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madness-maybe-managed · 2 years

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I’ll Never Die:

[Sapphic Heroine x Villain] [CW: mentions of drugs.]

[To @mirohtron and @cybelpunk: Here’s your food, ducklings. Make me proud.]

The villain, Heroine thinks grudgingly, is toying with her. Teasing her. Flaunting a distinctive Hermès bracelet that goes all too perfectly with her black turtleneck and leather trench coat, but is completely out of place because after all, Villain supposed to be hiding her identity.

It’s infuriating, really, that she’s wearing something so expensive and walking on the railings of an office building like gravity wouldn’t dare to touch her. Meanwhile, Heroine is hiding behind the electrical box, swallowing down a sick exhaustion as she grips her wounded arm.

She’s certain her injury is more than it seems. The nausea and her sudden cold sweat is proof of an assisting drug.

“I hope you aren’t making this easy for me, Heroine,” Villain calls, stepping off the railing with a clack of her Christian Louboutin boots. She laughs, loud and clear, raising her arms above her head and sighing loudly. “But then again, it’d be much better for you to just fall into my arms. Don’t you think?”

Heroine would be convinced of Villain’s insanity, only it can’t be. Villain may be teasing and sarcastic with her words, carelessly wearing designer shoes on a wet rooftop, but she’s not a fool. She’s backed Heroine into a corner more than once, has won battles Heroine didn’t even know they were fighting, and kept her identity secret, under the leather hood and behind the loud laughter. She can wear all the Hermès and Christian Louboutin she likes, because she knows Heroine can’t ever be sure of her identity despite the clues.

Villain is like the Cheshire Cat—always laughing, playing with words. She’s like smoke, vanishing and reappearing, a mirage of sparkling darkness. She’s sly and tricky, but charismatically so.

Heroine stifles a pained moan when she tries to move her arm, gritting her teeth and pushing herself off of the electrical box. Immediately, gravity sinks its hooks into her, and she staggers, throwing one hand out and slumping, crashing against the cold metal. Pain and exhaustion close her eyes as she shivers from the impact, tensing up with her arm clutched to her chest.

God. Damn. There is no way Villain didn’t hear that.

An almost disappointed sigh reaches Heroine’s ears, accompanied by the slow clicking of Villain’s boots, and followed by a mocking lament. “You weren’t supposed to surrender.”

Heroine chokes out a dry laugh. “I’m not your mouse to toy around, anak kucing.”

Kitten. Why is she calling Villain a kitten? The drug must be potent, pulling her eyelids closed and shutting down her brain enough for the word to slip.

The boots stop, followed by a rustling noise. Feather-light fingers touch the bottom of Heroine’s chin, lifting it up.

Heroine’s eyes refuse to clear, her vision cloudy with black dots.

Villain’s soft breath against her skin makes Heroine inhale sharply, but it’s futile. The velvet voice hums, “Good night, Maliha.”

━──┉┉┅┄┄┈ 🍓🥀💋🥀🍓 ┈┄┄┅┉┉────━

Heroine wakes up unable to see.

After the briefest second of panic, she realises the cause of her blindness: a silk cover over her eyes. When she reaches to pull it down, slender fingers cover hers and pull her hand away, gently but firmly setting her wrist down against cool, soft sheets.

“I’d advise against that,” a lighthearted voice warns.

Heroine picks up on the unspoken or else. It doesn’t faze her, though, and she slowly pulls her wrist out of Villain’s grip, brushing her fingertips against a ring on Villain’s left ring finger.

“What if I don’t listen to your advice?” Heroine asks softly, bringing her hand to the edge of the blindfold and rubbing it thoughtfully.

The next moment, her hands are pinned on either side of her head, her back pressed against the cool sheets as Villain’s knees press against her sides. Heroine freezes, completely thrown.

Villain’s voice is unruffled, perfectly collected. “Then you pay the price.”

Her breath tickles Heroine’s skin, their closeness making her sense of touch send firecrackers up her spine and into her brain. Despite the heated thrum, Heroine refuses to move, to breathe, as Villain slowly moves off of her body, her fingers releasing Heroine’s wrist.

Heroine’s heart is most definitely not racing, thank you very much. Her voice is not breathless when she speaks—certainly not!—simply cautious. “Why…” she inhales sharply when Villain takes her arm and rolls up her sleeve. “Why are you…helping me?”

“Guess.” Villain’s voice makes it hard to tell whether or not she’s being sarcastic, even though she’s currently cleaning Heroine’s wound.

Heroine huffs out a laugh. “So I don’t ruin your Alexander McQueen coat?” She even raises an eyebrow, though she doesn’t know if Villain is looking at her face.

Villain chuckles once, and takes Heroine’s hand, placing it on her shoulder, sliding it down to feel the buttons and belt.

“Ah,” Heroine murmurs, and a smile slips onto her face unintentionally. “My mistake. Not McQueen, but Bottega Veneta.”

“Quite right.” Villain affirms, and lets go of Heroine’s hand, which lingers in the air for a beat longer before Heroine lowers it.

There’s only another two seconds of silence.

“Is this an apology?” Heroine asks quietly.

Villain’s movements don’t slow, but her response is not immediate. She finishes wrapping Heroine’s wound and rolls down her sleeve. “It’s not,” she says, and there’s no guilt in her tone. “I have no apology to offer. I don’t think you expect one, anyway.”

Silence. Villain is right; Heroine didn’t really think this strange act of kindness was anything more than that. It makes no sense for them to apologise for each other when they will inevitably clash again. When Villain will topple another company, destroying a building or a person, will toy with Heroine again. When Heroine will fight her again, maybe salvage something, and then they will separate. That’s how their relationship works.

“What did you give me?” It was an effective knockout drug, and Heroine has no clue how much time has passed. She can barely feel the pain, now, but that could be from treatment and not a lingering side effect of the first injection.

