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cdyssey · 1 year

Note

The Abbott staff meet up at a bar after work and a guy hits on Melissa and Barbara becomes protective

PROMPT

Ouch, Anon. :') But also, right up my alley.

CW: Alcohol, Unwanted Advances

UPDATE (11/16/22): Uploaded an edited version to AO3! I actually added 300ish words to the edit to help out a few rushed places.

—

Barbara leans against the threshold of Melissa’s classroom door, arms neatly folded over her chest, and patiently waits for the other woman to look up and notice her. It doesn’t take too awful long—Melissa’s vigilant eyes are constantly flicking towards the door, habitually assessing for potential threats—and when she quickly realizes that she’s not alone (and that no one is going to hurt her), she blinks and smiles tiredly.

There are dark circles etched beneath her pale eyes.

More lines creasing her forehead than usual.

An unsubtle sadness about her.

An utter exhaustion.

Joe got married to Nina Santa Cruz yesterday, and Melissa went to the wedding for reasons that Barbara doesn’t fully understand, perhaps judging from the safe distance of a high and mighty horse. Her friend stubbornly insisted that she and Joe want to stay on amiable terms—that even though he was awful to her for the last decade of their marriage, that even though he nearly brought them both to the point of bankruptcy with his spending habits, that even though he cheated on her with one of their mutual friends—things are good between them.

Great even.

Melissa’s always sugarcoated the whole sordid affair, made excuses for the bum that Barbara has learned to smile thinly at and nod politely to over time. Anything else has been quickly and viciously shut down.

You don’t know him like I do, she’d snapped when Barbara had called him a manchild for inviting Melissa to the wedding on Facebook Messenger of all places.

He doesn’t mean to hurt me.

It was the same thing one could say of a small child who didn’t know better.

Or a rabid, untrainable dog.

“Hey, Mama,” Melissa yawns, taking the opportunity to stretch her arms over her head before she leans back in her chair again. “Ya heading home for the evening?”

“No, ma’am,” Barbara drawls, shaking her head rather lavishly, “and you aren’t either. Remember? Larry’s birthday party is this evening.”

It is very clear—from the alarmed expression comically stretching her face—that the other woman had not in fact remembered Larry’s birthday party.

“Fuck,” she swears, dragging a tired hand across her puckered mouth. “I forgot that was tonight. Goddammit. I didn’t even get him a present.”

“He’s a seventy-two year old adult, Melissa. He hardly needs a present.”

Nor a birthday party at a bar that was infamous in the eighties for being the premiere place to snort lines in the bathroom, Barbara quietly thinks to herself—but their principal has always been an overgrown child at heart. Both Melissa and Barbara like him well enough, though, and they’ll be sad to see him go next year when he finally retires after putting in forty years at Abbott.

“Yeah, but it’s Larry and it’s fun to watch him get excited over stupid things,” Melissa shrugs, now knuckling her lips thoughtfully. “This bein’ said… I kinda don’t wanna go anymore.”

She gestures to the pile of spelling worksheets on her desk and the open gradebook next to it.

“Got stuff to catch up on,” she continues with a sigh. “And I’m still tired from last night.”

Last night.

The wedding.

Joe.

Being forced to applaud her ex-husband kissing another woman.

Kissing the other woman to be precise.

Barbara watches the shadows beneath her friend’s eyes subtly deepen—watches how her shoulders slump with the incalculable weight of what that specific trauma does to a person—and she hates Joseph Lombardo all over again.

If Melissa won’t, fine.

Good.

Bless her Sicilian soul.

In her heart of hearts, she’s always been far more of a saint than she presents herself to be.

Barbara will just hate the man enough for the both of them.

“It was a good ceremony, though,” Melissa adds hurriedly, as though she can read her thoughts. She likely can. Barbara has never been particularly adroit at disciplining her features when it comes to her less-than-warm feelings about Joe.

“Mhmmmm,” she hums noncommittally, smiling thinly and nodding politely.

“No, really,” the younger woman snaps, defensive now, even a little desperate. It’s always been far too important for her to receive Barbara’s uncomplicated and unadulterated approval. “It was fine. I’m fine. Joe and Nina—they’re… fine.”

She only falters at this last part, her brow furrowing lightly over her eyes, and Barbara takes pity on her.

“I believe you, hon,” she tries again, offering a smile that feels plastered on her face, caked like another layer of makeup. It must be a passable effort because Melissa relaxes in her chair again, somewhat placated … and still so visibly defeated at the same time, wearing her sadness like a tender bruise.

“Come out with us tonight,” she adds gently. “It’ll do you some good to get your mind off of”—she bites her lower lip and chooses her next word very carefully, enunciating it as though she’s delivering it to a wounded animal trapped in a corner—“grading.”

Melissa glances down at her pile of unmarked papers for what feels like a long time, clenching her fists in her lap. The seconds trickle down, the silence cloisters them, and Barbara’s already composing another line of persuasion in her mind, anticipating a blunt refusal.

However, when the other teacher finally looks up again—when she purposefully meets Barbara’s gaze—she looks less defiant than she does uncertain.

Almost lamblike in her chair.

Her eyes so wide and bright.

And Barbara nearly staggers backwards at the sight.

Melissa Schemmenti is rarely, if ever, uncertain.

She is not a helpless lamb.

“Could ya pick me up from my house?” She asks, and it’s a coded question, a subtly charged one. Melissa wants to drink to the point of not being able to get herself home anymore without saying those words aloud, and she’s asking for permission from Barbara.

She’s asking for the safety to do so.

This is also a new one in their relationship—Melissa doesn’t ask for help. Ever. She just suffers alone and seems to think she deserves it.

