was better at her job than all of the men combined, training had become more of a game of survival. They had been out for blood, shedding hers in red tears on the floor until she managed to incapacitate them enough to claim the victory for herself.

This gunshot wound was minor. It hadn’t nicked anything major, and it had taken a while for Aelin to realize she’d even been shot. The adrenaline from running from the full force of the FBI had been enough to repel the pain until she was nearly to her safehouse. She was four blocks away when she realized her pace was slowing and that there was a sharp, hot pain throbbing in her left thigh. A glance down told her everything she needed to know. She had limped straight through the front door and to the first aid kit, where she now prepared to stitch her own leg up.

At one point, there had been a numbing agent in this bag, but she remembered using it on Sam after a nasty fight with Arobynn one night when she was twenty-one. Since then, she’d seldom been to this safehouse and had neglected to restock her kit. There was barely enough of the nylon thread left over, but she would manage. Aelin made a mental note to have someone, either Nox or herself, replenish the missing items.

With a deep breath and a final swig of vodka, she picked up the forceps and shimmied the tension from her shoulders while she hunched over her leg, ready to begin.

With the first stick and the drag of the thread through her skin, Aelin bit her lip so hard she drew blood. It was a bizarre and uncomfortable feeling accompanied by a slight burning sensation. Several times she groaned while she sewed her skin back together. By the time she was finished, her mouth tasted metallic, and the trash bag beneath her was covered in droplets of blood. Her bare thigh looked grim and would leave behind a jagged, ugly scar, but she doused it once more in vodka before wiping away the blood with a damp piece of gauze. Her hands were mostly steady while she placed a bandage over the top and taped it down.

It was just another painful memory that would soon fade to silvery skin. How many more would it take until she was free?

Shaking her head to pull her from any thoughts too negative to deal with right now, Aelin smiled a bit. She was almost pleased with herself for handling the entire situation so well, but the reality of the situation was soon to crash down on her. It didn’t take long for her to get up, going about the tiny house and jerking all the curtains closed. Hardly any natural light was able to filter in through the gaps in the curtains for how tightly she’d twisted at the blinds until they were sealed completely shut. Thumbtacks were shoved into the walls to keep anyone curious from peering inside. She would move to another place in a day or two, she promised herself, after she had time to dye her hair and her wound wasn’t so fresh.

Every lock on every door was twisted into place-- seven locks on both the front and back doors. Only two of those locks could be opened with a key from the outside. The other five were inside only, a variation of deadbolts and chain locks that made her feel secure.

Only when she was satisfied that she was as safe for the time being did she go to the single bedroom and lock the door behind her. In a handful of heartbeats, she collapsed on the old quilt and drifted into a fitful sleep.

~*~

The news that it would take weeks, maybe months, of physical therapy to have his shoulder back to one-hundred percent was irritating to say the least. Rowan would be out of work for a while, but that wasn’t the most frustrating part of the situation. He would be wearing the restrictive sling for weeks, only to take it off when he changed clothes or showered. They didn’t even allow him to take it off to sleep, for gods’ sake. Rowan would be sleeping sitting up for the foreseeable future, and he was fucking annoyed about it.

The last few nights sleeping in the hospital had been anything but fruitful. Not only was he woken by the nurses coming in to check on him every few hours, every single time he tried to adjust to a more comfortable position, he was reminded of the sling. The pain was nearly suffocating. Rowan had heard from Fenrys about how bad shoulder injuries were, but this was on another level of anything he had ever experienced.

So why he was standing in the abandoned apartment of the woman who had shot the bullet through it in the first place was beyond him at the moment.

It wasn’t the apartment littered with cameras and paid for by the bureau. It was the one she’d lived in privately before her beating and arrest. It was the one decorated with opulence and taste. With artwork that wouldn’t surprise Rowan to find it had been stolen and was priceless. The one with books stacking shelves every which way, those novels bookmarked and annotated, as he had just learned. Like she loved them so much, she couldn’t help but document her favorite and least favorite parts.

The linens closet was filled with the softest blankets and nicest sheets Rowan had ever felt in his life. Silk sheets were currently stretched over the mattress in her bedroom, a thing that Rowan had thought she’d quipped as a joke once.

“Sorry, the sheets aren’t Egyptian cotton for whatever the hell you’re used to,” he’d said, a bite in his tone as he showed her the dump of an apartment the bureau had decided on for her.

“Silk,” she winked. “Feels good against my skin when I sleep naked.”

It hadn’t been a joke. He ran his fingers over the fabric and almost smiled at the memory but forced his lips into a frown instead. As he looked around the room, the nearly ostentatious yet somehow tasteful room, he missed her. He hated himself for it, but he missed her. The woman had shot him through the shoulder, but the pain in his heart was somehow worse. His first thought when he woke in the hospital from surgery had been about if they’d found her and she was safe, gods above. Everything about himself was secondary, and he didn’t really care.

But they hadn’t found her. There was no trace of her after her anklet was cut. Nobody had seen her; traffic cams had stopped picking her up like she had just… vanished. He hated that she was so good at her job, so good at being a criminal.

Deep down, Rowan knew that wasn’t what bothered him. It never really had. There wasn’t a part of her soul that he had seen and didn’t understand or want to love. Nothing she had ever done had pushed him away in the slightest. Her honesty about her life and the vulnerability she had shown him only made him respect and love her more.

He wasn’t mad that she shot him. Was he annoyed that he couldn’t use his arm? Of course. But he understood. Rowan understood that she felt backed into a corner and betrayed, and she went into fight or flight mode. In this case, it had been fight and flight. He had stepped too close and got shot in return. It was fair. She was used to fighting her way out of situations, so of course, it was the route she’d taken.

He just wanted her to slip up for once so he could just find her and talk to her. Figure out whatever the hell was going on when they’d argued before she shot him, then disappeared in the middle of the day in a bustling city. Rowan wasn’t even mad that she hadn’t been caught. In fact, he was glad they hadn’t caught her.

Rowan didn’t want her to be found. The full force of the FBI would rain down on her like a hurricane and she would be shown no mercy. There wasn’t a single part of him that wanted her suffering in an interrogation room, throwing around the word allegedly like she used to throw daggers. For her to be thrown back in that dismal jail cell awaiting a death sentence that almost assuredly awaited her for what happened at the bureau.

But he was still frustrated as all hell that he couldn’t find her now, no matter how much he didn’t want her rotting in prison on the outskirts of the city.

It was while he stood with his fingers running over the silk of her sheets that he heard the jingling of keys at her front door. It was surprising, considering he’d had to pick several locks to get up here in the first place. Rowan flattened his body against the bedroom wall, listening to the front door open and close.

The footsteps that followed weren’t Aelin’s, though. They were a little louder, carrying a larger and heavier body. Rowan moved to stand in the doorway, startling the man in the center of the room. He dropped the bag he was carrying, swearing loudly as he bent to pick it back up.

“Gods above, Suit,” he murmured, dropping the bag on the kitchen counter. “What are you doing here? Getting something for Celaena?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Rowan inquired, noting that the bag he carried contained nothing of real importance. If anything, it looked like a combination of garden tools and art supplies.

“I think I stashed something here if we’re being candid and off the record, which I would very much appreciate if we were, by the way. I’ve come to collect.” Haversham -- Rowan still didn’t know the man’s real name -- began digging around Aelin’s bookshelves, looking behind and even inside some of her books that turned out not to be books at all. They looked like books, but when opened in the middle were hidden pockets. Some were empty; some weren’t. Rowan noticed a few that had different bits of identification tucked away. None of that seemed to be what Haversham looked for as he simply closed them and put them back on the shelves.

“Where is she?” Rowan finally asked, a little boldly.

“Can’t you check that fancy anklet you have her wearing and figure it out? I haven’t seen her in a week. She isn’t calling me back, either, so when you do see her, can you tell her that I…” The man trailed off after looking up from his search and seeing Rowan’s face. Rowan’s hard, unyielding face and the concern that was likely etched in his features. The wrinkle between his brow, the stiff way he held his lips. Haversham’s head tilted curiously.

“Holy gods, did she make a run for it?”

“Something happened at the bureau. I can’t find her. Neither can they. But I need to talk to her. I can’t help her otherwise.”

“Do you want to help her?” The sound that came from Rowan was nearly a growl, and Haversham retreated a step with his hands raised defensively. “Look, I’m just saying. She wouldn’t make a run for it unless it was something serious and you’re incapacitated at the moment. Which leads me to believe that she did it; otherwise, you wouldn’t be hurt at all. Celaena wouldn’t let somebody hurt you. So either you really fucked up--”

“I did, but only by not protecting her and defending her when it mattered.”

Haversham twisted his mouth to the side while he gave Rowan a hard once-over. It was like he was assessing everything he knew about his character while deciding if he would help him or not. There was a prolonged silence that made Rowan want to throw something at the man, but he waited it out.

“I’m only going to help you because you make her happy. And I don’t mean superficially. I mean that for the first time in the eight years I’ve known her, she’s been happier and more alive than I’ve ever seen her. I know she trusted you more than she’s ever trusted anyone else. More than me, which doesn’t say much considering I think she trusts me as far as she can throw me. But she trusts you more than Sam even.” Finally, he ripped a page from one of the books and began to scrawl across the page until it was nearly full. When he handed it to Rowan, he realized it was a collection of addresses. Some were in the city; some were in other countries. Some were a handful of hours of a drive into nowhere. One was practically around the corner from where they were now.

“What is this?”

“Safehouses. Those are the ones I know about. Celaena has… a lot of secrets. I don’t know even half of them. I have my suspicions about a lot of shit, but I’m letting her come to me with it when she’s ready. So I don’t know all of her safehouses, but I know those ones. Those are the ones she’s let me use in times of trouble. That’s the only help I can really offer you besides calling if I hear from her.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said softly, and he meant it. It was the biggest and only lead that he had on her whereabouts, and even if she wasn’t crashing on a bed in any of these places, it was a start. It was the only hope he had so far that maybe, just maybe… he might find her.

~*~

Rowan had decided to start on the outside and work his way in, and it was wasting a lot of time. Everyone he was friendly with at the bureau was constantly calling and texting to see how he was doing, asking what he was up to. Fenrys told him he’d stopped by his apartment a few times this week, and he hadn’t been home. Rowan replied, saying he was just taking some time to himself, which seemed to satisfy the man, and that had been that.

In reality, Rowan had been in Terrasen trying to find Aelin. She wasn’t in either of the two listed near the border of Adarlan, so now he was slowly working his way back toward Rifthold. It just didn’t seem likely for her to be hiding somewhere in the city, not when she would have to leave for food and other necessities at some point. So he’d gone as far out as he could before making his way back. So far, it had turned up nothing. Both of the cabins he’d visited in the woods had seen better days and likely hadn’t seen Aelin in years.

He was driving toward his fourth destination now, so deep in Oakwald, he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t back in Terrasen at this point. The location pinged on the Adarlanian side of the border, but he had little hope of actually finding her. There were only two safehouses left on the list, and both of them were in the city itself. Would he still check them? Of course. But did he think that she was stupid enough to be there? Absolutely not.

The energy of the place was different as soon as he made it up the drive. Halfway up, a gate that covered the driveway, and Rowan had to abandon his car and hop the fence. It was a bit of a feat, as it was taller than him, and he only had one good arm to use, but he managed. Even if it had taken him three times as long as it usually would have. Feet pounding down against the dirt so hard it caused a small cloud, he proceeded up toward the small cottage with a little more confidence than he’d had the rest of the drive.

Smoke was wafting from the chimney, and a dim glow flickered in the window. The window that a lithe body stood in, peering through the curtains and backlit by the fire. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew it was Aelin, knew he’d been spotted, and knew she was watching. How she had known he’d arrived, he wasn’t sure. Being overcautious her entire life likely meant that there were tripwires that alerted her of his presence somewhere on the driveway.

As he got closer, she disappeared, and the curtains slipped back into place. When he got to the door, he reached out but hesitated for a moment. Aelin clearly didn’t want to be found and was clearly mad at him. What if she did worse than she had the last time they’d seen each other? Part of him thought she wouldn’t, but he hadn’t ever thought she would shoot him, either. Rowan wasn’t sure how many times she had told him she hated guns, but desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.

It took more courage than he cared to admit to turn the knob. Much to his surprise, the door opened, and he slipped inside, shutting it behind him quietly. To be frank, Rowan couldn’t believe his luck. He couldn’t believe he’d managed to find her at all, much less on a list of places that Haversham managed to remember.

As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw Aelin sitting across the room with a bottle of rum in one hand, balanced on her thigh. She was slumped down a bit in the chair; her hair dyed a muddy reddish-brown color. A dagger was in her other hand, being twisted in circles against her bare leg. Rowan wanted to tell her to stop, that she would hurt herself, but faster than he could register, she was moving. He was stunned further into silence by the whistling of the wind and the slight breeze by his ear. A loud thud had him whipping around to the door.

Embedded in the wood, millimeters from where his head had just been, was the dagger she’d been holding, and when he looked back at Aelin, she was smirking.

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dropsofletters · 3 years

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the beat of a love rhyme [jww]

— summary: up-driven music, blasting parties, glasses of champagne clanking in between drags of smoke—the seventies are wild, but she’s at the peak of her career. part of one of the most popular funk bands of this decade, their vocalist at that, with a fulfilling relationship, rows of people screaming her name…life is good.

until it isn’t.

her band decides to split and she’s left as a solo artist. the only thing she has left is jeon wonwoo, her manager, and the connection that has grown in between them in endless years of accompaniment.

as it turns out, he’s all she needs—saccharine sweet, paradoxical, elegant, kind. much different from the world she had once prided herself for being part of.

— title: the beat of a love rhyme — pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader — genre: funk band!au ; manager!au ; friends to lovers!au ; 1970’s!au — type: fluff ; suggestive ; drama ; angst — word count: 13,740

She once saw the world she had constructed fall down to her feet. Watched betrayal collide against the strong walls of her universe, tumbling it down, masking it in shadows and dust. For once, while standing in the studio, sporting enigmatic and outstanding clothing and a smirk that slowly dissipates, she doesn’t feel like herself. Stardom tastes nothing like the saccharine-sweet dessert she had once thought of it to be.

Music is one of those things—everyone loves it, adores to sensationalize the artists that they listen to on the radio and that they attend concerts of, but they don’t think about how wrong it is. Managers that are manipulators, magazines that are stalkers, drug dealers that are leeches looking to destroy them and earn their money while at it. Of course, how to forget?…band members that leave the group because a lead vocalist is, well, fucking stupid.

They all start the same. The Beatles. Kiss. They are friends that get in a group together and then, they’re no longer as good of friends as they were in the beginning. One person wants to write certain kind of music, another one is too lost in between someone’s legs to even care, then…there’s what her friends are doing.