Villain’s breath sounds faintly amused. “Do you want to hear my voice that much?” Her laugh now is different from earlier, more innocent, like they’re trading jokes. “I’m not giving up my secrets to you just because I’m healing you, Maliha.”

Heroine frowns, having expected a rejection. She raises her hand as if to wave away the question altogether.

Villain catches her hand and laces their fingers together, bringing the back of Heroine’s hand to her lips, and Heroine’s lungs contract, her heart hammering all of a sudden because god, Villain’s soft laughter even feels like velvet. She’s like a rich drink, warm and elegant at the same time, completely intoxicating.

“Pretty girl,” Villain purrs. Her lips dance over Heroine’s knuckles, and a strained whimper makes it half out of Heroine’s mouth.

God, this is worse than a drug, because of it was a drug, Heroine could easily find a stronger substance to distract herself. But this? There is nothing more overwhelming than the feel of Villain’s breath on her skin, nothing stronger than her velvet voice washing away every thought in Heroine’s mind, nothing crueler than the mad feelings churning in Heroine’s chest right. There is nothing she wants more than to pull off the blindfold and see the face that belongs to a voice capable of bewitching sirens.

“You…” Heroine can’t hear herself so much as she feels the rawness of her voice. Breathless, wanting, after the ghost of a touch from this human belladonna. “What did you give me?”

The question has no answer. Heroine has been given nothing, and she knows this. But it is impossible for nothing to have happened, and indeed something did happen.

Another battle she didn’t realise she was fighting until she lost. How easily she had let Villain strike her heart, not by a weapon, but with a few gentle words and a touch. To be shaken by her without even seeing her.

The most dangerous monster is always the one that remains unseen. No matter how pretty it speaks or how soft it acts, it is the deadliest enemy, because it is so easy to be deceived by the idea of beauty and kindness.

The Villain is like the Cheshire Cat, always speaking with two meanings. The most Heroine has seen of her is her smile, and she fears that if she sees any more, she will lose her heart.

#It’s M writing!#heroine x villain #hero x villain #sapphic #lesbian #writeblr #Indonesian Heroine x Pakistani Villain #knowing which brands your SO is wearing because that’s my trademark apparently #healing #enemies (?) to lovers #2AM (Amina x Ami)#yes screw you I am tagging this as Magic~L because it is Magic~L #Magic~L #I have never written something like this before #But I’m a good writer so it’s fine #To Ky and Cy: here’s your food

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madness-maybe-managed · 2 years

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This! Song Lan is arguably one of the most selfless characters in MDZS and receives so much slander despite that!

He lashed out at Xiao XingChen, yes, but can people remember that he was blind and surrounded by the corpses of likely the only family he’s had his whole life?

And what does he do immediately following his recovery? HE SEARCHES FOR XIAO XINGCHEN JUST TO APOLOGISE TO HIM! He didn’t even expect to be forgiven! He was fully prepared to leave XingChen alone if that’s what XingChen wanted! All he wanted to do was apologise because he felt guilty about lashing out when he was lost in grief!

Not to mention that he dropped his sword so Xiao XingChen didn’t find out whom he had killed, and why? Because he knew it would destroy XingChen, and he couldn’t bear to do that to him! And Xiao XingChen was, in fact, destroyed after learning that he had killed Song Lan and many others! His soul shattered upon knowing Song Lan had died at his hand!

And what was Song Lan’s promise when he regained consciousness?

“Exorcise evil with XingChen. And when he wakes, tell him, ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault.’”

To fulfill his dying goal: apologise. That is ALL Song Lan wanted to do, and he died without being able to, but even in his dying moments wished to protect Xiao XingChen from hurt at his expense.

Song Lan is not possessive. As OP said, he’s practically the antithesis of the idea. He’s someone who is prompt, aloof, and appears a bit haughty, but Song Zichen loves and cares deeply for those in his heart. He did not search for XingChen to get him back, but to apologise for lashing out at him. If Xiao XingChen wanted him to leave, Song Lan would have respected his wishes and left forever. But again, SongXiao is beautiful because they choose each other, will always choose each other and each other’s feelings over themselves, will always want each other to be safe and happy.

Happy to be a Song Lan defender.

im in love w song lan bc he isnt a petty jealous bitch who would do literally anything n be two faced just to get to spend time w his crush hes genuinely just a nice guy who loves who he loves……. while also being like kinda haughty n known for hitting people first and demanding answers later like hes not perfect but his imperfections add Flavor instead of detracting from him imo n they don’t affect his Boyfriend Quality at all. i once described him as being the antithesis of possessive, he will just keep the door open for when his lover chooses to return and like some people will argue that’s a sign of not caring enough but those people are wrong. as someone in an open relationship that sort of thing means a fucking lot to me. like if something is wrong he will chase you down but if he thinks you’re happy he will let you run the show. i love him he’d make a very enjoyable main character/main love interest in a story for me specifically but ill need to write it myself because people cant help but write him as possessive……….

#mo dao su zhi #song lan #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #song zichen #xiao xingchen #long post #mdzs #yi city arc #feelings #is there a name for SL stans/defenders/fandom? I feel like we need a name #Can we call ourselves Frostbite?#I dunno

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madness-maybe-managed · 2 years

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And here we have White Lia (Elegant)!

So looking forward to Checkmate!

M stop changing your layout every single time one of your biases drops a photo that makes you need a moment challenge.

We started off with Red Jennie (Cool) then we got Pink Yeji (Soft), and now we have Green Karina (Fierce).