“Of course, honey,” she quietly replies.

But despite the lack of precedent for the question, there is no other possible answer.

Melissa will always be safe with her.

—

Larry’s party is very much Larry—loud and raucous and entirely too much fun for the sixty-three year old Barbara, but she carries out her social duties as a party attendee gracefully. She revolves around the crowded space to chat with friends and colleagues, occasionally reminding them, in her instinctively motherly tone, to drink some water after doing tequila shots. (“My goodness, Lorraine, you’re not twenty-two anymore! Enough is enough”) She abstains from drinking herself, taking her role as Melissa’s designated driver quite seriously. (“Oh, not for me tonight—thank you anyway. Do enjoy a Manhattan for me, though, but don’t bother with the wings. Lord knows they come off that grill still clucking!”) She happily videos the principal singing “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” with Mr. Johnson on the karaoke stage in the corner.

It’s off-key and it’s stupid and it’s entirely lovely all at the same time.

(“We can put this on the You-Tube!”)

As often as she can, she checks up on Melissa, who pretty much settled herself at the corner of the bar from the moment they arrived, steadily working through one Sam Adams after another. Larry tried to wheedle her into singing “Come and Get Your Love” with him, but she’d declined apologetically and told him that her throat was a little worn out from teaching today. A few of the third grade teachers had invited her over to sit with them at their booth, but she’d passed on this offer too with a pinched smile, gesturing to the TV mounted behind the bar and claiming that she was watching the re-run of the Eagles and Dolphins game. Barbara joins her from time-to-time and resists the somewhat inexplicable urge to press a hand on the small of her back and whisper quiet words of comfort in her ear, but Melissa expertly shrugs off her attempts at companionship too.

“Go on, hon,” she had said the last time Barbara made her rounds, smiling wanely, her eyes nearly black in the low lighting. “Have fun. I’m just not in the mood tonight.”

And so, Barbara, clearly dismissed, does what she can to run interference between her friend and everyone and their cousins who are starting to wonder what’s wrong with her.

Usually, Melissa is the life of the party, the first to the bartender and the last on the dance floor.

“She’s just not particularly feeling well,” Barbara smiles tightly at their friends and coworkers, all the while knowing that they’ve been gossiping behind Melissa’s back. They all know Joe. They all know what he did and how he hurt her. Some even get continue to get their haircuts from the new Mrs. Nina Lombardo. “Long day today.”

Larry, a barrel-chested man with a big, jolly belly, works his way over to where Barbara is standing by a tall table, watching Melissa from afar. She’d just been about to go over there herself, alarmed by the sight of a man with a poor combover sidling next to Melissa on the barstool next to hers…

Too close for comfort.

Both her own and her friend’s.

She’d seen the way Melissa reacted to the unexpected intrusion, how she’d nearly jumped out of her skin… she doesn’t do well with surprises.

“Barbara,” Larry barks out, slapping his hands on the table and startling her from her thoughts, “what the hell is Schemmenti’s problem?”

She frowns at the principal, annoyed that he’s blocking her view of the second grade teacher.

“Like you don’t know, Larry Chapman,” she mutters under her breath, craning her head to the left to no avail. “The whole bar is talking about it, and you, dear sir, have never missed a beat.”

“Yeah, but I wanna hear it from you,” Larry shrugs, unbothered by her clipped tone. “You’ve got the hot line to our red haired beauty. The rest is just fiddle-faddle and playground gossip.”

Barbara doesn’t say anything to this for a long moment, thinking about how Melissa would hate to know that she’s the center of attention right now, that despite every effort she’s made to fade into the background unnoticed, her melancholy is as bright as her hair.

“She went to Joe’s wedding,” she finally says, softly, with an air of disbelief, as though she still doesn’t know how Melissa found the strength to do so.

“The SOB had the balls to invite her?” Larry grouses indignantly, his brow forming a vee over his eyes.

“Crude way to put it,” she sighs deeply and wishes she had a Cosmo in her hand, “but yes—he did, in fact, have the audacity to do that to her.”

“Bastard,” the principal simply says before making the Sign of the Cross over his broad chest.

“Oh, I’m sure the good Lord will forgive you for that since it’s true,” she smiles at him tiredly, easily mollified by the recognition that he’s in the same boat she is in—entirely concerned for Melissa Schemmenti.

He shuffles around to the other side of the table so that he’s standing next to Barbara and—praise, Jesus—clearing up her line of sight to Melissa. To her disdain and confusion, she sees that the man is still there, leaning across the space between the barstools, tomfoolery in his hooded eyes.

Clear and undisguised lust.

And Melissa is leaning backwards as far away as she can from him, visibly uncomfortable.

But to Barbara’s utter and irreconcilable surprise, she doesn’t seem to be doing anything to discourage his advances, hasn’t pulled out her pepper spray or yelled the word stronzo once.

“She doesn’t see the good in herself,” Larry says astutely, quieter than he’s ever been in in his entire life. “Thinks she deserves schmucks like that.”

He points at the man who has now got his grubby hand around Melissa’s waist, pinching her hip. Heat rises to Barbara’s cheeks at the disgusting sight, guttural and speechless fury.

How dare he?

How dare he touch her?

“Want me to handle it?” Larry growls, already rolling up his sleeves. Once a former linebacker back in his day, he could probably snap the offending mongrel like a twig.

“No, Principal Chapman,” Barbara says coldly, placing a staying hand on his forearm. “Allow me.”

Larry will just end up getting arrested for a public safety violation if he gets the chance to go over there.

Barbara will take the trash out with a touch more delicacy. And so, primping the back of her hair once, she heels over to the bar in a few staccato steps. When she’s within a couple of feet of them, she can finally hear a snatch of their low conversation. She stops just short of them, somewhat reticent now that she’s made it this far and neither of them have noticed her presence.