The Moonlit Dolls are a funk hit. Ask magazines, newspapers, even that one housemaid that lives next to you and bumps her hips and head to the beat of their songs. It happened in 72, when one roll of a song made it to the radio and soon after, they found a manager. Youthful, nervous, just trying to prove his boss right about his sense of music.

That’s Wonwoo, outside the booth that contains the seven women of the funk band that once consisted of friends that drank beers together and decided to make a group. Perform dancing and singing to their heart’s content, with pianos, trumpets, and a whole lot of shiny dresses. She was the lead woman, and now?

“We’re kicking you out of The Moonlit Dolls.” Sunshine, the pianist, says with one hand spread on top of her waist. Her hair is puffy, tight curls accompanied by tinted sunglasses and a body-tight dress, orange under the golden lights.

She scoffs after hearing it the second time. “Yeah, right.” Tugging at the oversized jacket, belonging to her baseball player boyfriend, that rests over her shoulders, a smile appears on her features. “I am The Moonlit Dolls, Sunshine. You ask anyone and the only person they’re going to care about is me.”

Prickling with harsh words will give her a benefit in this fight. Kiara, the chorist and bass player, gasps from her spot. Sunshine is all sex dreams and radiant smirks. Kiara is ignited cigarettes and broken wings. “You can’t say that…”

“Calm down, Ki.” Sunshine says, extending her hand towards the smaller, weaker woman. “I’m not letting this bitch keep the group.”

Why is no one talking? She asks herself. There are two producers and her manager, Wonwoo, outside. Everyone else had decided to switch managers when they reached stardom in 75 with their single “One More Song”, but she had kept to his side.

“It’s my group. I was the one with the idea.” She utters, fixing the microphone and putting on her headphones “So stop whining about and trying to be a leader when I need you to do your job and play the piano, as you should.”

“We’re tired of being your little backup girls.”

She raises her eyebrows at that, bitter as bitter can be. “Maybe, if you worked on some good publicity, you wouldn’t be my backup girls.”

Scandal after scandal had cladded the group, and while being the leader, she had to stand every question and tidying wave. Men in music do it all the time—being in threesomes, being improper outside, doing drugs, smoking cigarettes, screaming to paparazzi but have a group of women singing and playing funk music do it and it’s a fucking headline. And the worst kind.

Her girls just loved a bit of irrelevant, awestriking fun…and she was the one to protect them.

Look how that turned out.

Star, their drummer, screams a bit louder than the rest. She’s a mood-maker, even in the worst sense of the word. “And you’re a good example?!”

“Mention one scandal from me.” The vocalist says, shrugging her shoulders when she spares a glance towards Wonwoo. The man hovers over the sound booth, thick eyebrows perpetually placed in a frown, as if studying the situation.

Star sighs dreamily. “I don’t know, maybe that you’ve fucked the entirety of the country’s baseball team.”

Looking over her shoulders, anger is swallowed down by the lump on her throat. It hurts. The six women that had been there for her these past few years now have turned against her, and even worse, they think of her as some kind of monster. Have someone to lose and you’ll cry them once every blue moon. Imagine having six.

“Oh baby,” She feigns a moan, battling her eyelashes in the process to bring a smirk over her features. “I like men with big baseball bats. Thick. Long. Know what to do with them…is that what you wanted to hear? Is your little businessman boyfriend too little in that department for you?”

“Cock-thirsty bitch.” Star cusses, moving forward as she tightens her fists.

Instead, she chuckles. “Does that make your betraying-bitch ways any better?”

Blood boiling, ears tinged in heat, she doesn’t pay much attention to what she says until she feels Star’s long nails piercing through her scalp, holding onto her hair and tugging at it as shrieks leave her lips. Fighting with them, even physically, would have never crossed her head but hey…

If she’s going to end up having a scandal, she better go all the way with it.

Her hands settle on Star’s slim arms, moving her around and pushing her against the drums, tussled to the ground by her force. Star pulls her down, pushing her body to the ground to tug at more of her hair and just when she’s grabbing onto the woman’s face, fingers digging onto her cheeks, she feels the pressure on her head dissipating, but not leaving her without a headache.

The next thing she sees is a pair of worried brown eyes staring down at her, the golden lights of the ceiling a halo around Wonwoo’s brown hair, soft strands cascading down his face when he wraps his fingers around hers and puts her up, behind his suit-cladded body.

“Stop it.” He says, never one raising his voice. Star doesn’t look any better, tears cladding her vision as she stares back at her. “Do you think it’s fair for her to just tell her now that you’re leaving her out of the group? You’re going to destroy her career.”

“It has always been about her!” Sunshine says, far stronger than Star in her poise. “She’s the one writing, composing, singing, presenting. If she’s so good, she’ll do well…but we can’t be The Moonlit Dolls and the bitch that stands above everyone. This isn’t what a group is about—”

“What is it about?” Her voice lowers, getting away from Wonwoo’s shadow, bottom lip trembling to try to keep strong. But she can’t. She’s losing her group and her sisters. Though, they don’t consider her family anymore. “Talking about me? Judging me? Making decisions without including me? Is it about envy? If you really love someone, you’ll want to see them succeed, not push them to the ground to step on them.”

Sunshine pulls her sunglasses down, rolling her eyes in the process. Silence eats the atmosphere when she says: “You did that to us for years.”

“…Well, not anymore.” Her shaking fingertips wrap around Wonwoo’s, interlocking their hands together to keep sane. The only person that is left of the beginning of it all…and now, she’ll have to start again. “You’ve got it. Be the Moonlit Dolls. I couldn’t give less of a shit. I hope you’re happy.”

“Wait, no—” Wonwoo says, tugging at her. “It’s not fair. We can talk about the contract with them. I’m—”

“I don’t want to work with them anymore.” Her voice is soft, odd for a frontwoman, but when looking into her manager’s eyes, she wants to find solace…peace… “Please, let’s just go home.”

It doesn’t take much more than a nod from him and a tug of her hand to get out of that fucking studio.

###

One rule before getting on a stage or even doing a presentation at school. You don’t think of everyone naked; much less do you take deep breaths. You just of how comforting it will be to come back home to the person that supports you through it all. Now, that’s how she has gotten through stardom.

The beaming lights of the city cast down on her face, shadows highlighting the tears that stream down her face. The sleeve of her sweater, bathed in a citrusy scent, rubs at her tired eyes for the umpteenth time when Wonwoo finally says something.

“They didn’t deserve you.”

Maybe, Wonwoo is the person she wants to make proud, whom she wants to return to, even when they are just friends. A manager on the rising, trying to get his job going, in 1972, when he found a group of women in some bar. At the time, Wonwoo was a lot more youthful, peppering around nineteen-year-old and not technically her manager. An intern? Sure. The man in the small lettering of books when remembering The Moonlit Dolls? Of course. But Wonwoo only got to be her manager five years later. This year, actually.

Now, he’s different from how she remembered him. Wonwoo was a lot shyer, music-loving, sporting graphic t-shirts and carrying CD’s in his backpack just in case. His features were sweeter, of course, less of a frown and more of a curve to his cat-like lips, but Wonwoo has pampered himself well enough. A gray suit covers his tall and slim body on most occasions, tied to his waist to utmost perfection, with his hair smooth against his scalp and sleeked back, with one strand that always escapes it, and of course, he leaves the CD’s in his newer, far better car now.

Sighing, she rests her head against her seat, staring at his profile as the mansions and beaming lights let her know they are nearing her house. “Who are we lying to, Wonwoo?” She asks, voice raspy. “All my shit is getting out now. They’re not the type to keep their lips pursed and all the songs I composed are going to stay with her. I know Sunshine—”

“They’re copyrighted. They can’t do that.” Wonwoo’s voice, warm like a day at the pool in summer, makes her chuckle softly, not even parting her lips to do so.

“Copyrighted under The Moonlit Doll’s name.”

“Then…” Wonwoo trails, fingers skimming over the wheel professionally. Looking at him from the side, Wonwoo doesn’t look half bad. Maybe, that’s why her boyfriend is always over-the-top jealous about her manager. “We can turn you into a solo artist. Elton John did it. John Lennon did it. Hell, every single one of The Beatles decided a solo was good. Even Ringo.”

“Elton is Elton. I’m me.”

“More of a reason. You’re enough—”

“Woo.” She cuts off, leaning over to his side of the car, head resting on his shoulder to seek for the comfort of him. “It’s not about the music. It’s about the fact that those women, my sisters, my girls, decided to just cut ties with me.”

Wonwoo’s breath ghosts over her forehead for a second when he looks over his shoulder to park in her garage. His arm extends behind her seat, the warmth of him seeping through his suit. “So, you can only rise from this. It will hurt for a while, and I’ll give you enough time to heal all you need, but you can’t consider them your sisters. Not after what they did to you. Not how they talked to you, either.”

With that, he parks the car, but she doesn’t move her face away from her spot next to him. He’s the only thing she has left of her old life, before the big mansion, chef, workers, studio albums and stardom.

He calls her name softly, and she hums.

“You don’t consider them your sisters, do you?”

“The kind of sisters that you hope never get written in your father’s will. Yeah. That kind of sisters.”

Her manager chuckles at that, soft and tender. “I’ll support you through everything.” With that, he opens the door to the driver’s seat. “But I need you to sleep the sadness off and for god’s sake, to stop crying. They’re not worth the tears. Sure, it hurts…but this happens. Every group falls down.”

Lumping against the seat, her fingers clumsily hook on the door to open it. “Then, why are they so popular?”

“People love friendships.” He says, and when she turns to look at the side and get out of the car, he’s already holding his hand out for her to take. She does, eyes connected to his as he speaks. “And they love groups of people they can choose from. You know, ‘my favorite was totally Sunshine because she’s hot’ and that’s all there is. Sex sells, but friendship does, too.”

“I have to stay with sex, then.” The door closes behind her, coldness seeping through her legs when she walks towards her spacious mansion. Eight rooms, ten bathrooms, enormous living rooms and parties, and she still doesn’t feel a thing for this place. It’s not home.

“It’s not necessary when you have talent.”

“Tell that to the talented women in this industry that are only paid attention to if their nipples peak through their shirts.”

“…We’ll do anything to make you shine for who you are.”

“I, no longer, have a ‘we’.” She doesn’t tip-toe around the subject, turning around and walking backwards when talking to Wonwoo. “I’m alone! I’m fucking alone and I don’t know what to do. I’m not used to being alone!”

Wonwoo sighs. “How many people does it take to make a ‘we’?”

The question has her frowning. “I don’t know—”

“It’s logic. You do know. The least amount of people you need to make a ‘we’ is…”

His voice trails when her back connects against the entrance of her mansion. “Two.”

“And did I leave you?”

“No.”

“Then, we’re a team. We’ll always be a team.” Wonwoo conquers, his hands coming in contact with her shoulders when he pulls her to the side slightly. “So, I’m staying here tonight and make sure you don’t party until ninety percent of your body becomes alcohol.”

A smile tugs at the edge of her lips. Well, maybe she’s as trashy as her ex-bandmates said. “People like you are always so responsible, aren’t they?”

Wonwoo opens the door with the copies of her keys he has with him, turning on the lights and greeting one of the maids by the entrance. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done it.”

She chuckles. “Oh, I would’ve smoked a cigarette out of someone’s ass right now with how shitty I’m feeling.”

Never would she have thought that would make Wonwoo grin. “That’s a pun?”

Her eyes look up to remember what she said before laughing at her words. “I’ve never eaten ass, but maybe the factor of shit possibly coming out could be the reason why I’ll never try it.”

Something in his eyes is dulcet. You see, silence has its own taste, and there, with her nose clogged up from so much crying and lips burning from so much biting, she basks on the way Wonwoo smiles and watches her when he extends his hand and pats her head. “You’re something else.”

Out of all the times she has heard it, this one feels nice—sincere. “That’s the only thing I have ever been.”

“Go to sleep. I’ll stay down here and arrange a few things.”

“My career?”

“Maybe.” Wonwoo shrugs, taking off her boyfriend’s jacket from her shoulders and placing it neatly on the couch. “Go sleep those tears off.”

Saluting him, she winks at him as a goodbye. “On it, dad.”

Wonwoo closes his eyes tightly, a chuckle ripping through his vocal chords. “Don’t call me that.”

“I won’t…dad.”

She hears him groan as she goes up the endless set of curved, marble-toned stairs and that alone makes her feel like maybe, not everything is fucked.

###

Rule number one of life. Never say never.

Never say everything.

Never say fine.

Just, don’t say shit.

Wonwoo has stayed in her place for the past three days, asking her chefs to make her complete meals, making sure that she—at least—ties her hair away from her face as she relishes on her sadness. Lets it broom and breathe out as she sips on her coffee and reads the newspaper. Two days ago, a man died when swallowing a bone, just yesterday, they talked about the feminist movement and today, she’s in the headlines when she scalds her tongue with coffee.

“Wonwoo!” She shouts out, loud and clear, enough to rip her vocal cords. Anyone who listened to her would have thought two things. One, Wonwoo is her child and she’s trying to scold him to bits and pieces or she’s Wonwoo fan, and hence, absolutely crazy enough to scream his name like that.

It’s not always that the man she loves decides to speak nonsense in the newspaper.

Or rather, break up with her through an article.

THE DEVIL IN A SHORT SKIRT – Why the King of Baseball, Jae Kim, decided to break all ties with most famous female funk singer?

For once, she didn’t know she had broken ties with Jae. Two days ago, to be exact, he was cooing on the cellphone, whispering sweet and dirty nothings of how much he missed her, how he craved to touch her skin, how he had thought of all the sins possible with her in mind. That’s not love, but it’s stardom—Hollywood bleeding the perfection that everyone envies.

Now, when Wonwoo appears in the pristine kitchen, breathing heavily as he had ran all the way through the mansion, she’s reading the article. His picture is there, enough reason to show he had actually been interviewed. Jae throws his head back in laughter, thick and muscular thighs parted with his skillful fingers wrapped around a glass of champagne. His long brown hair is pushed away from his face, his chiseled face, squared jaw and thick lips parted in sweet laughter.

“It was crazy, man.” He said, according to the reporter, with a frown of his lips. “I’d be scared of her, much like the girls were. She was too strong. Too receptive. She tied me up to the bed one night and left me there until the morning. I’m not too perfect but damn...I couldn’t hold on.”

God!

Speak of a fucking bastard!

He was the one tying people up, if she is sure of something.

The rest of the article objectified her, to bits and pieces, enough to throw the newspaper across the kitchen, watching the papers fall apart as a dulling scream leaves her lips, coffee splattering across the walls when she splashes it away from her cup.

“Fuck!”