#itzy #itzy lia #choi lia #aesthetic #checkmate itzy #elegant theme

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madness-maybe-managed · 2 years

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Heathen. Your writing is your only redeemable quality. I hope they rot your brain away and take your skull with it.

note: yall remember this right. so @madness-maybe-managed and i were (playfully arguing) abt smth 2 do w the sequel bc they can read my drafts bc best friend perks and i told @cybelpunk that i'd write them smth w their characters if they agreed w me and not m bc m sucks m is a loser m stinks and this was supposed 2 b a joke but now it's nearly 7k words. happy pride noah is a trans man (he/they, the narration will switch between he and they when referring to him. mostly he) and mochizou is... some guy (he/him) i used to simp for anyway going to pretend this is an actual fic. bc it is. this is not canon

pairing: noah x mochizou | wc: 6.9k/7k | au: muse/ballet dancer!noah x artist(sculptor)/celebrity!mochizou | they're allosexual btw hear hear all my yearners who want to get blue balled

cw for: stress-induced crying which can be interpreted as a breakdown

sign language will be written in single quotes [' ']. lowercase is intended sorry people who have pet peeves about it it's my aesthetic. also i am not hard of hearing this is my first time writing a partially deaf character if you have constructive criticism or corrections pls do tell me!

—

“do you love me?” asks noah.

“i enjoy your company,” replies mochi.

“you like me?”

“i like you.”

he flicks his gaze up to the table noah sits on. today the sun shines on his skin that’s brown like old honey and casts a golden glow around the edges of his outline. it is gorgeous. it is his essence. he is aphrodite’s favourite child and dionysus’s favourite wine. he flicks his gaze back to the brown clay. it is his muse’s same exact skin tone, except it lacks the variation. the light freckles sprayed on his shoulders like the flick of white paint on the painting of a dark night. the deep pigment that his muse’s elbows and knees have, the result of being worn against hard surfaces. it lacks the sunny flecks in his eyes, the pink-tinted twin scars on his chest.

it is still a perfect imitation of the folds of the silk that covers his body. the cloth does so timidly, falling in delicate curves and folds to the surface of what he is sat on, dripping from where noah’s hand is clutching it like it is a waterfall, afraid of covering up his beauty. it, much like his scars, is tinted a slight pink, only more of a rose-gold, glimmering in the lights.

mochizou glances up again, only because he feels the other man’s stare bore into him like two solar lasers. noah has his eyes slightly narrowed.

“relax your face,” mochizou says. “i’m not taking pictures.”

“did you only say that to flatter me?” noah moves their head as they speak, and the corner of mochizou’s mouth twitches as a perfect strand of hair is displaced.

“that is not how i flatter.”

“how do you flatter?”

“not like this.”

it morphs into silence once again, only the scrape of mochi’s tools against the clay and the drip-drip-drip of water being scooped up to wet dry parts for fixing serving as white noise.

this is how most of their sessions go. noah poses a pretty pose in the pretty sunlight that helios sends down from the heavens and mochi sculpts from clay as a warmup before he goes to marble and glass and granite and whatnot. occasionally, noah asks a question, and it breaks mochizou from his focus and ignites a frustration that is quickly smothered upon seeing the angel on the table in front of him. do not disturb me, he used to say the first few times noah had broken his focus.

noah would simply furrow their brows and not obliged.

this was months ago. now, it is second nature for mochizou to not think of his anger directly, more so smothering it by flicking his eyes up the slightest bit and mumbling out an answer to noah’s endless questions. perhaps, one day, he will find himself not angry, just merely looking up at the man because he looks stingy when he isn’t looked at after speaking.

“you frown easily,” mochi had said one time, pushing a bowl of warm soup towards his muse. noah furrowed their brows, merely proving his point. “sometimes i find myself sculpting out the lines of your frown.”

noah had rolled his eyes. dragged his bowl towards him with a roughness that was unnecessary. “how flattering.”

mochizou let the silence pass. until the noisy stirring of noah’s soup became more subdued as his muse realised they were not being talked to.

“i do not flatter like this.”

noah ate in silence.

mochizou has learned, over the past couple of months and two weeks, that noah is naturally stingy. makes faces when he is told to do something. uses up part of their scheduled time getting changed, the other talking about the most useless things, the other being stubborn about what pose to take. a rather difficult muse. but the people had been talking, about the youthful rebelliousness his new sculptures were depicting. much like a thorny rose. pretty. but the beholder was too selfish to let other people indulge in it. noah would rather his face be passed through the filters of mochi’s fingers and be carved into something pleasant-looking and un-sneering.

the only time noah makes an effort to look pleasant to anyone but himself is when he is on stage.

“do you love me?” asks noah for the second time. it is after mochizou touches his jacket, the worn, purple thing he wears every single day. it has been resized enough times that the threads all come together in a messy sprout at some places. impossible to pull at and ruin, because it is so tangled.

still, mochizou pushes at a loop of white thread with the pad of his index. “i love you as much as an artist loves their muse.”

“how much is that?”

“as much as you want it to be.”

mochizou feels the frown without needing to turn his head. it is there in the silence. he does not quite understand it, but his muse is a complicated thing, and he will turn simple when he wants to.

they go out together, once, and a stranger stops them while noah is sipping on his coffee.

it is one of those rare days where both of them are free from their schedules. only, during those rare days noah is too exhausted to do anything but rest and mochizou is still busy cleaning up his workplace. they do not text unless it is to confirm their schedule. mochi texts first, for those.

noah texted first, this time.

his hearing aids are gone, the purple things tucked away into his pockets because he says crowds are too loud for him. the stranger raves about them, about mochizou, how happy they are seeing the artist and his muse for the first time.

noah is glaring, and before mochi can try and soothe him his coffee has been crushed in his hand and the stranger has shut up.

mochi gets him a new cup. he is staring at nothing, resting his chin on a table in the café while mochi is stood outside apologising to the stranger.

“i didn’t know i was interrupting,” they say, rushing through their syllables. the excitement is still there, just a tiny morsel of it. “they’re…unpredictable. much like your art.”

“they’re complicated. isn’t everyone?”

the stranger is sent off with a bow and a wave.

when they are walking back, noah is not apologetic.

“that’s what you deal with everyday?” his aids are back on. the grip on his cup is still tight, like another stranger will come and talk to them like the three of them are friends. “i’d rather go completely deaf.”

mochi notes how they lean closer to him when chattering strangers pass by. perhaps he has not adjusted to the noise just yet.