“We could go back to my place,” he crows, his hand still on her side, “and you can take off that nice leather jacket of yours, and we could fuck.”

“You’re being presumptuous,” Melissa snarls, though she doesn’t slap the man’s hand away from her. “I said fifteen minutes in a car. No frills. No shirts flyin’ off. I got a knife in my boot and I ain’t afraid to use it.”

A short pause. With his free hand, he scratches the back of his neck.

“You want something cheap?” He asks skeptically, giving her a once over as though he’s already undressed her with his eyes. “A quickie in the backseat?”

“I just wanna to feel something,” her friend says distantly, and it is the saddest combination of words in the English language that Barbara has ever heard.

Oh, God, she could almost cry.

But because she’s Barbara Howard, she pulls herself together in a maddening instant, and doesn’t do that. Rather, she closes the space between herself and Melissa and the man who just wants to fuck her, batting down his arm from where it has slid to the younger teacher’s backside.

“Barbara?” Melissa asks, wide-eyed and surprised.

“Grab your purse,” she commands in her teacher voice without looking at her. “We’re leaving.”

“Hey!” The man protests, clearly lacking the sagacity to understand what just happened. He abruptly stands up from his barstool, inches away from Barbara’s face, towering over her significantly. His breath reeks of whiskey, his flannel shirt putrid with cologne. “She’s a grown ass woman—she can speak for herself.”

Our of the corner of her eye, she sees Larry yelling something and waving his fist around, sees that half the bar has stopped to watch them, but Barbara doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t back down.

Refuses to lose her cool.

“And you, sir, are a grown ass man,” she hisses at him, “who is throwing a tantrum like a child. My friend deserves much better than that—much better than you.”

And even though she knows she shouldn’t, she jabs a finger into his bony chest, sending him stumbling backwards onto the barstool again, staring up at her dumbfounded.

“Larry, be a dear, and close out our tabs, would you? I’ll pay you back on Monday,” she brightly calls over her shoulder as she puts an arm around a numb, achingly quiet Melissa.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she whispers softly against her head. “Let’s get you home…”

—

Melissa is silent the entire drive back to her house, staring out of the passenger window, attempting not to cry apparently from the telltale way she is holding herself—all stiffened muscles, her limbs angled away. Barbara, knowing that she requires this space, well aware that Melissa Schemmenti hates to cry in front of others, doesn’t push the issue, knobbing the radio to the Gospel station and allowing the old hymns to fill up the space in the car where words are decidedly absent.

Perhaps there are no words for what happened in the bar.

What more is there to say except that Melissa went to her ex-husband’s wedding, and it cost her something to do it?

Anyone would be just as easily undone.

After twenty minutes of soundless driving, Barbara pulls into Melissa’s driveway and parks perfectly next to the other teacher’s black Civic, turning off her sedan with a click. The sudden absence of music and the gentle thrumming of the engine are felt.

All that is left is an emptiness.

The darkness of the night.

The shadows that stretch in the car.

“Thanks,” Melissa says flatly, reaching across her chest to unbuckle her seatbelt. She does it clumsily, with fumbling fingers.

How many beers had she downed?

How many did she think it would take to drown out the sadness, the pain, the noise?

“I can stay the night with you?” Barbara offers, perhaps a tad too overzealously, heat suddenly rising to her cheeks. “Gerald wouldn’t mind.”

Melissa is just a friend, and there is no marital rule against spending the night with friends. Her stomach lurches, and for a second there, she misidentifies the sensation as a manifestation of guilt.

She has nothing to feel guilty for.

Melissa is a friend.

“I’m not drunk, Barbara.”

“Never said you were.”

(Just privately thought it.)

“And I’m not… I didn’t… I don’t need your help either,” she finally gets out, overpronouncing every word as though each was impossible to say. “I’m not another one of your charity projects, Barbara. You don’t have to fix me.”

It stings.

Of course it does.

Melissa’s words have a singular way of doing that.

And a cutting remark almost rises to her tongue, a hearty, “Fine then! Sleep with random losers and boozers for all I care, Philly’s finest bachelors.”

But she stops short because she does care, and the thought of that cretin from the bar being inside of her makes her sick.

And because of what Melissa said to him.

I just want to feel something.

And because of what Larry said to her.

She doesn’t see the good in herself. Thinks she deserves shmucks like that.

Barbara swallows her hurt and reaches across the console between them.

Places her hand firmly over Melissa’s, feels the spines of her knuckles tense beneath her lined palm.

Feels the other woman immediately recoil beneath the touch.

Feels her halfheartedly try to pull away.

But Barbara is stubborn and she squeezes tight.

She will never let Melissa go.

“And why would I ever have to fix you, Melissa Schemmenti?” She asks softly, with all the tenderness of a first kiss.

“I can’t mend something that wasn’t broken in the first place.”

#work wives #melissa schemmenti #barbara howard #abbott elementary #s: abbott elementary #reginianwrites #i can't write a short one-shot lmfao

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elareine · 3 years

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Tim realizing that since Jason has been in the pit, Jason is always cold. He cant get warm. Tim throws himself into working this out, there has to be something to warm Jason.

Hi, anon, thank you for your patience. I… took the sappy route with this. Since this got longer than 1k, I posted it on ao3, too.

Attempt One

“How’re you doing?”

Tim eyes the bundle in front of him critically. Jason dropped by his safe house thirty minutes ago, teeth chattering after an encounter with Mr. Freeze, and he only looked marginally better. The chattering stopped; that can be a good sign or a very bad one.