How could the man that she loved treat her in such a way? Spoke about things that he should have never talked about—bragged about how it was like to bang the hottest member of a girl group, of a funk band. Talked about her consumptions, her supposed addictions, spoke of her as a pair of tits and an ass that he touched and claimed as his but he couldn’t hold onto because a body was a thing…but certainty, confidence, ambition? Oh, that’s too fucking much.

That’s a woman. He wants a maid.

He wants a hole to fuck.

Her hands cover her eyes when she hears Wonwoo speaking, a curse leaving his lips. “This fucker. I told you not to get with him—”

One year back, when Wonwoo was totally right about dating her ex boyfriend’s best friend, Jae Kim, and also another baseball player. Maybe The Dolls weren’t so wrong when they said she had a thing for men like that.

“I know.” She speaks softly.

“Let me call the publicity team and just talk about this. We need to make a conference and throw him to the ground. He doesn’t deserve to talk such obsenities—”

Instead, she extends her hand, waving her fingertips. “Give me the car keys.”

Wonwoo looks into her eyes, studying her, more put together than herself. Did she even take a shower yesterday? She’s not sure. “Why?”

“Wonwoo, I said—”

“I’m not letting you drive anywhere alone.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he keeps his voice poised and she does her best not to stomp her foot like a child. “You want to talk with Jae.”

Maybe, he knows her a bit too much. “He said—”

“Stupid things.” Wonwoo waves the newspaper in the air. “He said things that should have been kept in between two people and he doesn’t deserve words. He deserves—”

“Oh, I know what he deserves.” She waves her fingers again. “So, you either let me go or I’m walking all my way there.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

With a sigh, she tilts her head to the side. “Wonwoo, do you think I would kill someone?”

Her manager blinks a few seconds before chuckling. “No, but I’d support you if that’s what you were trying to do.” He says, throwing the newspaper to the island. “What’s the plan?”

“You let me drive, and you don’t say a thing.”

“…For the first time in my life, I don’t want to stay silent because I don’t know what you’re planning.”

Though, the coldness of the car keys rests against her hands, with enough quickness for her to go to the living room and take Jae’s signed baseball bat in between her fingers, swinging it once and twice before resting it against her shoulder.

“I’m planning to be the kind of woman he’s scared of.”

Wonwoo raises his eyebrows at that. “We’re not killing him.”

“I’m not planning on killing him.” She looks at the bat in between her fingers. “I could get this up his ass, but he’s not in his mansion. He’s somewhere in the country, bragging about how he had me in his sheets so…I’ll do the second best thing.”

The manager sighs deeply, rubbing his temples in the process. “Tell me this will be therapeutic.”

“Oh, this is a before and after.” She whispers, walking over to the door. “You’re about to see the birth of a new woman.”

Jae Kim is one proud son of a bitch. Tall, handsome, with a dimple on his left cheek and an ass to die for. He’s everything she ever thought she wanted—with not enough spice, but with a smile that could make up for his lack of words. Then, he spoke too much and without caring if paparazzi trailed after her, she went over to his house.

They want to see the devil? They’ll get it. Not in a short skirt, not being banged into oblivion in Jae’s car like he had said, but banging his car instead.

The same one that he had spoken about in that infamous magazine.

Wonwoo rushes out of the car when she swings the baseball bat in the air and smashes Jae’s car’s windows. One. Two. Three and then, four. Each and every single one falling to pieces in shreds of glass against her slipper-covered feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Wonwoo questions, standing by her side and sheltering her of any sight of paparazzi.

“Destroying the car that he relished about fucking me in.”

Though a small smile appears on his face, Wonwoo clears his throat before it could fully show his thoughts. “While I think he deserves it, this is bad publicity.”

“Woo, one thing,” She says, swinging the bat and hitting the passenger’s door in the process. “You lose all your friends that feel like your family and they out to the world that they’re going to continue to be a group while you’re left alone and the man you love suddenly uncovers that all he thought about you is that you were a vagina with legs that he only stayed with because it feels good, amazing, spectacular to just fuck someone people want to be with…and you have to act well. Because people want you to be perfect. That’s all you are to them. A board to judge, compare to others and…” Hitting one of the lights, the apples of her cheeks lift up. “Fuck that. I don’t need that. The good girl of funk died today.”

Instead of judging her or leaving her alone, she feels Wonwoo’s fingers sliding through the baseball bat before testing the waters and moving it around his palm, rotating it to catch the best hit. “Why do you have his bat?”

“That’s the bat he used for winning on his latest baseball season.” She replies, looking inside her car and getting out the sharpie she uses for signing autographs. “So, I’m ruining it, just like he destroyed my dreams of love.”

The man stays silent when he swings for the first time, destroying the remaining glass at the front as a shaky smile takes over his features. “What are you writing?”

“Just a message for the paps.” She leans over the hood of the car, hair done a mess, t-shirt oversized on her body and accompanied by basketball shorts, leaving everything to the imagination. Completely different from how she was with The Moonlit Dolls. “If they want my response, I’ll give it to them.”

The sharpie writes over the yellow hood of the car, Wonwoo reading the message out loud as she scribbles it down in neat letters. “Rot in hell, trashbag. P.D, you weren’t that good at playing…me or baseball, I don’t know anymore. ”

With that, she throws the baseball bat inside the car, resting her hands in her waist and looking at the mess she’d done.

“Wonwoo?”

The wind whisks against their bodies. Wonwoo, polished. She, on the brink of crying. But she won’t anymore—she’s tired of it.

“Yes?”

“Take me home, please.” She breathes out. “I need to start writing songs for that asshole.”

###

Think of your favorite album. All time favorite. The kind that you’ll cry and bang your head with when you turn fifty and you just need to remember what it was like to be young. And there it is, the nostalgia. The ‘it’ factor that people love and adore.

It takes months to make a great album, but for her, it has never taken this long.

Two months of staring at her ceiling, trying to return to the persona that she had crafted. The lover girl of funk, who sang into a microphone about the sincere, soft love she had for her now ex-boyfriend. For the guy with the bat that swung at her heart, destroyed her career momentarily, and whined like a bitch to the media when she destroyed his car.

One of the many cars he has, at least. He’s filthy rich.

But love songs aren’t as easy to write anymore. Leave it to the ballad lovers and the people who still believe in romance, but she is not one of them. In most occasions, she just goes back and forth, greets her workers around the house, talks to them for a few minutes that turn into hours and then, she uses the excuse of going back to writing. She tries to rhyme something with ‘boy’ and it just ends there.

She’s not in love with music anymore.

The strings of her guitar become lonely, plucked and exchanged for a piano. And there, seated in front of the endless rows of keys, she can’t think of anything either. The same thing happens over and over again, roaming around the house like a ghost only to meet with her manager at the end of the night. On the rare occasion, someone wants an interview…but given that the press coverage given by newspapers and magazines had died down after The Moonlit Dolls came out with their album as six, she’s left wth silence.

Until today.

Wonwoo is a routinary man. He likes his coffee lukewarm. He enjoys the same kind of music he did when she met him. He wears scales of grays, blacks and whites, and they’re always the same shade. His hair never follows after his instructions with that one strand that always stands out on his forehead, so it’s not surprising when he enters her mansion at eight thirty-seven in the night.

With her legs extended on the armrest of her leather couch, she jots down on her notebook, not caring that her short red silky robe had fallen off one shoulder, the lace of her bra barely peeking through when she sends a smile his way.

Pink is not Wonwoo’s shade. Not until today, when his cheeks blare in said color and he puts his hands on top of his eyes.

“Shit, fuck. I’m sorry.” He turns around, stealing a chuckle from her when she sits up on the couch. Wonwoo believes in the rhymes in gentlemanly words still, and she doesn’t know why. Maybe, he’s the only thing left of real men in this world. “I—I didn’t know you weren’t decent…or…can you just tie your robe properly?”

Loud laughter leaves her lips when she fixes the robe around her body. “Sorry. I was just immersed in writing.”

That makes him drop his hands, though the perfect view of his tinted-red ears becomes the least of her worries when he widens his eyes. “You? You’re writing?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she stands up from the couch. “I think I have the title song of my next album.”

Wonwoo nears her when she sits in front of her piano, an angel in the way his eyes twinkle. “Oh, for your solo?”

“I don’t have a group anymore,” She breathes out, turning her face to the side and looking at his features from up close. The scent of champagne clings to her, dizzy in the way her eyes crinkle and her lips purse. “So, it’s my solo. I’m completely alone in this world, so the least I can do is fight in it.”

Taking the seat next to her, he says: “You’re not alone.”

She sighs at those words. “Woo,” She instructs. “Why have you never been in love?”

He raises an eyebrow, silent for a second, before answering: “Who told you I haven’t?”

“You’ve never talked about it.”

“I don’t work with you to talk about me.”

“But you tell me everything.” The singer elongates in a whine. “How much you love your mom, how your hands tremble sometimes, how your stomach hurts when you eat certain foods. That one trip you had when you were a child and how you wish you could go back to your peaceful place…” Her voice becomes quieter. “I just assumed you’ve never fallen in love…or that you’re just not interested in dating.”

One of his index fingers presses to a piano key before chuckling. Soft, tender, with his thin lips wrapping around his perfectly sculpted teeth. “I have. Tons of times.”

“Tons?”

“Like four? I don’t know.” Wonwoo shrugs. “Love is easy to feel. Hate? Even easier. It’s the hold-out that I can’t deal with. There’s always something that ends it all.”

Resting her cheek against the piano, she breathes out the insecurities that had wrapped inside her body. “I think the same way.”

Wonwoo shakes his head at that. “No.” He denies. “You’re too loveable to believe that.”

Rolling her eyes, she straightens her back. “What says that about me? The short skirts? The upbeat songs? The dating scandals? The money? The hits?” Finally, she reaches a peak, hovering her fingertips over the keys. “I want to be loved for who I am when I’m at my worst, when I can’t even get up and out of the bed. I want to be loved with my insecurities, when they take the best of me and make me lose all judgement, all rationality…” She stops. “And that won’t happen. I won’t be loved for who I was, so what’s the point in pretending to be the pretty, sensual, coquettish ex-doll?”

“What do you mean?” Wonwoo questions, voice raspy, worry bleeding on his tone.

“I don’t need men looking up my skirt, people paying to hear the love songs I write about men that never deserved me.” Continuing, she presses down on the keys, a melodramatic tune starting it all. It’s a new beginning. “I don’t want love, Wonwoo, because it’s all I’ve given the media and look how they’ve paid me. I want power, irony, hate, I want to have a voice so strong people like me will start to think that it’s okay to be alone. That we rise when we don’t depend on others.”

In typical funk fashion, the beat picks up and Wonwoo smiles at the melody. “How’s the song called?”

“Still working on the lyrics.” She says. “It starts off slow, the rain after that moment where life seems not to have a continuation and then, it picks up. People want a show? They’ll have it. But they won’t have the real me anymore.”

Wonwoo closes his eyes, shoulders swinging to the beat as a cat-like smirk takes oves his face. “Who are we getting?”

“I want a wig.” She says, earning sweet laughter from her manager. “And a suit. I’m tired of skirts. I want suits of all colors, bright, tight, loose. I want people to judge me for my dancing skills, my singing, not how sexy they think I am.”

“What color? The wig. What color should it be?” He questions, his gaze burning on the side of her face when she continues playing.

Recalling the shade of his pretty cheeks, she turns to him. “Pink.”

He repeats: “Pink?”

“The brightest pink you can find.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo tilts his head to the side, taking the notebook on top of the piano in between his hands and reading the lyrics. “Wait, why is called ‘I Died’?”

“Because the past few months have felt like that. Like I’ve actually died.” She conquers, shrugging in the process and haltering the song. “But I’m ready to be born again and under my own terms.”

“We’re still going with funk?”

“It’s my soul. I can’t leave funk.” She confesses. “But we’re working on an album and next month, we’re releasing it.”

Wonwoo shakes his head. “Oh no, I’m not about to overwork you.”

“Consider it this way,” Smirking, like she always does, ready to bite the bullet that life brings at her, she rests her chin on his shoulder, staring up at him. “I’m overworking you, sweetie.”

###

Wonwoo was once young and stupid. Think about it this way—what nineteen-year-old guy packs a diamond ring on his pocket, bought in the cheapest price he could find, to confess to the woman he loved since he was fourteen that the only person he saw himself with was her? Even if they weren’t together, to begin with, and she had given him all the signs of ‘I’m into anyone but you’?

That would be nineteen-year-old Jeon Wonwoo. Dumb. Stupid. A reader, but the words he figured out in books definitely did not give him more life-knowledge.

While entering backstage to the concert of the singer he represents, he remembers why he didn’t become Mr. Denied that night. He met her. Seated in that old, raunchy bar, he watched as the woman he loved—Joohyun—got off the stage, her long hair swinging on her curved back, each juncture of her clothing with her body almost making him salive until he saw her.

In a short dress, a little bit drunk, jumping up to the microphone and apologizing for the interruption but introducing themselves as The Moonlit Dolls. Seven women together, just having fun, trying to make whatever they were work.

Joohyun was talented—sulky, tender voice and moving hips that had any man to her mercy, but she didn’t have much to her apart from that. Sang Frank Sinatra on the rare ocassion, but could never write, never perform, never compose. The Moonlit Dolls had just that, and while his boss had initially denied Joohyun when he tried to get her a contract, he had a gut feeling that The Moonlit Dolls were right up his alley.

What did he do? He got them to accompany him on the next Monday to his office, and the young intern that was Jeon Wonwoo got his first recognition for finding a hidden gem.

He pulls the curtains that separate the stage to the back, and what he sees is adorable. It warms his heart in every possible way, feeling as though he’s back to when he was nineteen and he had completely forgotten about his unplanned future with Joohyun just to hear her sing. This time around, she’s not wearing her short and tight skirts and the lights of the stage cast down on the bright pink wig that rests above her shoulders. Though, her vocals never falter and her chorists accompany her with as much excitement as her smile plasters for the public to see.

His old boss, a man that now represents The Moonlit Dolls, had asked him a simple question when the group departed her. “Why do you stay with her?” He asked, with his belly shaking with every word he said, his thick moustache rubbed in between his fingers.

At the time, he only answered: “Because she’s my friend.” Though, now that he thinks about it, seeing her there, she bleeds every portion of music. Raw. Enigmatic. Beautiful.

Wonwoo always had a thing for music.

But—

“Jeon Wonwoo,” A dulcet, saccharine-sweet voice speaks over his shoulder and he turns around to see a much shorter woman. Ali, the stylist behind this new change in funk, smiles up at him while she cradles her notebook to her chest. She’s maybe two years older than him, with a rounded face, big brown eyes and her hair almost always tied in two braids. Cute, really. “Didn’t think I’d see you here today.”