“i can hold your cup,” he offers. “you can sign. i understand.” and noah knows that.

sometimes, noah does not immediately reply to him. he frowns and does not utter a word for several long moments, until mochizou starts thinking he’s said something wrong, and right as an apology is on his lips, noah speaks like nothing has happened.

the twitch in his hands do not go unnoticed.

sometimes noah can be seen running a finger over the curve of their aids continously, like they’re trying to sooth sore skin. then he notices mochizou is looking at him and stops, and pretends nothing has happened.

noah leans in again, his worn purple jacket brushing against mochizou’s expensive one. the movement breaks mochizou out of his thoughts, and he takes in his hands the cup noah has been holding in his direction.

after that, noah starts leaving his hearing aids in his bag when he comes over. it sharpens mochi’s own rusty sign language and noah starts ignoring his schedule to spend more time in the studio. it does not usually affect mochi’s own schedule, as most of it takes place in his house, signing paperwork and responding to emails and cleaning up the one mug noah always asks for when he wants to sip on a beverage. sometimes, though, he has to push noah out with a quickly signed sorry, because he’s realised they’ve passed too much time together.

noah retaliates by ignoring his signs the next day, feigning confusion, and it only ends when mochizou brings out hot cocoa with marshmallows in that mug, and noah quietly says “thank you,” before he takes it into his own hands.

sometimes, mochi forgets to sign ‘hold on,’ and merely drops his things to walk over and position noah into his desired pose. because in the studio, what they are is an artist and his muse. and his muse can be as rebellious or rose-thorned or difficult as he likes, but before the clock chimes the sixth hour, noah is his, right?

the first time he does it, pressing noah’s back up with no warning, he feels as though noah’s a wild, startled fawn. looking over his shoulder with wide eyes, the skin blanching, before colour returns to his lips and his ears and his eyes, and his cheeks take on a new shade and mochi realises his mistake.

he also realises that his boring old clay can never match the wine-coloured hue of a blushing noah.

next time, he decides to walk up to the table more slowly, so noah can track him. his cheekbones still mildly take on the shade of wine, the red mixing with the melanin in his skin in a way that makes mochizou stare for a couple moments too long. when the sun is right, bathing him in a golden halo, those wine-stained cheeks still present, he looks like aphrodite’s most gorgeous creation.

mochi has been thinking of committing the picture to memory: noah dressed in the finest silks, haloed by the rays of the sun, looking like the first angel to bless soil. maybe one day he’ll turn the picture into a marble sculpture, have it displayed in museums.

noah, of course, does not know anything of this.

one day, mochi realises this: he’s never seen noah perform a second time. he thinks it’s somewhat unfit — noah’s ballet performance was what had caught mochizou’s eye. the grace he had, the expressions more vibrant than even the most expensive paints mochizou could find, the years of practice put into each controlled step.

he asks noah about it, one time. noah predictably scrunches his face up, but tells him about his upcoming recital either way.

‘will you come?’ he asks. there’s a hesitancy in how his hands move through the air, the way noah’s brows become the slightest bit downturned.

mochizou gives them his softest smile. ‘of course.’

he does not ask if the recital’s rehearsals are what noah has been skipping out on to spend more time in mochi’s apartment.

mochizou gets the date marked on his calendar. he sees noah staring at it, looking at the bright red circle like it’s another sculpture of his and it’s his first day at mochi’s. mochizou taps his shoulder and noah whips around, giving him a fleeting, dismissive smile before he stomps toward the studio.

perhaps, it is nerves.

mochizou finds out the morning of the recital.

it is a repeated buzzing at his door. then knocking. and when mochizou opens the door it is noah, puffy-eyed with those wine-stained cheeks making his stomach drop rather than flutter. his ballet shoes are a mess, and one is nearly completely untied and the ribbons are trailing behind his foot, and the soles are brown with dirt. there are sores on his foot, red and blue and yellow, and his hair is more unkempt than it has ever been before, and he drops the bag he is carrying.

“sweetheart?” mochizou says before he can stop himself. noah doesn’t seem to take notice — he simply hugs him. buries his face entirely into mochi’s neck, and mochi doesn’t waste a second wrapping his arms around his muse. he soothes him, curling his fingers around his hair, realises his aids are gone. he pulls the bag in and pulls the two of them inside, too, placing noah on the couch, making a move to step back, but noah’s grip on his clothes are unyielding.

mochi tugs on his hair. the motion makes noah let go, his hands coming up to try and sign, but they are trembling and his fingers can't form the images correctly, so he takes his muse's cold hands into his own and strokes the knuckles and kisses his temple until the shaking's stopped.

he still hiccups, but mochizou supposes this is the best he can do.

noah waits until mochizou signs.

‘your shoes are dirty.’

‘i have spares.’

'is something wrong?'

'stress.'

'do you have rehearsals?'

'yes.'

'is it a break?'

'no.'

mochizou pauses before he signs again. 'did you walk out?'

‘i wanted to be with you.’

oh.

noah takes black hearing aids from his bag and puts them over his ears. he does not speak, though, so mochizou supposes he just wants to hear things clearly. the wine-like hue has left his cheeks, replaced by honey-brown skin.

noah does not say anything when mochizou takes his untied shoe off, but he helps him undo the ribbons of the other one. then he withdraws, and mochizou realises he’d rather mochizou take his shoes off.

the skin is irritated, and the skin at the back of his ankles is dry and peeling off and red. mochizou gets two cushiony pads and presses them into noah’s hand.

“for your heels,” he says. noah simply nods.

he is silent, his hiccups gone as mochizou puts ointment on his feet next, his touch as light as a feather. a part of him is afraid, that maybe noah will crumble like sand if mochizou is too rough with him. he looks tired. worn. he always looks a little tired and worn. mochizou wonders if that is part of why he’s so irritable. noah flinches the slightest bit when medicine is applied to the red skin behind his ankles, his heel twitching in mochizou’s hands, but he says nothing.

the silence is rather comforting. it reminds mochizou of their time spent together. one time, noah had signed a joke.