Jason gives him a weak grin. “Alright. No danger of turning into an icicle any time soon.”

Hmm. Tim will see that for himself.

When he moves, Jason lifts a hand in protest. “Hey, no—“

Tim completely ignores Jason’s protests—he’d feel worse about it if it wasn’t the only way to handle injured Bats—and sticks his hand between the isolation blanket and Jason’s neck… just to flinch back. “Holy shit!”

“Nah, it’s—“

“It’s hypothermia, is what it is!” Whatever bullshit is coming out of Jason’s mouth, Tim is not listening. “You’re going into shock! We gotta get some extra heat in here, or maybe actually call the hospital; I’m not equipped for this—“

Jason’s hand closes over his mouth. Tim gives him a second to remove it, then he licks it.

Jason just grins. “As I was trying to say: It’s always like that. My body temperature never went back to normal after daying.”

“Nnr?”

“Never.” Jason shrugs. He looks completely unbothered in a way that leaves Tim incensed. That’s just stupid. Did Jason just accept the fact that he’s in constant discomfort as if that’s not a thing there should be—should be—multiple solutions to, what the fuck. Tim is gonna fix this, so God help him.

Tim is so busy coming up with 315 possible solutions that he even forgets to bite Jason’s hand for a moment.

(Only a moment, though. “Ouch!”)

Attempt Two

“I’m not sure how you think piling more blankets on me will help me raise my core temperature.”

“Of course it’s not.”

Jason raises an eyebrow at the three blankets currently on top of him. “Right. Silly of me.”

Tim rolls his eyes. Men. So ungrateful. “Your core temperature is obviously affected. That’s why I brought heating blankets.” Many, many heating blankets. Jason ends up looking somewhat like a disgruntled duck by the end. Tim has pictures to prove it.

Thirty minutes later, Tim takes Jason’s temperature. Still way, way too low for a human. He sighs. That would’ve been too easy, huh.

“You know,” Jason waggles his eyebrows, “there’s a rather more traditional way of warming up under the blanket.”

Tim swats his head. “Keep it in your pants.”

“Even if I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be able to tell under all these blankets,” Jason tells him mournfully.

Tim decides that retreat is the better part of valor. For today. Just until he can stop imagining what Jason could do to… warm up.

Attempt Three

“A hot bath.”

“…you think I haven’t tried that?”

No. No, actually Tim doesn’t, and his expression must adequately convey that cause Jason throws his hands up. “Okay, no, I haven’t, not really. My place isn’t that fancy.”

“It certainly doesn’t have this tub. Now shoo, get out of these clothes.”

“Why, darlin’, you only ever had to ask.” Without ceremony, Jason pulls off his shirt, then begins working on his belt. “Alright, tell me: What makes this tub special?”

“From observation, I conclude that your resistance to high temperatures has also increased,” Tim begins in an excellent mad scientist voice, just to drop it right after. “Or you wouldn’t be able to wear that fucking jacket in summer. So I engineered a tub that will slowly heat up to a temperature just above 50 degrees Celsius.”

“I sure hope so,” Jason grumbles as he climbs in, unabashed in his nudity, “cause right now it’s really fucking cold, babybird.”

Funny cause Tim thinks it’s definitely getting hot in here.

Hoping his face doesn’t heat up—haha—, he looks down at his phone and activates the heat settings on the tub. “At least,” he says thoughtfully, “we don’t have to worry about accidentally causing a heart infarct or anything like with normal freezing victims. I think.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“We’ll take it slow, anyway.”

Almost two hours later, Jason’s skin is red and wrinkled and covered in glitter from Tim’s bath bomb. He’s still cold to the touch.

Attempt Four

“Tea? Really?”

“You like tea.” Jason has been hanging around Tim’s place often enough that the younger man knows. (If there’s a corner of the top shelf just dedicated to Jason’s favorite blends, well, they don’t talk about it.) “And anyway, this tea is special.”

Jason put down the cup. “Tim.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me you didn’t get this from Ivy.”

“I didn’t get this from Ivy,” Tim recites just a little too dutifully. Truthfully, he hasn’t—it’s of his own creation in the lab—but seeing Jason squirm is just too funny.

“The things I do for you, babybird,” Jason sighs and exes about half of it. When nothing obviously terrible happens, he drinks the rest in small, careful sips.

“Nothing?”

“A hint of chamomile—I get that one, soothing—and… bergamot?”

“Yeah, that’s your favorite, right?” Tim’s taking down notes and is only half-listening. “How do you feel? Any warmer?”

When Jason doesn’t reply right away, Tim does look up. “Jay?”

The older man has a slight smile on his face. “A little warmer, yes.”

Tim brightens and jumps up. Jason lets him stick the thermometer under his tongue without any objection. Tim is a little disheartened when it climbs up to 33°C and stays there, again, though he tries to stay focused on the positives: “I guess it’s a start, though. After all, the perception of warmth is just as or more important than the objective temperature.”

“Uhuh.”

“Also, you didn’t turn green, so that’s good.”

“Tim!”

Attempt Five

“Okay, if this doesn’t work, I don’t even know anymore.”

“Please tell me you’re not hooking me up to electrodes.”

“Sorry, that’s too dumb a lie even for me.” Tim is about to demand that Jason takes his shirt off again—an unfortunate side effect of this type of experiment, really, how terrible that he has to ogle those pecs and abs again—when he pauses. “Wait. Is that… a bad thing?”

Which is terrible phrasing for Is this something that was used to torture you? but Jason seems to get it cause he shakes his head. “Nah, just didn’t know you’re into that.”

“I’m not!” Tim isn’t.