“It’s the first concert. I had to be here.” Though, he was trying to calm down the paparazzi outside. Some celebrities had attended and they were trying to see who was the singer’s next love affair. He crosses his arms cross his chest, taut muscles contracting under the suit before he smiles down at her. “The wig is cuter than I thought it would be.”

“It’s a challenge.” Ali says, looking over his shoulder to stare at the woman dancing on stage, feet keeping up with every word she said. “But she makes everything work. Besides, I’d love to be the one behind this new era of funk with her styling.”

“The suit is gorgeous.”

“Thank you. Had to contact a few people to get it perfectly styled, but she rocks it.” Ali’s voice trails at that moment, a smile taking over her rounded cheeks when she swings back and forth on the sole of her feet. “Wonwoo?”

The man hums, quirking an eyebrow in the process. “Yes?”

“You haven’t called me again.”

Wonwoo doesn’t do relationships often. Not because he doesn’t believe in them, but because he doesn’t have time. Try to explain to someone who wants undivided attention that your utmost priority is your client, who is coincidentially a woman that a lot of people desire, very famous, filthy rich, and who is broken down to tears because of everyone around her leaving her but you. You, Jeon Wonwoo. It’s difficult—so, Wonwoo resorts to the easiest thing, a fling or two with close friends and a promise to call again.

He normally does. With how crazy the world is and how little he knows about strangers when having sex, he would much rather have it with people he knows. Someone whom he recognizes he has a connection with.

Six months ago, Ali was it. She practically put candles up when he went over to his apartment and it felt nice, to be treasured and worshipped for once. To be the center of attention, but each time it happened, he scavanged out of the bed and went over to his client’s mansion.

To check up on her. To make sure she was eating right. To just hear her speak, talk about everything and nothing at the same time.

He doesn’t do that with the people he sleeps with and Ali’s speeches are interesting, though not groundbreaking.

He bites his bottom lip, hissing in the process. “Sorry, I was coaching every city we were going to attend to and I stayed over at the mansion a little too much in the process. I—I haven’t really been alone…”

“Wonwoo.” Ali stops him, placing one hand on top of his chest. “Listen, I look like I’m not the type but I’m the kind of woman that says it like it is. I like you, and I’m sure you liked me when we were together because…it seemed like it. You’re not my first, I know how an interested man looks like.” She whispers, long eyelashes fluttering against her wide eyes. “But if you love her, if you love someone else, I can’t be with you—”

I’ve loved tons of people, he told her months ago when she wrote the song she’s closing this concert with.

But how could he love her? The thought had never crossed his brain. Adoration, yes, of course. He doesn’t think he could ever fully let go of her, but loving the singer that had never looked twice his way?

“I don’t love her like that.”

Ali chuckles. “I believe you,” She says. “But anyone would think otherwise. You’re glued to her hip all the time.”

“She’s my client.” Wonwoo proves with a swat of his hand. “I have to be by her side.”

The shorter woman inspects his features, calculating each of his movements before humming. “You sure?”

Smiling, he says: “Or I could just prove to you how little in love I’m with her.” Though, the words leave his lips and they don’t sound quite right to his ears, much less when he hears the melody of a saddened tune, the start of the song that watched her rise again.

He tries his best not to turn around, but his eyes waver towards where she is sitting, playing the piano with utmost conviction.

“I’m alright with that.” Ali says, trailing her hand down to his abdomen before letting go of him. “Call me next time you’re alone, will you?”

Though, the nod he gives is only to stop the conversation, turning around when Ali is gone to look at the woman on stage. The beam on her features is brighter than ever, but he knows better than to trust it. Tears and frowns gather in the worst of days, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to leave her alone just yet.

###

“”Haven’t seen these in a while.”

With his fingers palming around her hair, she looks over her shoulder to capture the glimpse of the man she knows a little too well. Wonwoo looks like he had just woken up from a nap, not quite used to the jetlag of being in a tour bus with her just yet. Years will pass by and still sleep will ride over him in tidal waves, clashing him to the bed and leaving him petrified.

For the past two months of touring, she has been a new persona. Pink hair, eccentric high notes, suits that cover what had once been the reason why she earned so much money—she took the reigns of her life based on what the headlines said. Wrote songs about betrayal, overconfidence, loneliness, ego…and they became hits.

The radio won’t stop talking about her pink locks, swinging hips and hateful words. And that’s what she wanted, until the lights dimmed and she was back in her tour bus, staring out the window to the cars passing by in silence. None of them would stop if they just knew the real her. The romanticist that feels a bit broken.

“I feel the same way sometimes.” Shivering, she rubs over her arms, connecting her gaze to the road once again when she feels Wonwoo sitting with her on the red leather seat. A brown sweater covers most of his body, accompanied by baggy pajama pants. “The character is starting to take over me and when I’m not as confident as I am on stage, it feels…weird.”

Wonwoo rubs at his left eye, sighing deeply when he says: “I don’t want you to become her, the woman on stage, permanently.”

She chuckles. “First time I’ve heard a man say that.” Her voice lowers, resting her cheek against the couch as she looks into his eyes. “Why?”

“You’re fantastic as you are.”

That’s her cue to let out the least lady-like snort. “Oh yeah, what screams fantastic about me?” She asks, turning around to sit properly and not get dizzy by looking at the road for too long. “My waving feelings? My grounding insecurities? The fact that I can’t fully voice out how I feel unless I do it in a symphony?” The words leave her a bit too quickly, and Wonwoo’s lips curl when he shakes his head.

“Try again.” Wonwoo indicates. “There’s good in you.”

Bringing her knees up to her chest, she rests her chin in between them. “I guess.” A mumble leaves her. “But I don’t see it…” Her voice trails. “My sister once told me there is someone for anyone. That person that will love my flaws as much as I hate them…but they always leave after getting a taste.” She says, eyes twinkling with indemn sadness. “Sometimes, I wonder if whoever created the world forgot to create someone for me. Decided that I wasn’t worthy of a fairytale and—”

Her manager back at her, his hand coming up to her cheek and rubbing over the skin. “Do you know you have a mole here?” His thumb touches, softly, almost like a kiss against her face. She closes her eyes tightly, humming in acknowledgement. “I always thought it added something else to your face. It didn’t make you uglier and it didn’t make you prettier. It just made you…you. If the night sky wasn’t tainted by stars, would it be half as sensationalized as it is now?”

She opens her eyes then, leaning into his warm touch. Craving. Needing. Wonwoo feels a thousand times more necessary these days—and she knows she could probably live without him, but she doesn’t want to. They could give her the most perfect man to have as a manager and she still wouldn’t take him…because they are not Wonwoo.

“Maybe, my personality has a thousand moles.”

“All of us have flaws. Some better than others.” Wonwoo whispers, tracing the strands of her hair and tucking them behind her ear. Since when have his brown eyes become her axis, the reason why her anxiousness doesn’t creep up on her? “Maybe, if you loved yourself with as much strength as you loved the people that broke you, you wouldn’t be having these issues.”

Pressing a chaste kiss to his palm, she breathes out a warm gush of oxygen. “I wonder if someone will love you with the strength you deserve to be loved with, Woo.”

A small smile takes over his features. “I sure hope it happens one day.” He confesses.

The singer, however, is more observant than she lets anyone believe. “Maybe Ali is on the way there.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, laughing. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, Woo. You’re totally getting it on with her.”

Though, she would never understand why his cheeks blare with her but at the mention of having sex with her stylist, he doesn’t react. “…How are you so sure?”

“One, you two got awfully close at the tour and I know when two people are fucking.” She replies, placing her hand on his thigh when she leans forward, as if sharing a secret. “Why her?”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

A whine rips from her throat. “You knew everything about Jae and I!”

“Because the motherfucker got out of your room with his dick out. I didn’t decide to know about you two and your rendezvouses.”

Sighing, she whispers. “True.” Still, her finger pokes his side. “Well, an eye for an eye. Tell me—”

At the repetition of the last two words, incessant, he sighs.

“She’s just there, okay?” His voice is soft in the mellow night. “It’s not the truest romance. We just help each other not feel as lonely. I don’t have the time to have anyone when…”

Her eyes widen, looking up and down his features when she completes his sentence: “When you have me.”

“That’s not what I mean—”

“You’re…God, you’re always taking care of me. That’s why…”

Grasping her face in between his hands, Wonwoo speaks a tad quicker than usual. “I choose to wake up every morning and spend every possible time with you. Not because I’m your manager, but because you’re the best person I have ever met and I adore you to bits and pieces. Me being with you has nothing to do with you.”

Before nonsense could drape from her lips like a shower of insecurities, Wonwoo interrupts her with a kiss on her cheek.

“Now, let’s go to sleep and stop overthinking. You’re giving me a headache and I don’t have to listen to your thoughts all the time.”

Cackling, her fingers interlock with his, dragged somewhere on the tour bus to take a nap…or have a good night of sleep, for the first time in a while.

###

“Maybe, it’s time you move on, you know?”

When Wonwoo was nine years old, he asked his dad what love was. He said it was a long time. His mom, on the other hand, gave him more of a dreamy answer. She plastered a smile on her face and changed what his father had said initially—she mumbled, while scrubbing on the dirty plates of shared dinner, that love was patience. He never asked again, for Wonwoo thought he would never get to understand it fully.

But Ali doesn’t feel like love. Not with her eccentric baby blue dress and the lights of the club bathing over her body. Not with the way she brings her beer up to her lips after taking a puff of a cigarette. Instead, she dangles her legs off the seat she’s perched on, staring at his client and friend as she talks to a tall, blonde man while dancing, a smile forever taking over her face when in public.

Wonwoo stops holding her waist to pull away, leaving his drink to the side to quirk an eyebrow. These parties are not his thing—he hates club as much as a forty-year-old man who just wants to go home does, but he has to attend them from time to time. It’s publicity for his client and connections with other artists come from this in most occasions. Ali just decided to tag along, something about the killer look she put on their shared client that she just had to see.

“What are you talking about?” He questions, but when he takes a sip of his drink, his hands placed on his lap, he studies the person they are talking about and indeed, if looks could kill, this one would take him straight to the grave. A yellow bodysuit covers her body, the wide pants making her hips stand out, just the tiniest bit of skin, enough for imagination, showcased around her chest but the diamond necklace around her neck spoke of expensiveness.

“You know,” Ali says, jutting her chin out. “She’s earned far more as a solo this past year than she did in The Moonlit Dolls and it’s obvious every manager in the game wants her now.”

Wonwoo chuckles. “She wouldn’t trade me.” If he’s certain of one thing it is that they’re here to ride or die in this long road that is success. He will stand by her side until his last breath lets him—

Ali shakes her head, fingertips scattering across the collar of his shirt, her index finger toying around his collarbone. “Babe—”

“Wonwoo.” He corrects, looking at her from behind his rounded glasses. “I told you not to make this too personal.”

The stylist rolls her big eyes. “All I’m saying, Wonwoo, is that she’s talking to Ahn Seojun right now. The son of one of the biggest managers in the game—”

His teeth tighten under the force of his jaw when he stands up from his seat. “I don’t care. I’m sure she won’t—”

“What’s with this blind trust you have with her, Wonwoo?” Ali questions, tipsy when she gets up from her seat, eyes blaring with anger. He stops on his tracks, turning around to look at her, her scent repulsive in tainted alcohol. “She’s no angel, let me tell you.”

“No one is.” He replies, voice vacant of any extra feelings. “I know she wouldn’t leave me for Ahn Seojun or whoever his father is.”

Ali pushes at his chest, a huff leaving her lips. “Get it through your head. What you have with her is not normal! This is not the relationship a manager has with his client!”

Shaking his head in the process, venom bites at his words, but respectfulness is always kept in what he says. “And you shouldn’t care—”

“Wonwoo, I fucking love you, alright?!” The older woman screams at the top of her lungs, tears cradling her vision when she drops the bottle to the side, pieces scattering across the floor. “And all you fucking do, all y—you’ve managed to do all along is love her. I’m sure you’re with her—”

The man in question raises his eyebrows, taking her by the shoulders to stop her from hitting his chest any longer. Well, that’s trouble. Maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea to get involved with someone from the same staff team as himself.

“I’m not.”

“Look me in the eyes, Wonwoo!” Ali exclaims, voice ragged. “Look me in the eyes and tell me it has never crossed your head that you could be in love with her.”

Three seconds of silence follow after his words.

The darkened walls and moody atmosphere of the club becomes more interesting, eyes wandering as he thinks of all the years he had spent with her. When awakening to the sight of her, smiling down at him and asking him to join her for breakfast, had he thought of love? When seeing her in her robe, ready to work on a new album, had he thought of love? When listening to her pleas of forgetting her past, when growing up was harder than even thinking about the future, mixed with the tears of memories she could never get rid of, had he fallen in love?

He’s not sure. He told her once, a little bit over a year ago, that he had fallen in love a bunch of times…but they had never quite felt like this.

“Wonwoo?” Ali’s voice wavers when she questions him again, but Wonwoo simply purses his lips together, a tight line made out of them.

Love is the patience of knowing she would never be his, but for him to wait forever until he saw her happy. Truly contented. That’s what love is.

And he’ll die one day, most likely, telling his children or grandchildren that he had fallen in love with someone once and he never could say it, but that he did his best to have her live her truest love story. With someone who isn’t her manager, of course.

“I am not in love with her.” Wonwoo lies, fixing the coat over his shoulders. “But you’re fired, Ali. I can’t have you create drama between my client and myself.”

The curses that follow after him when he turns around and goes look for her won’t haunt him forever, but they do that night.

###

A gush of air is stolen from her lungs when the new stylists wrap a corset around her waist over her suit, the lacey white material contrasting against the beige walls backtage. She’s about to perform for a show, and they love seeing better—perfect bodies, sculpted smiles, kicking off with an enchanting lifestyle. No one realizes that celebrities are not truly what they show.

“I can’t believe she said that.” The pink wig had been exchanged for a lukewarm blonde, her eyes elongated by thick eyeliner, the shortest stylist fixing the tie around her neck, the dark gray suit matching his own. Anyone would think she inspired herself off him.

Little does Wonwoo know that she did.

“Woo,” She starts. “I would never, ever, think of replacing you with anyone. Much less whoever that Ahn guy is. We were just talking about Queen’s latest album because it was a banger. Can’t blame me for being a bit jealous of Freddie thinking about it before I did—”

“I know you’d never replace me.” Wonwoo conquers, pushing himself away from the wall to get closer to her. The stylists move away when he nears her, his hands resting on her shoulders when she fixes her lipstick, thumb rubbing sightly to make the pink a bit duller. “I’m sorry I made you lose your stylist.”

“You should be sorry about the new stylists wanting me to wear a corset.” She jokes, placing both hands on her chest. “The ladies look good, but I’m afraid I could split in half if I reach a high note with my chest voice.”