“wanna know a pun?” he’d asked. mochizou had dropped his tools, just to watch the smug little smile on his face.

he’d nodded. noah had signed milk, bringing his hand past his eyes.

it took mochizou a delayed second, but when he got it, he laughed. it was one of the few silly things noah did while they were together. the corner of mochizou’s lip turns up at the memory.

an earlier memory of them joking together would be when they first met. after noah's recital, after mochizou had asked him, "would you like to be my muse?" and when noah had started negotiating their salary. he’d been wearing black aids too, then, because it blended in with his hair.

"one thousand," he'd said, like it was a big number for mochizou, "per week."

"five thousand," mochizou had replied. "biweekly."

noah had whipped his head to stare straight at mochizou, his brows furrowed incredulously.

"ten thousand per week."

mochizou shrugged. "twenty thousand per week."

"twenty-five thousand."

"thirty thousand."

"thirty-five thousand."

"forty thousand."

"...two hundred thousand?"

"two hundred million."

noah had scoffed, at that, crossing his arms and imitating mochizou's lean against the glass wall of the theatre. "five billion."

"ten billion."

"five trillion."

"how much money do you think i have?"

"five quadrillion."

mochizou had laughed and shook his head. thought, maybe now the pretty ballet dancer with dry humour would ease up to him.

"what's your name?"

"noah."

"does the prospect of being the muse to a multi-quadrillionaire seem welcoming to you now, noah?"

"maybe."

"is that a yes?"

noah wasn't smiling, but he did roll his eyes as he hummed, pretending to consider. "sure."

later, mochi had realised just how not warmed up noah was to him.

“how much do you love me?”

mochi’s hands flinch, at noah’s worn voice. it is raspy, and deeper than usual because of the crying, and it pulls mochizou into present time. he looks up.

“i love you enough to take care of your feet.”

“how much is that?”

“how much ever you’d like it to be.”

“how much is that?” noah repeats.

“i will love you how much ever you want me to love you.”

"will you kiss my feet if i ask you? will you kiss me if i ask you?"

mochizou straightens on his knees. he tilts his chin up, watching his muse's face. "i will."

noah’s fingers twitch around the pads. everyone has a protruding part of their throat, and some have it more prominently than others. noah’s is not as defined, but as he swallows, mochizou watches the soft bump in his throat bop up and down. “show me,” he says.

mochizou swallows, too. his hand is still cradling noah’s heel, his thumb gliding along the underside of the ball of his ankle. it slips on the skin easily from the oils. the sun is shining, the rays falling on the side of noah’s face, brightening the brown of his eyes, revealing how his pupils are slowly dilating.

noah tilts his head, like he’s impatient. his fingers clutch the pads in a death grip, so mochizou closes his eyes and takes a breath, and brings his lips to the inside of noah’s ankle.

this is their first kiss. noah makes a sound, a startled mix between a soft cry and a gasp. it is stuck in his throat and ends abruptly. it is far too virginal a sound for noah, for a simple kiss to the ankle.

mochizou feels his muse shake. his foot trembles in his palms before it settles, before noah’s breathing subdues. it feels unnatural. noah’s breath rose and turned loud from the kiss, he must have forced himself to calm down.

somehow it frustrates mochizou. but, he takes his lips off. the resulting sound makes noah’s voice catch audibly.

when mochizou looks up, noah is looking like a startled fawn again. his fingers are twitching now. his voice is delayed for a long beat. his pupils have swallowed his honey-brown irises.

his leg moves, positioning the knee closer to mochizou’s lips.

mochizou stares at it for another long beat. he looks back at noah and noah tilts his head to the other side.

so, mochizou kisses the side of noah’s knee, down his calf, up the beginning of his thigh. and the entire time noah is gasping softly, pushing himself against the couch’s pillows, tensing up his leg to stop himself from moving. mochizou feels his gaze burn into his skull, sees noah’s hands dig into the cushions. as his lips withdraw from noah’s skin, he thinks that perhaps his own gaze is burning as he stares at the intimate inside of his thigh. he feels noah shiver with each exhale he gives, the muscle in his calf twitching under his grip, he hears the tremble in his breath.

his muse. his muse. right?

mochizou leans in, slowly, to that spot. his vision tunnels, he feels the warmth in noah burn his lips.

noah pushes him away.

this has no warning; mochizou’s shoulders are simply caught in a death grip, pushed hard and fast. noah’s knee hits his nose, and for a second mochizou thinks it’s bleeding.

noah’s breathing hard again. it is in time with the second pulse thrumming in mochizou’s skull. mochizou sits there, kneeling, for several moments as he processes what he has just done.

“i’m so sorry,” he says.

“no,” says noah immediately. “no. i, i wa —” he cuts himself off. mochizou looks up at him again and he is blushing and pursing his lips, his legs closed. he relaxes, relieved that noah is not angry. “are you mad? i’m so sorry. i — i panicked.”

he is still bathed in the morning light, his dark hair coloured by the sun. there are lines of worry on his face, in the way his lip is curled. mochizou could never be mad at such beauty.

“i’m not mad.”

“angry?”

“no.”

“irritated?”

“no.”

“hurting?”

“no.”

noah waits, still, like he expects mochizou to be lying. he purses his lip once more, gnawing on the flesh. it comes back coloured the same red as his cheeks. “your nose is pink,” he says. it’s said quietly, like how he quietly says his thanks to mochizou when he’s given hot cocoa to break his endearing silence.

mochizou brings his hand up. it is true, and his nose was stinging, but it has died down. he looks up at noah through his bangs and gives him a small grin, and it is mostly because he cannot contain a grin inside right now.

he can’t explain how relieved he is that he hadn’t misread noah’s body language.

noah gives mochizou a small smile back. he does not usually smile so genuinely. most of the time, his smiles are smug and haughty. his biggest, most genuine grin is on the stage, when he is in character.

mochizou wonders what it will take to make noah burst into a grin off the stage.

noah glances at the clock to the side, and the smile is wiped off. on the couch he scoots to the side, away from in front of mochizou, and gets up, grabbing his bag and his shoes. ‘i need to go,’ he signs.

of course. mochizou stands up from his kneel. noah steps toward the door, palm on the handle, and pauses. he drops his shoes and rummages through his bag, taking out a ticket, and turns around to press it into mochizou’s hand.