…at least, he doesn’t think he is? There’s certainly something to be said about the inherent homoeroticism of applying gel to another man’s skin and attaching electrodes. He’s so caught up in the entire thing—and the way Jason’s muscles jump and twitch when Tim applies his own brand of stimulant ray to them—that he doesn’t notice how quiet Jason is, too.

However, in the end, the thermometer still reads 33°C.

“Fuck,” Tim mutters. “I really thought I had it.”

“Guess I can put my shirt back on.” Jason makes no move to do so.

“Yeah.” Tim is looking at his notes again, trying to figure out where he went wrong. His joking words at the beginning aside, there are still options, avenues for him to pursue. It’s just that these are the most promising ones, and Tim can’t bear the thought of failure. The idea that Jason will just—will just have to live like this, forever cold and disconnected—

He lifts his face when he hears Jason putting his shoes and jacket on. “You don’t have to leave. I can still—“

“Nah, it’s fine. There’re only so many sex jokes I can make before even I can take the hint,” Jason sighs. “Thanks, though, Tim. I really appreciate the effort.” He turns toward the window.

It takes 4.7 seconds for Tim’s brain to catch up with that, and then another 2.4 for it to convince his body to move.

“Jay! Wait!”

The Solution

The afternoon sun throws golden rays into their bedroom. Tim can feel her rays tickle his face, his eyes, so he turns further into the embrace that’s been offered to him all night. Jason doesn’t wake up, just snuffles out a slight snore and pulls Tim half on top of him as if his boyfriend is some sort of overgrown teddy bear.

Tim snuggles into the crook of Jason’s neck contently. In his opinion, there’s no better place to be: His lover underneath him, chest rising and falling with every breath he takes, warm and alive and here for Tim…

Wait.

Warm. Jason’s warm.

Tim scrambles up and frantically reaches for his bedside, where the damned thermometer has a place of pride after the last time he got sick, and Jason returned the favor by taking his temperature every five minutes.

“Babybird…?” Jason’s voice is rough with sleep. Tim feels a little bad about waking him up, but: !!!!

The thermometer climbs. And climbs. When it stops, it reads 36°C degrees.

“That makes absolutely no sense,” Tim whispers, awed.

“Nope,” Jason agrees amiably. “You’ll figure it out, though. Can I have some more snuggles first?”

On the one hand, Tim is dying to look this up in the literature and maybe talk to someone who knows Lazarus Pits better. This doesn’t make sense scientifically, so there has to be some magic involved, right? Perhaps the pits are more into metaphors than they thought, or—there are so many possibilities, and Tim can’t wait to explore them.

On the other hand… Jason’s looking soft and warm, opening his arms for Tim, and he’s smiling. It’s no contest, really.

Tim presses a kiss to Jason’s cheek and sinks back into his embrace, scientific pursuits forgotten.

#elareine writes #jaytim

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retrievablememories · 3 years

Text

U.N.I. | doyoung (m)

title: college love pairing: doyoung x black!reader genre: fluff, smut, college!au request: There’s suddenly a foreigner in his class (University of course). He teases her and always seems to stick to her side. The kick is, is that she finds out he likes her by eavesdropping [I wanted to give you room to flex that brain of yours bc your writing is like magic] word count: 6.3k warnings: emetophobia warning, alcohol use, sub!doyoung, handjob, oral (female receiving...and a little bit male receiving?), thigh riding a/n: shout out to anon for the new title idea cuz i be struggling lmaoo

Doyoung is curious.

You are new to his class, having joined a couple weeks after the semester had already begun. You’re certainly not the first foreigner he’s seen, considering that the university is an international school that sees a wealth of students from other countries every year.

But still. He’s curious.

You both sit in the same row, with you a few seats down from him. That makes it harder for him to sneak glances over at you without being too obvious or receiving weird looks from the other students who think he’s staring at them. Mostly, he contents himself with hearing your voice when you answer questions or occasionally talk to your other classmates.

Doyoung tries to think about how he might also get to talk to you without seeming weird or too random, which makes him feel even sillier because he usually doesn’t have this much anxiety over talking to new people. However, he doesn’t have to ponder over it for much longer when the professor decides to split each row into groups for an in-class assignment.

You and him and three other people from your row gather together in a circle, and there are a few awkward introductions—as is the norm with classmates who haven’t truly interacted with each other before.

“I’m Y/N,” you introduce yourself, glancing at the others sitting across from you.

They nod in acknowledgement, and Doyoung responds with, “It’s nice to meet you.” He makes sure to give his best welcoming smile, which you return.

Despite all five of you being in the same group, it soon becomes apparent that Doyoung is the best ally to have on your team. The other three students couldn’t be less motivated about the assignment if they tried, mostly gleaning answers off the two of you.

By the time the period ends, you are more than ready to get the hell out and go to your next class. You can only roll your eyes at knowing they’ll get credit for work they barely even helped with. However, your bad mood is momentarily interrupted by your only other partner who bothered to help—Doyoung.

“Thanks for that,” he says as you pass by his desk. You stop and turn around, raising your eyebrows. “You know, for...that.” Doyoung shoots an icy look towards the other people in your row. Only one of them meets his eyes, though they pointedly try to pretend like they never saw him as they gather their things and leave.

You watch the awkward exchange and can’t help but laugh. “Oh yeah, no problem. It’s nice to have someone who actually cares enough to help.”

Doyoung instantly thinks your laugh is pretty, and he decides he wants to hear more of it.

“You know, if you ever want to work together again, I’m here,” he suggests. “I mean...you’re new here, right? So if you need any help with anything...just ask.”

You smile, grateful for the offer. “Oh really? That’s nice of you. I might just have to take you up on it...because I really don’t know a soul here.” You check your phone. “Shit, I should be getting to my next class. See you later. Thanks again!”