The man by her side, with long hair in the styles of The Beatles in Yellow Submarine, widens his eyes when he gasps. “Shit, guys, we forgot about the boots!”

The woman by the tie gasps. “No way!”

“Where are they?” Someone else says.

“They’re in the car. They were too heavy to bring them all the way here. Sorry!”

The singer raises her eyebrows at that. “What do you mean too heavy? I have to dance with those—”

But the stylists don’t listen to her, rushing out of their places to get to that goddamned car. Instead, she chuckles at Wonwoo’s reflection, turning around to interlock their hands together. Typical nature of two friends, right?

“You look beautiful, but this is not you.”

“That’s what people like.” She replies, eyelashes fluttering when she looks up and down his face before humming. “I’m sorry I had you break things off with Ali. I just—Well, you decided it. How could she have thought that you were in love with me?”

Wonwoo becomes silent for a second before a broken smile appears on his features. Maybe, he feels uncomfortable about the situation? After all, he has always been a bit closed up about relationships. At least, that’s what she thinks.

“I would be fucking lucky, Woo.” She says, turning around and bending over the vanity to run her fingers over her mascara-coated lashes, not missing the blush that takes over his features. “A handsome, capable, loving, caring, intelligent and sweet man deciding that I’m worthy of love? His love? I’d die on the spot.”

Wonwoo chuckles at her words, juvenile in its approach, when he rests one hand on the small of her back. “You’ll get him one day.”

“He better hurry, then.” Her answer comes quickly, turning around until her chest is pressed to Wonwoo’s, his eyes lost in something she can’t quite pinpoint. “I’m a romanticist, man. I just…I just need a man who knows that he wants me with so much force that he’ll do anything to make me feel loved. And let me love him back, of course, I’m not as egotistical—”

Anyone who looked at Jeon Wonwoo in all his glory—covered in a suit, with glasses and his hair pushed back, would have never thought of him to be the type to be surprising. Though, when his lips melt against her own in the sweetest of touch, capturing her breath when he closes his eyes delicately and lets his body cover her own, her back digging onto the edge of the vanity, she feels a part of her dying. Dying in the best sense of the word, like how it feels when someone goes to sleep and they disconnect for a while.

Wonwoo tastes like the coffee he had earlier this afternoon, with the stain of his heart dragging across the way his lips softly part and breathe out utmost adoration. Her eyes close when her hands relax against his chest, devoring the feeling of being unique for once. Of having someone, that person, even for just a second. He’s soft, albeit a bit lazy, delicate in the way he approaches the kiss and molds his hand against the small of her back, abdomen flushed against hers.

When she seeks for more of him, he pulls away, his eyes crinkling under the weight of his smile when he says.

“I hope you find someone who loves you like that someday.”

Though, his cheeks blare in all shades of pink when he pulls away, fixing his tie when trying to leave.

“Wonwoo?”

“Yes.”

Before she could tell him anything else, the stylists come back with the huge—just not to say humongous—shoes.

And Wonwoo leaves without listening to what she wanted to say.

I hope that someone who loves me like that is you.

###

All she can think about while seated next to the host show, perpetuated in a beige suit with his bald head shining under the harsh lights of the studio, is the man that stands somewhere behind the cameras and that had kissed the tenderness of romance back into her heart.

So, she crosses one leg over the other various times, tries to laugh a little harder and opts to make everyone believe in the public, both at home and present there, that she’s lurking for her fans, taking in the love that they’ve gifted her after being away for so long.

The vinyl version of her album rests against the wood of the desk that keeps the host away from her, laughter leaving his lips when he points at it with his extended palm. Finally, she stops looking at Wonwoo, whose eyes are trained in the scenery with a soft smile on his face and instead, she tries to think of something else.

Why would Wonwoo kiss her? It’s not like…it’s not like he was interested in her, right?

“This is a big blow for The Moonlit Dolls, ain’t it?” The host asks, looking down at his notes with the eye of a reporter. “Seven times a million seller and on the top list of songs to play on the radio months after its release. How do you feel about it?”

“It’s…stellar. I feel like I’m over the moon.” She replies, voice sultry, aspiring to sound humble even whens he knows her tears and pain is plasterd on that album. “I couldn’t have done it without my fans.”

“Did you know The Dolls’ latest album only sold twenty thousand copies?” The host looks up and her heart gets caught up in her throat. Those are the people she once trusted and sure, she would have loved to see them fail on the first few months of grieving their friendship…but they were talented. Sunshine, now the composer, had continued down the sexy and romantic vibe of The Dolls. “Critics called it a failed try to make music for housewives that want to be sexy after twenty years of marriage.”

She hisses, her smile long forgotten. “They’re talented. I have nothing to say about them.”

The host, however, listened to her album in its entirety. “Nothing to worry about. Your album said enough.” Laughter coming from the public, the man fixes the burgundy tie around his neck. “Why isn’t Jae in the album?”

There it is. She spares one look towards Wonwoo and she sees his smile faltering, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows harshly.

“I’m sorry, who?” Sarcasm drips from her voice when she fakes a smirk, leaning one elbow on the armrest of her chair before pointing at the public. “I want these people with me to feel empowered. We can feel complete without someone by our sides. That’s my message. I may not have pulled it through in the past, but it’s what I stand for now.”

It’s not half a lie, but part of her wondered if she would ever find love. Maybe, it’s closer than she had imagined.

“I agree. I agree…” Though, show hosts are known to be pushy. “But you dated Jae Kim for three years. You two were practically the new Yoko and John. What happened?”

She shrugs. “He’s…” Her voice trails, figuring out if she should say the truth or spit out irrelevant lies. “He’s not the subject of my inspiration, that’s it. I just like to separate my job from my romantic life.”

“He doesn’t do that.” The host says, fixing the glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose when he puts her album down. “He dedicated his latest homerun to you, you know?”

That doesn’t do anything to help her situation, and what she wants to do at that moment is stand up and tell Wonwoo that the kiss meant something. That Jae Kim himself, the man that broke her heart, could come over tonight and she wouldn’t even look his way.

“That’s good.” She says, trying to keep her stardom intact. People don’t like a bit of sass. “I think I’d rather be known as something else than Jae Kim’s inspiration behind a homerun.”

The host clears his throat, a smile on his face. “Would you ever go back to him?”

It’s her time to laugh, but when she looks towards Wonwoo, he’s already taking off somewhere else. Shit. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t believe in second chances.”

“But all your songs were once about him.” The host curls his hand in the air, as if stating the obvious. Her eyes divert towards him once again. “Is it, maybe, that the ex-doll has found a Ken for herself?”

This interview is going horrid. This is the moment she realizes that no matter how hard she has worked for the past year, she will always be known for something. A sex symbol that hung around Jae Kim and sported short skirts. This alone makes the corset around her waist constraint her from breathing properly when she shakes her head.

“I’d be lucky to have someone else.” She whispers, looking towards the public before squinting her eyes. “…But that’s never possible. You’re either successful or in love, and when I choose to have both, it ends up plastered on the media. Consumed as if I’m a product.” Leaning back on her seat, she connects her gaze with the host’s. “You see, I’d love to love someone, but I’m unable to. How can I promise someone happiness in the world I live in, when I’m my saddest ever since I started being a celebrity?” Her voice departs a little, broken, when she plasters a smile on her face and chuckles lightly. “So, I’m free as a bird as of now, and not returning to the past.”

Though Wonwoo hadn’t listened, she wished he would have. For, she would love to have him by her side, but she didn’t want to taint him, break him quite like the media did for her.

###

One month passes by without the kiss being spoken about, but the tension is unbearable.

Sure, Wonwoo should have never tried to kiss her. He was irresponsible, if not unprofessional, or all kinds of wrong adjectives when he had decided to lay his lips on her, caress her skin with his own, want to do nothing more than to unleash her realest self away from the corset, over the vanity and kiss her until her lips were swollen. He would have, maybe, taken her out for dinner later and hoped to lay by her side by the end of the night, with each breath of her own mingling with him.

But he couldn’t. He knows he can’t. Not when he promised to be her manager, with a contract and all, and wanted her to succeed. What would anyone think of him if they saw her with her in front of a camera? Or even worse, what would the media think? She had gone from successful, rich men with snarky tongues and scandalous sex lives to the tamest man she could find.

His pencil taps against his agenda, seated on the passenger’s seat as he reads their schedule for today.

“We don’t have much else to do.” He states, the black, sleek car they find themselves in matching his dark suit. He stares up, studying her profile when he spits out: “The studio has been scheduled for tonight. You can record anything you want until two, and then, we’re off to sleep.”

Though, she doesn’t seem to be listening, her natural hair tied behind her back, sporting baggy clothing when she lifts herself off the seat the slightest to look through the review mirror. “Shit.” She grits through her teeth, sitting straighter and picking up the pace of the car.

“What’s going on?” Suddenly, she’s rushing through the streets, her eyes widened and her jaw tightened in hatred.

“Someone is following us. The paps.”

“What?” Wonwoo has never been in this position. He’s always the one sneaking her away from the paparazzi, not the man caught with her on camera. “Are you sure?”

A short, sarcastic laugh leaves her at that. “I’ve been in this business for long enough to differentiate a normal car from a paparazzi’s.” Though, she’s rushing through the streets, moving away from their normal road towards the studio to lose them. “I don’t want them to capture you in camera.”

That brings a pang to his chest. Of course, she didn’t mind it when it was Jae Kim or one of her love affairs. Not when she’s in parties or drinking to her heart’s content. That kiss meant nothing to her, perhaps embarrassed her beyond a tainted friendship. “It doesn’t matter. People know I’m your manager either way—”

“I don’t want them to talk about you, Woo.” The nickname drops from her tongue sweetly, looking through the review mirror and giving another harsh turn. “I don’t need them to ruin the only good thing left in my life. I don’t want anyone judging you or comparing you to the past because—”

“Why would it matter?” A bitter tone follows his statement. “I’m nothing special. If they talk about me, they will forget about me as well—”

“Goddamn it,” She curses, harshness in her voice when she tries to voice out her concerns. “Wonwoo, listen to me!”

“I just don’t get you!” His voice rises as well, losing his poised tone. “All celebrities are accompanied by their manager!”

“But you’re not just a manager to me anymore, stupid ass!” She conquers, his voice growing tinier when he hears her argument. She manages to lose them with one more turn, not a fit farther away from the city than they were at the beginning, but he can only concentrate on the way the street lights cast down on her face, shadows merged with beauty. “I—I…The night you kissed me, all I could think about is how I don’t see you the same way, Woo. I’ve never been kissed like that.”

His lips remain sealed for a few seconds, before a grin appears on his face. “Whoever didn’t kiss you like you deserved was crazy.”

“I don’t want people to know about you because I want to make things right.” With that, she parks the car, tall trees and shadowed spots keeping them hidden from the eyes of the world. They’re just two people who no one cares about at that moment. “It’s not about the kiss, but it’s about the person, Wonwoo. I want to be able to have you for myself and I would rot in hell with jealousy whenever I saw you with Ali. I want to be able to feel love and give love to you and only you, because you’re the only person I have known and the only one who has wanted to get to know me.” She turns towards him, fingertips spread on the steering wheel as she speaks. “I don’t need a love story, but I want one with you. Because if there is someone in this world that could be my person, that one created for me, it’s you.”

Emotions wash over him so fast he can’t mention them when crossing his head. Love. Adoration. Patience. Resolution. It’s when his eyes look down at her face, at her lips, the clothing that clads her and differentiates her from the persona she is on stage, does he realize that he was never in love with music…or her music. He wasn’t in love with the rhymes or the love songs.

He was in love with her.

If he had to tell this story to his grandchildren, he wouldn’t know who gave the first step and connected their lips. Her hands fist the edge of his jacket, not caring about the uncomfortableness of the cramped car, kissing him with tenderness and patience, but with that air of necessity that comes with the slow movement of her lips. His hands tangle on her hair, tilting her head to the side as he does what he did a month ago…and God, how he missed it.

He doesn’t know how he spent thirty-one days not doing this, not craving for this.

It’s then he realizes that he hasn’t been in love a bunch of times. Or well, he has—he has fallen in love with her in numerous occasions, like a fool would, dragging his hands down to her waist and bringing her over to his lap as he plants seeds of small kisses across her lips, her cheeks, her neck, her collarbone, a shaky breath leaving her when she rests her hands on each side of his face and pleas—

“Please, Woo. Tell me you’ll give us a try.”

###

1972.

“D—Do you think I ask her to go out with me?”

When he recalls the story of how he found The Moonlit Dolls, he almost always forgets Jeonghan was there. For, the man was wasted, as in, he couldn’t even think straight when he looked up from his position on the table and connected his gaze with the singer he had just met tonight, dancing to her will with an enormous grin on her face.

Wonwoo is there for Joohyun—a lover boy through and through, and he knows Jeonghan is the type to get who he wants when he wants it. With his long black hair tucked behind his ears, his stench of whiskey and his intelligent smirk, Jeonghan could try it with the vocalist and see what ensues, but his stomach twists, turns, in a way that comes with a bit of egotistical nature.

Sure, he’s not going to have anything with her. He’s certain of it, but she’s too pretty for Jeonghan. Too unique.

“I don’t think you should.” Wonwoo says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I think she’s way out of your league.”

Jeonghan scoffs at that, long fingers rubbing at his pink, blushed face before asking: “And who’s a good match for her? You?”

With a sip of his beer and a tilt of his head, Wonwoo studies the woman on stage. No. She’s too impossible. A client is more of what he sees in her. “Only in my dreams.” He replies then, a smile taking over his features when Jeonghan swings him by the shoulder.

“You want her for yourself!”

He chuckles. “I totally do not.” But, he stands up before Jeonghan could—not that it is that difficult, his friend is as shit-faced as he could get—. “I just want to be her manager, that’s all.”

Jeonghan takes the last few droplets of his whiskey down his throat before chuckling dryly. “Give it time. You’ll be head over heels for her.”

And that was the night they met.

###

“It’s still surreal at times, you know.”

Laying next to Wonwoo, with his nimble fingers tracing the curve of her shoulder, his arm weighted down by her back as they look up at the ceiling of her bedroom, his naked torso underneath her cheek while she plays with the outline of his ribcage by his side, never once stopping her train of thought.

His chuckle reaches her face, shaking her slightly when he rests a kiss on top of her head, albeit a bit too short. “What does?”

Though, when she interlocks her bare legs with his, looking up into his brown eyes, she only lets out a soft smile, innocence an irony to the situation they had found themselves in minutes earlier. “That I have a secret boyfriend and it’s you. Out of all people.”

Wonwoo quirks one of his sculpted eyebrows, asking: “Would you want it to be someone else?”