“vip,” he informs. his brows turn down the slightest bit once more. “come. eight o’ clock. you remember, right?” he steps close, and this is the closest mochi’s seen of noah’s puppy eyes.

mochizou runs his fingers through the side of noah’s scalp in a gentle motion, careful not to touch his aids. “of course,” he says.

“and.” noah gulps again, like he’s nervous. “will you wait afterwards? for me?”

“i will.”

“you’re free, right?”

“why wouldn’t i be? it’s you.”

noah blinks, at that. then he quietly laughs. breathily, looking down. mochizou can’t recall hearing him laugh like that. “okay. okay. i should go. final rehearsals.”

“you’ll do wonderfully.”

noah smiles one of his small smiles and goes to pick up his shoes, and leaves. the door shuts with a click.

mochizou stands there for a bit, running back the fresh memory of noah’s smile, the sound of his laugh, in his head. then he moves to the couch and lies down, thinking of the two of them.

when they’re in the theatre — mochizou and his friend — he feels as though he’s getting cold feet. it’s partly because he fears that noah is just as nervous about seeing each other again because of mochizou’s kiss, and if that is true, he’s afraid noah will stumble in his step if he sees mochizou in the crowd. it’s why he’s picked out darker colours to wear, even if his pink tuft of hair makes him stick out like a sore thumb. he’s hoping that maybe noah will not spot him, so that mochizou will not mess up his performance.

he bounces his foot impatiently when the play starts. noah doesn’t appear, not until the second act, when he descends from the ceiling in a flash of glitter, the brightest smile on his face. the ribbons around him are cut from the ceiling when he lands on his toes, hands high above his head. everyone on stage acts amazed, looks at him in awe, watches as he takes the lead and dances with her in a pas de deux. at least, that’s what mochi thinks it is. he really only knows the word because noah mentioned it once, while he was posed all pretty in his studio with a dried flower crown on his head, and then he’d briefly explained the translation of the word and what it referred to in ballet terminology.

once their dance finishes, noah goes on his toes again, one arm in an outward arch above his head. the lead mimics it with clumsiness. noah spins around in time with the innocent music playing, his eyes moving through the crowd. as part of the music, a twinkling sound plays as noah’s eyes land on mochizou’s hair, bright as a beacon. even though noah is glimmering in the lights, from the glitter that is sticking to his body, his eyes beam and his grin is brighter than the sun.

he does not falter, he does not miss a step. he dances with more joy and more confidence, like a bright flame, and mochizou relaxes in his seat and enjoys the rest of the ballet in peace.

when the performance ends, the cast gathers on stage, bowing in unison. for this, noah is out of character, but he gives his brightest grin to mochizou’s side of the audience, waving to him when the rest of his crew waves to the audience.

mochizou waits for noah, as promised, and he tells his friend that she can leave early if she wants to. yu kkot does so, because it has been a long day for her, and mochizou thinks she needs the rest.

mochizou does not feel nervous anymore to face noah; his muse has expressed no kind of discomfort, and he’s done splendidly in the ballet. his heart is swollen with pride, and maybe all he wants to do is tangle his fingers into pretty, pretty noah’s hair and pull him in for a kiss.

the attendees gathered inside the theatre begin to clap, and mochizou turns away from the entrance to see the dancers have gathered in the halls with bright, crowd-friendly smiles.

except for one, who is dead-faced and moving his eyes across the hall in search.

it is only when noah’s eyes land on mochizou that his eyes light up again, and he sprints forward and practically leaps into his arms. mochizou feels as though he could’ve been thrown back with the force, but then he hears noah’s giggles right next to his ear and all he can feel is airy and light. he draws back and the golden lights halo him. this is his essence, this is why helios’s rays favour him. because he is a golden boy, untouched by midas and blessed by aphrodite.

“i need to take a picture with my crew,” he whispers, like nobody is staring at them. “will you wait?”

“of course,” mochizou replies. his words are too breathy and sound too disconnected, but noah doesn’t pay attention. he gives mochizou a grin, and it’s all too new and too much but mochizou swears to commit every line of his face to memory, and then noah draws back and joins his dancers.

someone recognises him, an attendee, so they engage in conversation with him. they are older, not young, the lines on their worn face and their callused hands that firmly shake mochizou’s own are indicators. they ask about his craft, mention how their daughter has taken up sculpting because of him. they ask about noah, the man that hugged him, if he’s mochizou’s muse. mochizou says yes. they ask him how he inspires mochizou, mochizou says it’s his dedication to his craft, his strong sense of self, his attitude that reflects in mochizou’s stone and jade.

it is also his beauty, his smile, how he is brighter than the sun when he is doing ballet. it is how he makes silence pleasant, how one glance up at him is enough to bring mochizou calm.

noah returns after he's changed into his regular clothes, that purple jacket over his shoulders. mochizou asks him if he wants a ride home.

"can i come to your home?"

"for a session? this late?"

there is a beat of silence. noah purses his lips and watches mochizou's face, then nods. "sure. okay."

a strand of messy hair falls just past noah's cheekbone with the movement, and mochizou cannot help himself as he lifts his hand up to brush it back. it is a quick, fleeting gesture. what it should be is an unimportant memory, but it's as if time slows down just for the moment to last longer. mochizou watches noah's eyes track the movement of his hand, watches them nearly close as his thumb massages a circle on the curve of his temple.

distantly, he wonders how tired noah must be.

during the car ride, mochizou finds himself glancing at noah. he’s not doing anything, just staring out the window serenely. the sleeves of his sweater have been pulled over his hands, over the tips of his fingers, and those fingers curl to press the worn fabric down between the pads of his fingers and his palm. it looks old. mochizou hasn’t touched it since the first time.