Doyoung waves as you leave the classroom, wanting to say more but knowing you’re busy, and he hopes that you really do consider his offer.

The next class doesn’t involve groups this time, much to your relief—and Doyoung’s as well. Doyoung still finds a way to talk to you without having to do group work, though; and the best part about it is that he doesn’t even have to do anything.

“Hey Doyoung,” you say, coming to stand by his desk at the end of class. He perks up in his seat at your presence, giving you an amiable smile.

“Hey Y/N, how are you?”

“I’m fine, though I do feel a little lost at the moment.”

Doyoung’s eyebrows draw together. “What’s the matter?”

You laugh and shake your head, a little embarrassed to tell him. “Okay, like, I have a map of the campus and everything, but I keep getting lost trying to go to classes and it’s kind of annoying...plus I don’t need a bunch of tardies in my first month here.”

“Your professors still care about that kind of stuff?”

“Yep. Unfortunately, I didn’t get any of the cool ones who don’t give a fuck about someone coming in late—for a class I’m paying for. Amazing.”

Doyoung smirks. “So you need a tour guide, is that it?”

You shrug. “If you’re up for it. I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, you know, if you’re busy. This campus is unnecessarily huge.”

Doyoung gathers his bag and stands to his feet. “Of course I can help the damsel in distress.”

“Damsel, huh?” You snort. “What’re you then, a knight in shining armor?”

“I can be if you want me to be.”

“You a comedian or something?” You give him a look between incredulity and amusement, a bit surprised at him being so brazen. “Let’s go then, brave knight. Help me find out where the Student Affairs office is before I completely lose my mind.”

Just as you asked, Doyoung leads you right to the Student Affairs office—and to a bunch of other places on campus, which you’re not entirely sure you’re going to remember. At least you have him to walk you through it until you memorize everything.

Finally, you both stop in a grassy area of campus with a few benches nearby, standing under the shade of a tree. Doyoung turns to you. “I’ve dragged you all over this campus now, so I guess the least I could do is buy you a coffee or something.”

“You did it because I asked! But...if you’re determined to pay, I won’t stop you.” You laugh.

“Do you remember where the coffee shop is?” Doyoung asks, like he’s a professor giving you a pop quiz. You sweat because you’ve already forgotten, and you screw your face up in mock concentration.

“Umm...that way?” You point in a random direction and he chuckles when it’s wrong. He grabs your arm and guides it to the right direction, which is behind you—right in the area you just came from.

“No, it’s here! Let’s go. We’re gonna need to spend some more time out here later.”

By the end of the day, you’re surprised by how comfortable you already feel around Doyoung despite only talking to him for the first time in your group assignment the other day. He appears to think the same of you, if him sliding you his number is any indication.

“I know we have a class together, but if you want to talk outside of that…you know where to reach me now.” He taps his fingers against the table you’re both sitting at. “I think you’ll definitely be needing another tour soon.”

“I tried my best.” You sigh dramatically, placing your chin in your hand. “But thanks. I’ve got your number now, so don’t feel a way if you see me bothering you more often.” You flash him a teasing grin.

Doyoung shakes his head goodnaturedly at your statement, taking another sip of his coffee. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll mind.”

Though you do call on Doyoung to help you get around campus a few more times, he ends up hanging around you a lot more often outside the guise of being your personal tour guide.

Whether it’s to go to the library, visit a fast food place off campus, or even see some sports game, he’s never far away. During your first month of being at school, he’d simply explained it as wanting you to get familiar with the sights in and around campus so you wouldn’t get lost again. However, it quickly culminates in him randomly asking you to go places just because he can—and because he wants to.

You’re glad for his company—much more than you’d let him know, not wanting to come off as too clingy. Though Doyoung seems like the type to be all about his studies—which he mostly is, and it’s not a bad thing—he also knows how to have fun and how to make you laugh, even explaining jokes in Korean that go over your head.

He makes you feel remarkably less alone while adjusting to living in another country, far away from home. It also doesn’t take you long to find out that he’s good for teasing you to no end, which often makes you want to roll your eyes or flick him in the forehead, but even his banter reminds you of your friends back home. You’re incredibly grateful for that small piece of familiarity.

After a couple months of finally settling into the campus life, you, Doyoung, and a few of his friends decide to go to a frat house party, along with Seulgi—a girl you’re becoming close to in another one of your classes. You’re not entirely sure what to anticipate, but the experience is quite similar to what you’d expect to see back in your home country—the same drunk dancing, endless shots of alcohol, loud music, and men who are far too grabby for their own good.

Speaking of that last point…

You and Seulgi dance together amongst a flood of bodies, which is fun for a while until random men keep trying to drag you away from each other to dance with them instead; some of them are more agitated than others about being rejected.

“College guys are dangerously horny.” Seulgi laughs, though she also cuts her eyes at a small group of men nearby who’re giving you both ravenous looks.

“Kinda wish they’d go be horny somewhere else,” you say, and then you roll your eyes when yet another hand brushes against your waist. You turn to see who the culprit is this time, but it’s only Doyoung, and you’re palpably relieved to see him. “You’re back! Seems like you’d disappeared forever.”

“Yes, I am. Someone’s excited. Did you miss me that bad?” He smirks.

“Oh, please. I’m just happy you’re here so the creeps will go away.”

When you say this, his expression instantly morphs into one of recognizable concern. “Is someone bothering you two?”

“Not really, these dudes are just weirdly pushy.” Seulgi giggles, trying to wave it off. The last thing you all need is to start an argument or a full-out fight with one of these frat guys.