Hovering her face over his, she pecks his lips once before shaking her head softly. “I wouldn’t want anyone else but you.” Though, when she lays back on his chest, his heart still picking up its pace even after four months of dating, she questions: “Does it bother you?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you’re kept a secret.” She mumbles, turning around to rest a kiss on his sternum before resting her chin on top of his hard chest.

Wonwoo has to think about it for a moment. Sure, he had always been the kind of man women would introduce to their parents, whom people made plans with on the long run, but he doesn’t mind it. If anything, he would be petrified if he happened to be caught by the cameras.

So his thumb reaches for her chin, lifting her face up the slightest to part his lips and let his tongue softly caress her bottom lip. He delves into the feeling of her, closing his eyes softly and daydreaming about their future when she relaxes against him.

With one hand resting on her back, and the other sparcing across the mole he adored on her face, he says: “I don’t mind being your secret as long as I’m yours.”

###

WOMEN IN MUSIC – Why the most famous funk singer decided to never date again, and how it worked to her favor in her career.

The eighties are crazy, Wonwoo has figured out. Headlines are better for women, at least, but journalists are still very superficial in what consists of getting to know an artist. With a deep brown suit resting over his body and his hair resting under his earlobes after he had decided to let it grow, he watches his fiancé pose for the cover of her third album.

I Chose You, the album was titled, though no one knew about it yet. The blurring sunshine and pink skies behind her were gorgeous as she sported another styling change, not as reckless and seductive as her initiative in music; and he couldn’t be prouder. There, with the sand bathing his stylish and elegant shoes, he sits back and reads the newspaper. About his girl. Claiming that her last love and the man that broke her heart was none other than Jae Kim.

Her heart’s alright, if anyone is wondering.

But what surprises him is how his new assistant takes the newspaper in between her hands, the tall and slender woman reading over the article with studious and small eyes before gasping lightly.

“Shit,” Hana curses, her bleached and long blonde hair cascading down her back and moving with the wind as Wonwoo studies the celebrity that poses naturally in front of the cameras. “I wonder what it takes to get someone like her to cave in…”

The sun masks the faint smile on his face, his hair moved by the wind when he crosses one leg over the other. For once, he feels tranquil, much more when she connects her gaze with his and sends a smile his way.

“I think it takes bravery.” He confesses, though he’s sure Hana and none of their team know about their relationship. They have kept it a secret, through and through. “She’s too much of a woman for most men.”

Hana nods along to what he says, looking down at the article. “And do you think she’ll find someone someday?”

Maybe it’s crazy, but Wonwoo doesn’t think they found each other. He likes to believe all roads would have led them to meet. “Give it time.” He shrugs. “I’m sure someone will come.”

Though, the laughter that threatens to slip his lips doesn’t leave him, he loves the irony in what they are.

Two people who asked each other where their destined soul was, not noticing that they were meant to be.

Or, alternatively, Wonwoo wanted to ask her out that night at the bar when he met her and Jeonghan was about to do it, but bravery never came his way.

Patience brought him all the power to finally kiss her, though silent in his approach, still getting the best outcome.

PLAYLIST: leave the door open – bruno mars ; adore you – harry styles ; lmly – jackson wang ; hold up – beyonce ; maniac – conan gray ; i hear a symphony – cody fry ; japanese denim – daniel caesar ; vienna – billy joel ; someone you loved – lewis capaldi

#wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #kpop scenarios #writing #wonwoo au #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #seventeen au #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #manager!wonwoo #i had this idea in my head for a whileeeeeeee #and it's a gift for one of my fave wonwoo stans that denies she has wonwoo as her 1 on her bias list #but whateverrrr

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elentiyawhitethorn · 3 years

Note

feysand blind date

Loving Every Second of It

Fluff//3010 words

Feyre wasn’t sure what she was expecting tonight.

Lucien had set her up on a blind date with a friend of a friend and there was no way it wasn’t going to end miserably. Maybe Feyre would say something stupid and he would think she was weird. Maybe he would decide she wasn’t pretty enough or her clothes weren’t nice or she was just boring. Maybe some other woman who was everything she would never be would catch his eye. Maybe—

“I really hope you’re not still imagining ways this will end poorly.”

Feyre frowned. “Seriously, Lu, this is a bad idea.”

Lucien elbowed her. “You said, and I quote, “I’m done being a lonely spinster who’s too busy regretting my life choices to get laid.” Therefore I, as the good friend I am, decided to get you a date. And consequently, laid. So stop being a bitch. If it doesn’t end well, at least you put yourself out there, right?”

She sighed. “If it doesn’t end well, I will have to endure the long-lasting humiliation and despair for the rest of my life. That’s not something I’m inclined to want.”

“The only reason I’m still here listening to your self-pity is because I know if I leave you’ll chicken out.”

“And because I’m your best friend?”

“Yeah, that too.”

Feyre scowled and crossed her arms. “You don’t say that very convincingly.”

Lucien just smiled and gave Feyre a peck on the cheek. “You’ll have a good time tonight. Just be yourself.”

“But what if he doesn’t like myself?”

“He will. Azriel has good taste in people, as evidenced by the fact that he’s dating me,” Lucien stated matter-of-factly.

Feyre rolled her eyes but allowed a small smile to cross her features. Azriel had only started dated Feyre’s best friend a couple weeks ago, and she’d met the man a handful of times. It was his friend, Rhys, she thought he’d said, that she would be going on a date with tonight.

“It’s time to go,” Lu told her.

Feyre blinked. “Already?”

“Yes, don’t pretend you haven’t been counting the seconds. You’re such a bullshitter.”

A mournful sigh was all she gave Lucien before heading to the door. They had agreed to meet at the restaurant, a fancy, but also homey, little place downtown.

“Wait.”

Feyre almost growled out loud. If Lucien kept distracting her, she was going to lose her nerve.

“I’m driving you to the restaurant.”

Feyre spun around. “What do you mean you’re driving me? I was about to walk out the door.”

Lucien crossed his arms. “Yes, but that still leaves you with dozens of opportunities to turn back around. I won’t risk it.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes, but reluctantly allowed him to take her. The drive was unpleasant—Feyre would never admit it to him, but Lucien had been right. Had she had the option, she would have turned around by the time they pulled up at the restaurant. Feyre’s hands were clenched into fists to keep them from shaking.

She tried to think when she had become so nervous about dates. It probably had something to do with Tamlin. Tamlin was a bastard who had ridiculed and scorned Feyre subtly enough during their relationship that Feyre had begun to think of herself as worthless, entirely unaware it was his fault. She’d dumped his sorry ass after she caught him in Feyre’s own fucking bed with Ianthe, a “friend.”

Yes, that was definitely the cause of Feyre’s anxiety. She was never excessively social or flirty, but she had at least been cool and collected, as many guys noticed. Or they used to, anyway. Now she was scared to go on a single gods-damn date.

“Are you going to get out of the car, or are we going to sit here all night?” Lucien’s dry voice cut into her thoughts.

Feyre glared at him, not deigning to give a response other than a raised finger (try and guess which one) and getting out. She closed the door and turned around, checking her phone for the time before turning it on silent. It was only a few minutes before six-thirty, so he may or may not be there already.

Taking a moment—and making sure Lucien had already driven off—Feyre smoothed out her dress apprehensively. She was wearing a plain blue dress suited for a special occasion, but still simple enough not to be too flashy. Had she misjudged what to wear? Should she have with something more stylish? Or maybe more revealing, showing off more of her legs or breasts?

And her makeup—was it too plain? Should she have chosen better earrings? Should she be wearing more jewelry? Were her flats too drab?

Feyre almost wished Lucien had stayed to make sure she made it in the restaurant. Steeling herself for the inevitable letdown that tonight would be, Feyre went inside.

Before she had a chance to look around, she nearly ran into a man waiting at the entrance.

“Oh, you’re pretty.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

Feyre blinked. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” She was blushing and cursing herself for her lack of a filter.

Although, who could blame her? The man was dark-skinned, violet-eyed, and muscled, with dark, tousled hair and strong cheekbones. He was wearing an insanely hot dress shirt with the sleeves—the fucking sleeves—rolled up, revealing tattooed forearms. Pretty was a bit of an understatement.

The man was grinning now. The bastard probably had a lot of women telling him he was pretty. Feyre kicked herself internally.

“Well, if it makes it better, I think you’re pretty too.”

Feyre’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Um, thanks. I should… I have a date… with um…” She trailed off, the man smirking all the while. And then she thought of something.

“You’re Rhys, aren’t you? I mean sure, there are plenty of other people here who could be Rhys, but I have the worst luck, and telling my date he’s pretty totally qualifies as bad luck. Fuck, I thought we’d at least make it to the table before I scared you away. Oh shit, I’m just making it worse now, aren’t I?”

Rhys, or the random guy Feyre was assuming to be Rhys, smiled. Not condescendingly or rudely in any way, just more of an amused expression. “I am Rhys. Which I think makes you Feyre?”

Feyre nodded sullenly.

“It takes more than a beautiful woman complimenting me to scare me away, don’t worry. Why don’t we sit down?”

Feyre’s face was crimson, she was sure of it. She hadn’t expected a compliment from him after that little incident. She tried to think of what Lucien would say right now. Don’t worry, it’ll be a fun story to tell your kids. Okay, not helping.

Trying to turn off her brain, admittedly without much success, Feyre nodded once more and let Rhys lead her over to a table by the window. It was mostly dark outside, so the choice of seating only allowed to give them some privacy as opposed to being in the middle of the room. Probably not a conscious choice on Rhys’ choice, but Feyre quite liked it.

He also pulled the chair out for Feyre to sit. What a gentleman.

Feyre awkwardly fumbled with the menu, trying not to stare at Rhys’ beautiful face.

“Have you been here before, Feyre?” So much for that.

She looked up. “No, I haven’t.”

“I’ve been a couple times. Of course you can get whatever you like, but I would recommend the braised pork. It was delicious.”

Feyre bit her lip. “It sounds good.”

The waiter came over just then and Rhys asked for the braised pork for himself, then Feyre said to make it two orders.

He left, and the pair was left in silence once more. “So, Rhys,” Feyre said, making an effort not to be entirely silent. “Tell me about yourself.”

He smiled. “I work as an architect. I like reading, sightseeing, and talking to interesting ladies. How about you?”

Feyre snorted. “I’m an artist. I like, well, painting I guess. And jogging. And talking to handsome men, I suppose I should say.”

Rhys full-on grinned. “Tell me about your work. Is it just paint, or other types of art?”

Feyre answered his question, and then a few more. She tried not to talk too much, not wanting to take over the conversation, but Rhys showed such a genuine interest in her passion that Feyre could help opening up. By the time the food arrived, he knew her style, her favorite colors to use, her methods of gaining inspiration, and her opinions on some classic pieces that Rhys seemed to know more than the average person about.

Then the waiter interrupted with their meal. Once everything was served and Feyre had already dug into the pork, which was even more delectable then Rhys had let on, he asked another question.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you decide to try out a blind date?”

Feyre finished chewing, using the time to think about how to answer his question properly. “I ended a bad relationship a few months ago, and I’ve been a bit lacking in confidence since then. I guess I’m just sick of spending my weekends alone. What about you?”

“I’ve been searching for a relationship for a while. I’m interested in the idea of spending my future with someone, so when Azriel suggested a date with you, I jumped at the chance.” Rhys seemed to reconsider his words. “Not that I would be spending my future with you, necessarily.” He paused. “I mean—”

“No, I get it,” Feyre cut in, not wanting to hear any more of this. “I’m not the type of person you want to be in a serious relationship with.” She had known all along. Rhys was charming and handsome and smart and funny and there was no reason he would want to spend his life with her of all people.

Rhys’ eyes widened. “No, not at all!” he exclaimed. “That came out wrong. I was only trying to take it back so as not to pressure you. I didn’t know how much you’d be okay with hearing me tell you how interested I was in you after saying I’m looking for a relationship.”

Feyre blinked, surprised to find that it hadn’t been a dismissal. Surprised at more than that. “Oh.”

Rhys smiled, the first signs of nervousness shining through his calm demeanor. “I like you, Feyre. We’ve only been talking for fifteen minutes, and already I like you. And I’m not getting too ahead of myself by claiming you’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. Not nearly this soon; hell, I just met you. But I do think you should know what I’m looking for so we can end this before it goes too far. If you’re not ready for something like that, I mean.”

Feyre was stunned. Rhys not only liked her, but enough to tell her something like that?

“I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but I like you too,” she replied. And she meant it. Rhys was really nice, and very intriguing. She hadn’t considered what she wanted past a date. After all, she had been positive he would diss her by the end of it. But Feyre sure as hell wanted something with this man.

Rhys almost seemed surprised. “I’m not asking for commitment or anything like that. Certainly not on the first date. But maybe you can think over that later, and we can finish dinner now?”

Feyre smiled, still processing his words. “Okay.”

They dug in. There was less conversation than before, both because Feyre was too busy letting out content groans at the taste of the food and from the lingering awkwardness. But they did start talking more toward the end, Feyre snorting into her hand as she heard the end of some ridiculous story Rhys was telling her. By the time the waiter came over and let them know the restaurant was closing now, they’d returned to an animated conversation.

From everything to Rhys’ work as an architect to gossip about Azriel and Lucien to current events and old movies and bad jokes, it had crossed the discussion. Rhys was an exceptional conversationalist.

Rhys pulled out a wallet, but Feyre said, “We can split it.”

He glanced over. “I’ve got it, darling. Consider it my treat.”

Trying to suppress a shiver at the new nickname, Feyre said, “Really, I can help out.”

“Persistent, aren’t you? Maybe I’ll let you buy me coffee next time.”

Feyre knew he was teasing; there was no doubt he would refuse to let her pay next time. He seemed like the kind of guy to insist. Still, Feyre was more than satisfied with hearing that there would be a next time.

Disappointed with the fact they had to leave, but definitely pleased with how the date had gone, Feyre stood. Rhys walked Feyre out in silence, the latter surprised to find how long they’d been chatting. The restaurant was almost empty.

Feyre pulled her phone out of her purse.

“No ride, darling?” Rhys had raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“No, my friend dropped me off. He was worried I would flee if he didn’t actually bring me here himself.”

Rhys grinned. “Would you have fled?”

“Probably,” Feyre admitted.

“Let me drive you home. No expectations,” he added hastily at Feyre’s expression. “Just so you don’t have to wait out here. It’s getting cold.”

“Alright,” she agreed, very appreciative.

She’d sent Lucien a text and he had shot back a message letting her know he would be on the way. Feyre swiftly sent another text.

nvm rhys is dropping me off

Then she followed Rhys over to his car, laughing when he opened the door for her with a bow. Feyre wished she was the one driving; it would have been easier to keep her eyes off of him if she had something to focus on.

“Am I really that pretty?” So he’d noticed.

Feyre scowled. “Shut up.”