“are you cold?” he asks. noah hums no. “tell me if you are, all right?”

“will you heat up the world if i am?”

“without hesitation.”

“even though it’ll cause negative side effects to the ecosystem?”

“mh. just for you.”

“why?”

“because,” says mochi, “i love you.”

noah is silent after that. mochizou looks at him out of fear, that maybe noah didn’t like that he said that.

noah, pretty noah, just has wine on his cheeks as he stares at mochizou.

noah wears dark, platformed shoes wherever he goes. they click-click-click on the concrete, echoing across the parking lot basement, bouncing off the walls. noah shivers, folding his arms.

“cold?” mochizou asks again. noah does not look at him, his eyes are on the other cars parked in the basement.

still, he nods after a moment. mochizou stops, taking noah’s hands in his own, covering the cold fingers with his palms. noah watches him kiss his knuckles, his nails, the pads of his fingers, and blushes.

“better now?”

noah purses his lips, holding back a smile. he nods.

usually, when noah is changing, he doesn’t wear the clothes right. every time he comes out of the unused guest bedroom, something is crooked, or a crease needs to be smoothed out, or something is tied wrong, and noah stands there with his arms crossed, frowning, as mochi corrects his clothing.

mochizou’s called into the room this time.

‘i don’t know if i’m wearing this right,’ noah signs. so, mochizou guides him to the mirror and stands behind him, looking noah’s reflection up and down.

‘do you feel uncomfortable?’

noah shakes his head no.

‘in your skin?’

noah shakes his head again. “not since treatment,” they say.

‘then?’

noah’s hands fidget with the clothing on him. they rub the fabric between their thumb and forefinger, before letting go.

‘do you think i look good?’

mochizou gives noah a smile. laughs, to himself, because part of him can’t understand why a beauty like noah would worry about how he looks. buries his nose into the crook of noah’s neck.

then, he catches himself and draws back, and he imagines his blush might be as noticeable as noah’s is.

‘you’re beautiful,’ he signs. there is wine on noah’s cheeks, again, and the corners of his lips twitch up into a brief smile.

when mochizou is helping noah sit on the table for posing, his thumbs are resting in the dips of his hipbone and his eyes are looking straight into noah’s, and the tips of noah’s fingers are buried into mochizou’s hair and the palms are resting, cradling his nape. mochizou doesn’t know how they got there. one second his muse was holding onto his shoulders for balance and support, and the next…well.

noah’s cheeks are taking on the colour of wine again. it spreads up the highs of his cheekbones, colours the tips of his ears. he looks sweet. like a maraschino cherry. like mochizou could kiss him hard, right now, fingers tangling up with his hair, and if he were to draw back, noah’s lips would be the colour of a red grape. from his lips, mochizou’s gaze travels downward, to the soft curve of his throat where the skin is paler and stretched tighter.

noah’s breath is hitching, and his fingers twitch in mochizou’s hair. a nail scrapes against mochizou’s scalp and he moves back. he hadn’t even realised he’d been leaning in.

mochizou’s muse makes a choked sort of noise, his fingers tensing up. they press up against mochizou’s scalp, pushing him forward. noah leans in, too, parting their lips. inhaling, exhaling. mochizou can’t stop looking. at the soft line of noah’s lips, the hint of teeth he can see.

involuntarily, he swipes the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip. he can’t stop thinking. does noah taste like wine? like purple grapes? will it burn at first touch and simmer down his throat and light his insides up, better than the finest aged wine?

the soft bump in noah’s throat bobs as they swallow. mochizou’s transfixed by the movement, by the pretty, pretty neck of pretty, pretty noah. he tilts his head, curves his palm around until he feels noah’s curls and tugs. he presses his lips searing hot against noah’s skin.

noah takes in the softest, prettiest gasp. his hands drop from mochizou’s hair and go down to clutch his shirt like two vices, and his breathing turns harsh and shallow and mochizou can feel it against his lips. mochizou’s other hand leaves noah’s hip, too, to gently hold the small of his back.

it’s a short kiss. it has to be a short kiss, and maybe time simply slowed down for mochizou. when he draws back, noah’s lips are flushed, like he’s been biting them. his cheeks are nothing but wine, wine, wine, and his fingers still clutch onto mochizou’s shirt with no sign of relent.

mochizou feels as though his voice is gone. his head is pounding, again, and it hasn’t even been a day since he’s kissed noah’s thigh. it’s like his vision has gone blurry, like his nerves are alternating between becoming hypersensitive and being dead and numb.

“mh,” noah says. it’s a frustrated hum, almost like a growl, and swings mochizou’s vision back into focus to realise the frustration in his muse’s eyes.

mochizou snatches his hands away immediately, coming up to sign a hundred apologies, and noah pushes his hands down in one rough motion.

‘you can’t do that.’ his hands are moving fast. they’re slightly trembling. mochizou feels dizzy. and cold. and pale. noah doesn’t look like he’s taking notice. ‘you can’t —’ his hands come down in clenched fists, his knuckles losing colour.

“you have to —” noah speaks in a stiff voice. flicks his gaze up to the ceiling. “why can’t you kiss me?”

mochizou’s heart stops. it stutters and spurts like an engine, beating a hundred miles an hour. his tongue is rubbery.