“Forreal. Therefore, you should act like you’re my boyfriend until the night is over.” You declare this unabashedly, linking your arm with Doyoung’s. For a second, he seems flustered at your suggestion, and then his face settles back into the same cool countenance as before.

“Fine, since you want to be next to me so much.” You elbow him at that. “That’s a good save for you, but what about Seulgi?” Doyoung asks, looking at the other girl. She is unbothered, though, and casually grabs his other arm.

“Poly relationship. Ever heard of it?” Now he really is flustered, and you laugh out loud at his expression.

You spend a good portion of the night like that, all three of you linked together as the perfect “throuple,” with some people at the party giving you interesting looks. When Johnny sees you all, he throws you and Doyoung an expression reminiscent of a grin—but somehow more devious—and Doyoung only twists his mouth up in a sneer. You don’t know what any of that interaction means, though it makes you wonder.

Seulgi eventually decides she prefers Johnny to be her fake boyfriend instead of Doyoung and goes off with him to do...whatever it is they went to do. You’re sure you can take a guess, though.

After the other two take their leave, you and Doyoung eventually end up on the back porch. It’s a little cooler out here than it is inside, though still a bit crowded with lingering couples and groups. You’re both bunched up in a small corner against the side of the house, leaning over the railing to look out at the backyard—which is mostly just trees and bushes.

“Well, how are you enjoying your first college party?” he asks, casting a questioning glance your way.

“It’s fun. I think I could see why some people end up spending all their time on this instead of studying, ha.”

“Hey, don’t become a party girl ‘cause I’m not gonna do all your homework for you.” Doyoung snickers.

“Oh, Doyoung. I wouldn’t expect you to, you’re not even good at science.”

He sucks his teeth and tucks his chin into his arms to hide the grin playing across his face. It’s quiet again for a little while, or as quiet as it can be with the others on the porch talking and laughing.

Doyoung peeks at you from underneath his fringe and thinks about what he should say next. Something like...not that, but…well, what if he did? Would it be terrible if he said it now, right here at a crowded frat party on some rickety back porch? Maybe, but…

Doyoung pushes himself off the railing and looks at you, tracing your profile with his eyes. Maybe the alcohol has taken more effect on him than he initially thought. “Y/N…” he starts, and you glance at him.

Just then, a red-faced dude who’s obviously incredibly smashed stumbles over to where you two are and promptly throws up on the floor. Some of it gets on Doyoung’s shoes, which causes him to jump back and curse loudly.

“Are you a fucking idiot?!”

“That’s disgusting,” you groan, turning your face away from the mess. You’d probably laugh if it weren’t so gross—and wasn’t right next to where you were standing. The guy doesn’t pay either of you much attention, though, because he’s too busy slumping against the railing like he’s going to pass out. Maybe somebody should worry about that, but it won’t be either of you.

“Ugh, for fuck’s sake...come on.” Doyoung takes your hand and carefully steers you around the mess, heading back indoors and maneuvering through the thick of the party. You’re not sure where he’s going at first until you both end up in some cramped bathroom, with him pulling his shoes off and running them under the tub faucet. You lean against the door, feeling like you need to stand guard so no drunken couples will burst in, even though it’s already locked. You’re not quite sure why he brought you along for this little ride, but you’re not complaining; it’s better than being left outside.

You look at him sitting on the edge of the tub and angrily wiping his shoes as best he can with toilet paper, and you giggle, though you try to keep it quiet. However, you can’t stop more giggles from pouring out at his comically pissed-off expression. Doyoung looks up at you with his eyebrows creased, a confused and irritated look coloring his features. “What’s so funny?”

You shake your head, unable to speak for a few moments. Doyoung tilts his head to the side and looks at you impatiently while you try to catch your breath, though his upset face only makes you want to laugh more. “I’m sorry, but from where I’m standing...th—this is pretty hilarious.” You burst out into laughter again. “I’m locked in a bathroom with you at a college party while you scrub vomit off your shoes. If this doesn’t make us friends for life, nothing will.”

To your surprise, he actually cracks a cynical grin after a few moments, shaking his head and sighing. His shoulders heave with the gesture. “I hate university sometimes.”

Doyoung tries not to think too deeply about that “friends for life” comment, though to his irritation, it stays in his head for days after the party. Even after he’s nearly forgotten about the shoe incident.

You go to the library one night to find an academic journal for an upcoming paper. You’re not happy about having to make the trek, especially in this digital era when everything imaginable is usually readily accessible online, but it is what it is.

At night, the library becomes more of a hangout spot rather than a place for studying, and you don’t entirely expect to get much reading done in there. You’re hoping there’s an empty room or something you can duck into to take some quick notes on the information you need.

Finding the journal takes a bit of searching, but you finally locate it on a shelf near the back of the library. You’re about to leave the aisle and find somewhere to read it when a couple of people walk into the aisle in front of yours. By their voices, you know it’s Doyoung and Johnny.

You decide to peek over and say hi, but before you can get to the end of the aisle, you hear their heated conversation. You stop in your tracks and listen, which you probably shouldn’t be doing; but you’re not sure if you want to interrupt this talk they’re having once you hear what they’re saying, either.

“You’re being ridiculous. Just tell her!” Johnny hisses under his breath like he wants to talk louder but doesn’t want to be too distracting in the library. Ever so courteous of him, but you doubt anyone else really cares at the moment.

“Hyung, not everybody is like you. It’s not easy to just go up to someone and say you like them.”

“You act as if you’re gonna be talking to a stranger. She knows you and you know her, you hang out all the time. It’s more likely that she does like you than she doesn’t.”

“...You really think that?”

“She lets you tell all your unfunny jokes without much complaint, so yeah, I’d say she must be head over heels for you.”