Rhys chuckled and glanced over, then turned his eyes back to the road. “I had a really nice time tonight, Feyre.”

“Me too,” she said.

The only words passed between them after that were directions on how to find Feyre’s apartment, fairly close to the restaurant. They were a street over when Feyre pulled a scrap of a receipt out of her purse, as well as a pen—Lucien often made fun of her having everything in her purse, but it was useful—and wrote down her number. They parked and Rhys looked over.

“So you don’t have to contact me through Lucien next time,” she clarified, handing him the paper.

Rhys smiled and put the paper in his pocket.

“Thank you for the ride, Rhys.”

He frowned mockingly. “What kind of person do you think I am, darling? Didn’t you know the good guys walk their dates to the door?”

Feyre laughed and mumbled something, getting out. Rhys stepped out of the car as well. But Feyre was starting to get nervous that Rhys was expecting something from her. Tamlin always had, after all.

They reached Feyre’s door and she stopped. But before she could say goodnight, Rhys seemed to realize why she was so anxious. He was too observant for his own good.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Feyre. I didn’t walk you here because I required anything of you.”

She flushed. “It’s not that I thought you would, exactly, I guess it just… been a while since I’ve met a nice guy.”

Rhys looked very sympathetic. “I understand. And for you, Feyre, I couldn’t care less if you wanted to drag me in your apartment and have your way with me now or wait a year to so much as kiss me. You’re worth it.”

There was no way Feyre’s face at all resembled a normal color. Or her ears. Or her neck. Gods, she was positively reeling.

“Really?”

“I had fun with you,” was all Rhys said.

Feyre barely noticed herself leaning closer. “Maybe a goodnight kiss wouldn’t be so bad.”

Rhys’ lips twitched and he assessed the sincerity of the statement. He leaned in slowly, giving Feyre every chance to back away, before planting his lips softly on hers.

Feyre melted into the kiss, obsessed with the soft feel of his mouth. It only last a few seconds, and Rhys’ touch remained featherlight. He pulled back, grinning.

“Goodnight, Feyre.”

She leaned against the wall for support. She was probably swooning. “Goodnight.”

One last smirk was all she got before he turned and walked down the hall.

Making it into her apartment, Feyre tried to process what had happened.

She’d met the man and made a fool of herself. Still, he had been nice and showed an interest in her. Then he had said he desired a serious relationship with someone, and she was a good candidate. There had been some more startled deer-like behavior on her part and some more suaveness from him. Then he had been super gentlemanly about not expecting her to sleep with him.

Basically, he was all Feyre could have wished for—and then some.

Feyre groaned loudly, throwing one of her flats at the wall. Then the other. She wasn’t sure why she was angry. Probably just because she’d been so ridiculous tonight. Or maybe it was the pent-up up hormones.

Feyre glanced at her phone, saw about a dozen messages from Lucien telling her to have fun and “be safe.” She threw her phone on the couch and grumbled about what a nosy little asshole her best friend was.

Then she slumped to the floor.

Feyre was going to spend the rest of her life mooning over Rhys and making a fool of herself, she already knew it. And she was going to love every second of it.

Oh, she was screwed.

———

Tag List:

@aelin-bitch-queen // @feysand-loml // @infernoqueen19 // @live-the-fangirl-life // @midsizewitch // @sleeping-and-books // @story-scribbler // @thebonecarver

#feysand #acotar #loving every second of it #my writing

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mqnasluvr · 3 years

Note

heya ! i heard you were new around here, could i request headcanons of enemies to lovers with kaeya and childe ? any pronouns are fine ! they’re so annoying i hate how i love them nevertheless,, thank you belladonna and take your time <3

enemies to lovers | kaeya alberich

pairings; kaeya x gn!reader

mentioned; jean

warnings; enemies to lovers but it’s pretty one sided, spoilers for kaeyas backstory, no beta we die like men, a lil bit of kaeya slander im sorry i had to, gn! reader

word count; 2k

a/n; where did kyquu go? :( i hope they at least see this.. i didnt finish childes part but i wanted to push this out as soon as possible. :(

kaeya

to put it simply, your relationship with kaeya was... tiring.

you had been close to kaeya and his younger brother for years, them being your closest and most trusted friends throughout part of your childhood and teenage years. but that all came to a halt when the former admitted to being a spy from khaenri'ah.

in no way or form did he expect for you two to forgive him— but actually seeing your broken and betrayed faces hurt him more than he thought it would, and the image still haunts him to this day.

you had separated yourself from the two brothers. although diluc didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t want to pick between them ( even though you really should’ve ). that decision was too hard for you to make.

for years, you stayed out of touch with kaeya as he continued to climb the ranks within the knights of favonius, and you followed, much to your dismay. you worked hard to become a knight, and you weren’t going to quit just because of some bad blood between you and your superior. ( props to you for maturity )

he wanted nothing more than to reconnect with you, and maybe even diluc— but that was wishful thinking. diluc ragnvindr was a stubborn, hardheaded man, and getting past that exterior would be no simple feat.

so, he opted for ( not so ) subtly courting you— giving you the occasional wave whenever he saw you walking through mondstadt, offering to help you train ( although you declined every time ), and other small things. you question why he chose to do this now of all times, after half a decade of not speaking to each other.

you weren’t sure how to feel, but it made you agitated. not seething with rage, but it did annoy you to see his lazy grin whenever he walked into the angels share and saw you sitting in the corner of the room. it annoyed you whenever he did that stupid two finger salute before walking off, and archons, did it annoy you when he patted your shoulder after sparring as if you were the best of buds.

then why did your thoughts never stray from him?

that question, you couldn’t answer.

and so, you resorted to treating him like he didn’t exist. it was rude, but you couldn’t really think of anything else. avoiding him like the plague was the one thing you were good at.

as if things couldn’t get any worse, one of your worst nightmares came to fruition.

“jean, please. why can’t i do this mission with you? why... him?” you were basically at the acting grand masters feet, head in your hands and pleading up at the woman. she felt bad, but there was nothing she could do.

“i’m really sorry y/n. but i’m too busy with other things, and kaeya happens to be available. you know an ordinary knight wouldnt be able to take this mission,” her guilt worsened when you looked up at her with ( fake ) tears in your eyes. she kneeled to your height.

“i don’t know of your history with kaeya, but please, just put it aside for this one mission. it shouldn’t take you very long.”

jean helped you stand to your feet, the frown etched into her face growing deeper when she saw your shoulders slump. “alright, fine..i’ll try-”

“jean! have you seen y/n— ah, there they are,” kaeya waltzed in without so much as a knocking, making you jump in surprise and shoot a glare at him. he flashed you a lazy grin.

“speak of the devil..” you muttered.

“are you ready to go? we don’t have much time.” the mission you were assigned was to gain intel on what the fatui were planning. to get said intel, you had to sneak into a gathering held by the fatui. the dresscode was rather expensive— more expensive than anything you owned— so to help you out, kaeya took the liberty of purchasing an outfit for you.

kaeya dropped it into your arms. “change into this. don’t want to show up to a party wearing uniform, do you?”

“thanks...” your face felt warm from embarrassment, but you did have to admit, that was considerate of him.

he laughed and waved his hand, shaking his head. “let’s get going, yeah?”

—

you finished getting ready with the help of jean. she sent you one last apologetic gaze before walking you out the door, waving at you both.

kaeya didnt even hide the fact that he was checking you out. his eyes raked over your attire, before sticking his arm out for you to hold. “my, my, you look quite impressive, y/n. is everything suited to your tastes?”

you huffed and walked past him. “the corset is too tight, and the shoes are too small.” you were only half lying— the corset was a bit uncomfortable to move in, but he got your shoe size down to a T. how? you didn’t really want to know.

“if that’s the case, i can loosen it for you-”

“no.”

kaeya laughed it off, and you only grew more irritated. “come now, y/n. don’t be so stiff.”

“i am perfectly content with being stiff, thank you. now hurry up, i want to get this over with,” you muttered the last part.

you didn’t want to admit that you were struggling to take your eyes off of his attire. he was clad in a white suit with blue complimentary colors to match your own outfit.

you rolled your eyes. ‘of course he’d get us matching outfits.’

but, you didnt find yourself minding all too much.

—

the party looked like any other party— fatui agents littered all over the residence, along with guests in fancy clothing.

you tugged on your sleeve, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. but on the outside, yourself and kaeya blended in pretty well.

because kaeya was such a well known figure, he had to change up his looks a bit. no eyepatch, ( i know, so uncharacteristic ) and he used contacts to change his eye color to a darker shade.

he also put that disgusting rat tail away.

so he didn’t look completely different, but he looked different enough.

...the change was nice.

you couldnt help but feel watched though. but that was to be expected. even though you felt somewhat secure in this situation, anxiety rests for no one. it rested in the pit of your stomach dormantly, waiting for a moment to bloom.

looking around the ballroom, kaeya found people dancing in the middle. deciding that it was better to at least enjoy the party before leaving, he stood in front of you and held his hand out, bowing.

“may i have this dance?”

“who do you think i am-”

kaeya flashed you a cautious glance, head nodding towards a fatui agent who was keeping their eye on the two of you. holding back a sigh, you placed your hand in his. he grinned.

“thank you,” he said. you grunted quietly and held back a roll of your eyes as he dragged you to the middle of the dance floor.

“attention whore,” you muttered, feeling warmer as he placed his hand on your lower back and pulled you in closer.

“you wound me, y/n.”

“you deserve it. i wish i could slap you.”

he stayed quiet. maybe too far?

you shook your head. no. there was no way you we’re going to let yourself feel sorry for him when he was literally a spy.

but he feels honest enough.

sure, his intentions at first were.. questionable. but he’s changed for the better. kaeya has been in mondstadt for years now, and khaenri'ah fell ages ago. his love for mond shouldn’t be doubted for a second, even if he hides it quite well.

before you could look up and make sure your words didn’t hurt him too badly, he leaned down near your ear.

“we have to go.”

“what-”

“i’ll explain later, but we have to go,” he grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd.

you didn’t notice, but several of the fatui agents were watching you. you didnt change your looks as much as he did, opting to use simple touch-ups to make yourself more presentable. but it wasn’t enough.

“hey!” one of that agents shouted, and kaeya turned his head back to see how close they were. like he suspected, they were following gou. they pushed through the people, even going as far as knocking one man over, just to catch up.

you hurried your steps along with kaeya, almost sprinting to keep up with him. his grip on your hand was firm though. you two dashed up the stairs onto the third floor of the residence, where the bedrooms were. offices, libraries, bedrooms— they were all there. kaeya picked a random one and shoved you both inside.

it was a red themed bedroom, the lights dim with papers scattered along the desk on the other side of the room. “it seems we’ve gotten lucky,” kaeya joked, skimming over the papers. they were letters, between the fatui and some unknown source. kaeya stashed them in his jacket.

you didn’t understand how he could joke at a time like this. you still arent in the clear and you could hear rapid footsteps coming upstairs. “kaeya—!”

“you know how you said you wanted to slap me?” he said while tucking the last bit of papers into his suit. he didnt even give you a chance to answer. “you can, after this.”

you were confused, but when he backed you up against the wall and pressed his lips to yours, that confusion turned into anger, then more confusion, then understanding.

sighing when you finally caught on, he pulled your body closer to his and you wrapped your arms sround his shoulders. he tugged and nipped on your bottom lip, and if you didnt know any better your knees would be knocking. he was almost too good at this.

suddenly, an agent— a female one, this time— barged in. “have you— hey! take that shit elsewhere, lovebirds!”

kaeya hid your face in his chest, grinning lazily at the woman. his lips were swollen and his eyes were lidded. the woman blushed.

clearing her thoat, she held up a picture of you. well, moreso the back of your head. “have you seen this individual?”

he stared at the woman, then glaced down at you. “..sorry. i’ve been busy, i haven’t seen anyone of the sort. wish i could help,” he shrugged, and the ladies blush worsened. “o-of course..” she muttered, before closing the door and locking it.

kaeya snorted at the irony. he looked back at you, who was still touching your lips with your fingers.

“was i that good?” he chuckled, and caught your hand when you moved to slap him. his laughter died down and he looks oddly serious.

“y/n, we need to talk..”

“...no we dont,” you turned your back to him. he put his hand on your shoulder.

“yes,” he sighed. “we do. i know you didnt want to do this with me-”

“kaeya..”

“-and really, i understand. but i’ve changed, and i know you’ve noticed. i dont want you to hate me forever-”

“kaeya-”

“and you can’t-”

“kaeya!” you nearly yelled. he finally stopped talking over you. “i don’t want to talk about this right now. can you just drop it?”

“then when?” he narrowed his eyes. he laughed humorlessly when there was no reply.

kaeya’s eyes softened the longer you stayed silent. he gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you in for a hug. “...sorry.”

“could you please shut up,” you mumbled into his chest. he laughed softly.

“i know you’re wary right now. but all i ask for is a second chance,” he pulled away and hend your hands together in his. “...please.”

it was an odd sight, seeing him this vulnerable. then again, there was a good chance he was faking it to get on your good side but.. for some reason you found it hard to believe that. he looked truly sincere.

you groaned.

“you better not make me regret this.”

#i took inspo from a fic i read on tiktok... ill try to find the original creator #kaeya x reader #kaeya x reader genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #kaeya x y/n #kaeya x you

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drxwsyni · 3 years

Text

Petrified (pt. 9)

Yandere Erasermic x f!Reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

a/n: This part is really short, and honestly not that good. But seeing as this whole series is a mess, not much is new lmao. Thank you to @sawamooora for beta reading ilyyyyy <3 <3 <3

*Sidenote*: Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist!

3.4k words

Warnings: Descriptions of past dubcon, gaslighting.

Waking up, you wished the metaphorical blanket of comfort wasn’t ripped off of you the moment you opened your eyes.

It was an uncomfortable contrast.

While one blanket was ripped off, a real, physically tangible blanket weighed down on not just you, but the two sleeping men who had you sandwiched in between them. Seeing Hizashi on your right, and Shouta on your left was all you needed to be plunged into a dreadful confusion.

Your body hurt. An ache creeped through your spine as you sat up, only to realize you were completely bare. If the pain spreading across your skin wasn’t enough of a clue as to what had ensued less than twelve hours ago, then the evidence marring your body would be.

An intense throbbing radiated from your backside, prompting you to lean over on your elbow. Pulling down the covers, your eyes landed upon the black and blue patterns littering your skin, trailing down to the tops of your thighs. It seemed that both your wrists and hips were adorned with similar bruises, the only difference were those being distinctly fingerprint shaped. No one position completely alleviated the ache.

A sting emanated from your neck and shoulders as you lightly traced over the series of wounds, feeling remnants of bite marks and long scratches. In examining the bedsheets, you were convinced that the patterning of the fabric wasn’t tricking your mind. Little blotches of blood were just barely visible where you once laid.