“what?”

noah is not completely deaf. he’s partially deaf. and mochizou’s muse is a smart, wonderful, unpredictable thing, and has probably read his lips. or realised what he’s asked through the sounds he can hear. “i…” they shut their eyes, shaking their head. their hands come up to sign. ‘why don’t you kiss me?’ is their question. they pull mochizou in close, wrapping their legs around his midriff, and they sign again. ‘i thought it would be in the morning. in the theatre. in the parking lot. in the changing room.’ their arms wrap around mochizou’s shoulders, and noah speaks each following word slowly, and with clarity, “you can’t just kiss my legs. and then my neck. twice. and not kiss my lips. it’s not fair!”

oh. oh. mochizou feels dizzy again with relief. he curls his fingers into noah’s hair. so, noah liked it. noah liked everything.

his muse nods like it’s consent to kiss them.

so, mochizou does. he kisses his muse eagerly, and his muse kisses back harder, and noah burns like wine on summer, or like summer itself. he burns like fire whiskey and embers and sets sparks off at mochizou’s nerve endings. and he’s turning dizzy again, breathless because noah’s tugging his hair back with one hand and making him cry into his muse’s mouth. and then, when neither of them can breathe, noah pulls back gasping.

mochizou’s chest is cleaving. his head reels, dizzy like he’s experiencing vertigo. it’s like his vision tunnels again, focusing on nothing that’s not noah.

mochizou had thought — he’d honestly thought noah would be shyer. and noah is shy; he’s blushing furiously, and his lips are the colour of red grapes, and mochi’s hand is seared when he brings it back to cup noah’s cheek. but he thought would noah kiss more…softly?

he feels like an idiot. noah’s legs drop from his midriff. he drops down to the floor and falters, mochizou’s arms coming up to steady him, and he knows that it’s probably because noah just had a ballet performance, and their legs must be exhausted, but a tiny little smitten voice in his head suggests that, maybe noah’s weak-legged because of their kiss.

noah buries his cold nose into mochizou’s neck, and kisses him.

it’s open-mouthed, and noah’s tongue burns mochizou’s skin, and it makes him jump. noah’s hands clutch his shirt again, unyielding, and mochizou can feel it when his muse scrunches their brows up in frustration. after a moment, noah withdraws, giving mochizou another frustrated look.

he’s still upset about how long it took for mochizou to kiss him. mochizou can’t say he blames him. he cups the side of his muse’s cheek again, rubbing circles around the curve of his temple, moving to his scalp, watching him shut his eyes briefly from the little massage. it’s almost perfect how easily noah’s cheek fits into his palm. like two halves of a whole.

they decide that noah will not pose for mochizou today. it’s mainly because when he’s sat on the table again, noah feels out of his element; he’s fidgety, and his body wants to fold in on itself.

‘what’s wrong?’ signs mochizou.

‘i can’t stop thinking about our kiss.’

there is also another reason why they decide not to have a session: it’s late, and there is a droop in noah’s eyes as it gets closer to midnight, and his head lulls forward like a sleepy angel every time mochizou soothingly tugs on his hair.

when they’re kissing on the couch, noah is purring against mochizou’s mouth like a happy kitten, one hand intertwined with him. there is still wine on his cheeks when mochizou withdraws, and the lights are bathing noah in gold. he giggles along when mochizou does, music to his ears, prettier than an angel’s harp. apollo must be ashamed to lose such a muse, one who puts the rest of aphrodite’s children to shame, one who is favoured by helios’s rays. it is his essence. it is who he is: an unrivalled beauty.

“when did you start liking me?” asks mochizou.

“loving you,” corrects noah.

“loving me. noah,” says mochizou, and it sounds like a beautiful word on his tongue. he says it slowly, softly, moulding the two syllables with each other with care. no-ah. “when did you start loving me?”

noah purses those pretty lips of his. what a complicated, beautiful, wonderful thing he is. mochizou’s prettiest muse. he could sculpt that face and body every day of his life. “i realised it when you touched my back. you did it so gently, with so much care.”

mochizou…did not know that. he looks at how he’s holding pretty noah’s hand. gently. following noah’s grip.

“i…didn’t notice.”

noah giggles again. “it’s a small detail. when did you start liking me?”

“loving you.”

noah giggles again, at how mochizou copies him. maybe he’s also giggling because he’s happy that mochizou loves him back, not just like. “when did you start loving me, mochizou?” noah is as careful with his name as mochizou was with noah’s. he does not slur it, like how everyone else does. he does not rush through it. he says it clearly, softly, ringing out each syllable like his tongue is a cradle for it. mo-chi-zou.

slowly, mochizou bites his lip. he watches noah’s eyes track the movement. “when i realised how you calmed my anger,” he said. “i once looked at you frustrated, and all my anger just…disappeared. how could i be mad at such beauty? i knew i was in too deep when i thought that.”

“is that why you’re always so patient with me?” noah asks in a soft voice. his eyes are twinkling like a night sky under the living room lights. “why you can put up with my shit?”

“it’s not putting up, you’re not a chore. i enjoy spending time with you. i love talking to you. i want to paint you and i want to make a sculpture of you that will put angels to shame.”

noah makes a sound. it’s almost like a shriek because of how flustered he’s become all of a sudden. “you can’t just say that. i fell in love with you because you touched my back. i’ll have to marry you if you say things like that.”

mochizou raises his brows. “good,” he laughs, “i’ll keep saying it, then.”

they giggle, again. mochizou stares at his lips for a long, long moment, before his pretty muse has pulled him down for another kiss. there is wine in his mouth and grape on his lips, because he is dionysus’s favourite wine and aphrodite’s favourite child and helios’s favourite thing to shine on.

“do you love me?” asks noah.

“i love you as much as a boyfriend would his gorgeous lover,” replies mochizou.

“how much is that?”

“this much.”

his pretty muse is kissed until the sun seeks him out again.

#mochinoah #writing responses #mochizou and noah #greek references #cute #sculptor #ballet dancer

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madness-maybe-managed · 2 years

Text

First off, I was right and you were wrong.

Secondly, go back to Hell and rid me of the nuisance that is you.

Third, f**k off a cliff and pitch yourself into the ocean.

And finally, excellent job writing. I’ve already said it before and I’ll say it again, these lovesick idiots. Wonderful piece. And get lost, preferably to Tartarus, you absolute heathen who managed to write this despite having zero knowledge of Greek mythology.