An indiscernible cloud still hung over your mind, even if it was only slightly there by now. A fog that was muddling your memories, blocking whatever had gone down between you and the men at your sides. Nothing you could recall really felt concrete, at least for now―the possibility of memories returning over time being not all that unlikely. In the present however, the only indicators to tell you what happened were the marks they left behind.

And based on those―you were certain that it was never something you would’ve agreed to.

The morning sunlight was beginning to stream into the room, breaking through the small divides of the curtains. One glance at the alarm clock placed on Shouta’s nightstand told you that it was just over half past five.

On a Sunday morning, neither of them had anything to do. Naturally, the two were still sound asleep. You envied how peaceful they seemed, bathed in morning light, free from worry―a contrast to the nauseating unease you felt.

Becoming more and more horrified by the second, drowning in your thoughts and grasping at what they had done to you, the only one thing that stood out was your need to get the fuck out of there.

As carefully as possible, for fear that one move too harsh would wake one, if not both of the so called heroes, you peeled back the blankets from your battered form. Proceeding to crawl down to the foot of the bed, you gave a glance over your shoulder―just to confirm that the two were still sedated in slumber.

You let out a shaky breath upon confirming that they were, returning to swiftly taking your leave. But in the split second, when a whimper of pain left your lips, body doubling over at the burning enveloping your core as you settled your weight to stand—you were immediately sure their perception as trained heroes would alert them to the noise.

Though still, the steady rise and fall of Shouta’s chest, and the now relaxing sound of Hizashi's light snoring, put your nerves at ease―even if only a little.

Your clothes from last night weren’t in the bedroom, but neither were theirs. In finding a steady trail of frantically discarded articles leading to the living room, you could finally abandon the suffocating atmosphere that was their home. Freedom was the only thing on your mind as you hastily dressed yourself and grabbed your bag from the foyer.

_____

Hizashi Missed Call (7) 10:48 AM

Hizashi Text Message (16) 10:32 AM

Shouta Missed Call (3) 9:54 AM

Shouta Text Message (5) 8:12 AM

It would seem the shake in your hands would be uncontrollable until the foreseeable future, sighing as your phone lit up once again. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest idea to disappear with no warning, knowing how the two could be when they weren’t in the know of your every move.

Yet, if they knew just how downright terrified you were to stay until they woke up, maybe they’d understand your unceremonious leave of absence.

Unfortunately, they didn’t. Neither of the heroes seem to be all that knowledgeable of how they affected you, what they did to make you fear them.

For so long you tried to bury that anxiety you felt with them. They crossed the line of innocent concern a long time ago with their intrusiveness. And now, with the marks they left behind, spanning across your body and leaving a searing pain as an unignorable reminder of just who they were under their doting facade―you couldn’t simply disregard what this relationship had turned into.

It was toxic.

The safety they should provide feeling ripped away in their presence.

It was suffocating.

Even when you were alone, there always seemed to be an inescapable weight upon your shoulders, mind guessing as to when you’d see them next.

It took you until now to realize it, until they’d done something you couldn't quite ‘forgive and forget’―but you finally knew their tactics, what they’d been doing all along. They were predatory in every sense of the word, targeting your weaknesses to seek a self satisfying goal.

With each missed call and unread text message, you cursed yourself for not fighting your way out of their grasp before it became nearly inescapable. That, and there was a painful tinge of shame riddling your body with how you’d let them handle you.

Most of last night was all but impossible to recall, but the existing memories told a clear story. They made you feel good, really good. Even in whatever stupor they’d placed you under, it’d be impossible to forget the intense and repeated sensations the two men made you reach.

The thought alone had you nauseous, knowing the circumstances of how you ended up like that.

In any case, the idea at the forefront of your mind was that there’s no time like the present. Especially since you were quite literally adding fuel to the fire by ignoring them. You couldn't change what they’d done to you, but you could change what happened going forward.

It was simple―you never wanted to see the two faux heroes ever again.

Hizashi had been trying to contact you for the better half of the hour. But what really bothered you was how Shouta stopped doing so a while ago―better to know what he was up to than the radio silence that only made the pit in your stomach worse.

Though it wasn’t all that bad―it would be easier to stomach the voice of Hizashi, especially over the phone, given what you were about to tell him.

A new call came through. On the final ring, you answered.

“...―Shou’, I’m not gonna stop till she―”

With the sudden absence of noise, it wouldn’t be hard to believe that the call had ended. Though, silence between the three of you was never short. Never before, and still not now.

“...(Y/n)?”

Your jaw clenched in worry, hearing Hizashi use your first name instead of a not so endearing pet name. Laced with the exhausted sounding disbelief, you could tell even over the phone that he wasn’t doing so good.

Part of you almost forgot to respond, his voice alone bringing you back to last night. When you did, you winced at the unintentional shake which you couldn’t control.

“Y-Yeah, I’m here.”

“Oh, thank god. What―Where did you run off to? Gave us a damn heart attack when you weren’t in the house.”

For someone so physically fit, Hizashi sounded like he just ran a marathon. Although, you suppose given the scare you put him through, the out of breath reaction was understandable.

And relatable, as your heart rate was beginning to pick up, anticipating how they’d soon handle your message.

“I, uh...I went home before you guys woke up…”

You could practically see the perplexed expression on his face, the sound of confusion coating his words.

A small laugh of disbelief came through the speaker. “Well there was no need for that, sweetheart.”

As if your body was trying to expel the extra energy from the adrenaline you were using to have a steady conversation with him, you began mindlessly wandering around your apartment.

“I just didn’t...feel comfortable? N-Not after what happened, I mean―last night shouldn't have happened, at all. So I left.”

The two heroes were back in the living room of their home, where they found your stuff missing in the morning. Shouta’s eyes narrowed at your words, hearing them clearly over the speakerphone. He shared a glance with his partner, the latter seated on the couch and nervously bouncing his leg.

“I’m not so sure I’m following. I don’t wanna embarrass you or anything, knowin’ how shy ya get, but...you were screamin’ our names last night. Don’t see how ya could’ve had a bad time, songbird.”

That detail in particular was one of the many occurrences from then that escaped you. With your memory being in shambles, it was pretty much a ‘he said, she said’ when it came to what happened.

...Pretty much.

The things that did stick, well...you almost wish they didn’t.

While all the fleeting events you knew of didn’t leave a good taste in your mouth, certain details made you sick to your stomach.

“I’ll never get sick of seein’ ya like this, songbird.”

The ones you couldn’t explain, and left far too many possibilities of theoretical context. Most of them being a worst case scenario for you.

“…You saying we should speed things up?”

Or, the ones that could be easy to pass off as playful teasing, if it weren’t for the darker undertones that made your wild imagination run rampant.

And when the things they whispered lowly into your ear became a jumbled mess of inebriated nonsense, you could still rely on memories of their touch. How they held you, early in the night when you weren’t completely lost to both natural and unnatural chemical influences. The sensations of frustration, only met with feelings of being restrained. They way it felt almost practiced, as if they were planning to do whatever they did long before it actually happened.

Unconsciously, you wandered into your bedroom, anxiously pacing all the while. The safety of its familiarity was sedating, to an extent.

You shook your head, trying to figure out how you’d get your concerns across to the two men. “That’s...That’s not the problem. Well it is but―the whole thing was just a bad idea.”

A muffled, irritated sigh could be heard. “No, something must be going on with ya. It’s probably better we talk this out in person, yeah? You home right now, sweetheart?”

In typical Hizashi fashion, he failed to respect your boundaries. You let out your own sigh of annoyance, spinning on your heel to face your bedroom’s window.

“There’s nothing―”

...You were most definitely certain that you closed your window before leaving yesterday.

Forgetting that you were in the middle of a very heated conversation, the hand that was holding your phone to your ear fell slightly. With the one that was free, you pulled the frame closed.

…

And it creaked back open.

The latch was busted.

Deft fingers grazed the metal frame, where it would typically snap shut, and stay shut. While it wasn’t untypical for these kinds of things to break, knowing that your apartment complex wasn’t exactly the newest, the fault didn’t sit right with you.

And, when you set your phone down, using one hand to hold the window closed, the other to keep it in place by fastening the lock, you found that too equally damaged.

...Almost like someone tried to leave out the window, in a hurry at that. Which would explain it being left open, and how the aggressiveness of the action would render the whole thing completely useless.

The sound of your name being called through the speaker brought you back to the main issue at hand. Picking up the phone, you could only continue where you left off.

“There’s nothing else to talk about. Whatever relationship the three of us have...I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.”

You managed to shock yourself with that, not actually believing you had it in you to really put your foot down.

Hearing the radio silence that followed, you knew he was more shocked than you were.

It made you wonder if he was more fucked up on one substance or another than you were last night—the sheer level of denial Hizashi was in over the whole thing.

“...Don’t talk like that, gonna give me another heart attack. Two in one mornin’, that’s awfully cruel, dontcha think?”

You were always one to shy away from confrontation, but now was not the time for that. The chance to cut your ties with them in this moment was as best as you would likely ever get.

“I’m not okay with what this has turned into, Hizashi. Not remotely comfortable, and—“

“Where are you, (y/n).”

...

Shouta’s voice.

“...This isn’t something we should discuss over the phone.”

It shamed you that all Shouta had to do was address you in that low, gravely voice of his, and you were instantly regretting every decision you’d made since picking up the phone. He certainly had an effect on you; no matter how many times you dealt with his tone, you could never quite get used to the sternness.

You swallowed dryly, still eyeing the unnaturally broken window.

“I-I’m not telling you where I am. You need to respect my decision on this…”

But if they couldn’t respect the privacy of your own home, why would they care about your newfound insistence?

...

The thought of the two men being culprits to the property damage popped intrusively into your head. Wildly associating it to be an explanation to the fragments of blissed out proclamations, whatever “seein’ ya like this” meant.

Your grip on the cellphone faltered, a shake seizing your hands.

No, they were heroes.

What purpose would they have breaking into your apartment?

Because if Hizashi was referring to somehow having already seen you in such a compromising position as the one him and his partner coerced you into…

You took a step back from the window.

“It’s not something you have to like, b-but neither of you guys cared about what I wanted last night.” With the slight crack in your voice, you winced knowing they could likely tell how hard it was to be firm in your ways with them, only making their job easier. “You...you went too far―that’s why I’m so upset.”

Shouta’s words, as always, effortlessly sent a pang of anxiety through your system.

“You didn’t know what you wanted last night, we made that decision for you. And judging by how you didn’t exactly try to put up a fight...” The small, almost inaudible chuckle only made his claims tear you apart more. “...I’d say you were more than happy with our decision.”

Never failing to find the exact things to say to shut you up, to put you in your place, Shouta remained confident with where things were going since he took control of the conversation.

You fumbled on your words, not quite sure of what would be the best argument to deny his statement.

“T-That’s―”

“That’s the truth, and you know it.”

I can’t even remember half of what happened last night, is what you wanted to say.

You wanted to scream at him, really. The two of them loved assuming they knew everything―what was best for you―despite the clear evidence that they in fact did not.

Naturally, all you could actually do was run from wherever this conversation was headed. It was obvious you would never reach an agreement with them. All they’d want to do was take, take, take. Make demands like they were in charge of you.

You knew that you’d never be able to get through to them.

And honestly, you didn’t have the energy to even try.

The point of answering their call was to finally end things, and that’s all that was left to do.

“...I don’t care what either of you think, whatever happened last night—I didn’t want it. Just...don’t try to contact me again. Goodbye.”

When you finally pressed the ‘end call’ button, you expected to feel that weight of their unrelenting presence lift off of you.

...It didn’t. But you probably shouldn’t be surprised. It’d take time to calm down, all you really needed to worry about now was returning your life to how it was before meeting the two all those months ago.

Another call came through in seconds, startling you where you still stood in your bedroom. Shaking slightly from lingering nervousness, you hastily declined it, not checking to see who it was from. Fingers flying across the screen, you blocked both Shouta’s and Hizashi’s contacts from your phone, proceeding to delete the existing conversations.

A small step towards getting back to normal.

Just one of many.

_____

Trying to conceal the slight limp in your step as you walked to work on Monday was both difficult and mortifying, each sharp pain shooting through your abdomen an unwelcome reminder. A cold shiver ran through you, prompting you to shove your hands in your pockets for warmth.

The changing seasons meant you’d have to work on moving around the shop’s layout. Bringing more delicate plants inside, swapping them out for seasonal ones that could handle the chill in the air. A task that you wondered if you would have to complete yourself.

With the days growing shorter, you noted the dusk already settling over the sky, drawing near the start of your 5pm shift. The orange hues dancing in the clouds were certainly a beautiful sight. Your gaze repeatedly found its way back to the sky as you walked down the sidewalk.

The closer you got to work, the more vibrant it seemed.

Strange indeed.You passed it off as the darkening night merely amplifying the remaining light of the setting sun.

Turning down another street, you could hear the approaching sound of sirens. A firetruck soon whipped past and continued down the road, making you shuffle towards the inside of the sidewalk. The piercing noise left an uncomfortable ringing in your ears.

When such an irritating reaction to the blaring never completely faded, you realized that was because it was just more distant sirens, multiple of them, sounding off in the direction you were heading.

You picked up your pace.

With another glance at the sky, you began to see not just the orange hue intensifying, but also a distinct plume of black smoke.

...

...It’s not...it can’t be…

Soon enough, your leisurely walk picked up speed. The ache in your gut from both physical wounds and growing anxiety making you nauseous.

Barely taking precautions to watch where you were going, you focused only on the direction of your shop, and the beacon of light that seemed to be right on top of it. Mindlessly placing one foot in front of the other, feeling like the end of the road before you turned the corner was only growing further away with each step.

The unpleasant smell of something burnt met your senses—faint, but there nonetheless.

You couldn’t lie to yourself, whatever was up ahead, it wasn’t good. But it couldn’t be what you were thinking.

Not your shop.

No. You’d turn the corner, and it would be fine.

The small boutique would be where it always was, nestled in between two buildings, waiting for you to start your shift.

Things would go back to normal, just like you’d planned.

…

The wailing sirens met your ears in full force. A stifling air, unnaturally hot and acrid washed over you, causing you to instinctively clamp a hand over your nose and mouth.

In gradually coming to the worst realization of the night, your free hand braced the brick wall of the building next to you, knees nearly buckling.

Thirty feet away, lighting up the street to be as bright as day, was your workplace completely engulfed in flames.

#yandere #yandere bnha #yandere my hero academia #yandere erasermic #yandere eraserhead #yandere present mic #yandere aizawa #yandere shouta aizawa #yandere hizashi #yandere hizashi yamada #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere mha #tw dubcon #tw gaslighting

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