“Shut the hell up. Unfunny jokes? You’re one to talk!”

You listen to the conversation intently, wondering who this mystery girl Doyoung apparently likes could be. He’s never told you about having a crush on anyone, nor has he made it obvious that he likes someone else. Although you know he has other friends—Johnny’s obviously one of them—you’re not sure what girl he hangs out with all the time besides you.

Johnny chuckles. “Don’t be mad that Y/N laughs at my jokes more than yours.”

Your eyebrows raise at this. Wait. What does this conversation have to do with you? Unless.

“Yeah, you’re supposed to laugh at a clown,” Doyoung retorts.

“Whatever, Doyoung. You just do what I told you. It’s seriously so sad watching you pine over Y/N like there isn’t an easy solution for this.”

You’re reeling with shock by now, but their voices are also getting closer to the end of the aisle like they’re about to walk into the very one you’re hiding out in. You run away before they can spot you, though you do end up drawing a few peculiar glances from some other library goers.

You eventually find a quiet, uncrowded space to sit down and take notes in, though you can hardly concentrate on the work at hand with this new information in your mind. Doyoung likes you? Doyoung likes you. Then that must be why he always messes with you, and why he’s practically been glued to your side since you got there.

Your hand tightens and loosens around your pen repeatedly as you mull over this knowledge. The longer you think about it, though, a smirk grows on your face.

The week after, you and Doyoung have one of your regular study sessions together. You’ve dressed up for it more than you normally would—the same thing you’ve been doing throughout the week, too. Even if Doyoung doesn’t know what you know, you get a bit of fun out of dressing up to catch his eye. And it definitely works.

He always steals glances at you when he thinks you aren’t paying any attention, and you get infinite amusement out of whipping your head around to try to catch him in the act. The light blush on the tips of his ears and his startled bunny look is worth it every time.

“You got so dressed up just to study? You’ve really been going all out this week,” Doyoung comments as you sit down at your usual table in the library. He gives a small smirk as he scans your new outfit for today. He does this as if he’s only teasing and evaluating your clothes, puckering his lips in concentration, though it’s also an excuse to check you out.

“You could just say ‘you look so fucking fine this week, Y/N.’ I know you want to say it, anyway.” Doyoung’s cheeks flush a little, and he shakes his head.

“You’re something else. Okay, you look pretty. Does that satisfy you?”

“Well. You forgot the ‘fucking,’ but I’ll let it slide.”

You both get into your work and a calm quiet settles between you, punctuated with you occasionally asking each other questions about the assignment. At some point, you grow a little bored with staring at the text for so long, and you stop and simply look at Doyoung sitting across from you in one of his favorite hoodies and his glasses. Something tender rises in your chest, a sensation you hadn’t quite given a name to until now, and you put your cheek in your hand, grinning slightly.

“I wonder why someone like you doesn’t have a girlfriend yet.”

Doyoung looks up as if he’s not sure if you’re talking to him, then furrows his eyebrows. “Someone like me?”

“Aw, you know, you’re handsome and caring and smart, and you can even be a little bit funny—even though you get on my nerves sometimes.” Doyoung rolls his eyes at the last part, though you know he’s preening at your compliments.

“I don’t know, I’m busy with studies.”

“But isn’t there even one person you might like? Or might be interested in?” Doyoung’s not looking at you anymore, his eyes dropping back down to instead focus on his book, but you notice how his fingers tighten around the textbook’s edges.

“Um—well, I haven’t really thought about that…”

“Really? No one in your dorm or your classes has caught your eye?”

Doyoung shifts a little and clears his throat. He shakes his head in response to your question, though the movement is hesitant. “What about you?”

“Changing the subject, huh? Excellent method of evasion…” You flip a page in your notebook, pointedly avoiding Doyoung’s gaze even though he’s peering up at you again. You wait with your lips clamped together, trying not to laugh as his expression grows more impatient.

“Well?! Aren’t you going to answer, after forcing me to?”

“I will when you tell the truth.” You slap the notebook closed, which causes him to jump, and this time a laugh does slip out. Doyoung’s eyes dart around your small section of the library like there might be someone else listening, or like he’s searching for a prank camera.

“The truth about what? I already told you!”

“Then what about what you told Johnny?”

Doyoung freezes for a moment, and various emotions flit across his face. He finally settles firmly on embarrassment and disappointment. “...He told you? I’m going to kill him.” His voice is softer now, like he would disappear completely if he could.

“No, I—okay, don’t get mad at me, it’s not like I did it on purpose, but I heard you two talking in here a week ago…”

“Oh...shit. You—you were there? And you didn’t say anything?!”

“Yeah. Not very discreet, huh? Maybe you want to do that in your dorm room next time.” You’re still smiling. Doyoung shifts nervously again, as if he just wants to get up and run the hell out.

“So, um…you know, then.”

“Yep.”

“If you don’t like me, you can just say so,” Doyoung blurts out. “I...it’s fine. I don’t expect anything of you, so we can really just forget all about this. I promise I won’t make things weird, Y/N. I just...I just found myself really liking you as we got to know each other.”

“You can’t make things weird when you’re already weird.” You giggle and place your hand over Doyoung’s, grasping his fingers. “So...let’s date, then.”

He looks at you questioningly, surprise taking over. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” And now you’re a little embarrassed yourself, but you continue, “Doyoung...I like you too. I guess I don’t totally hate all your teasing. But don’t get cocky about it.”

Doyoung rearranges your hands so your fingers are now laced together. A relieved smile makes a home on his lips. “Well, too late. Now you’re never going to hear the end of it.”

“Oh, I can’t wait.” Your response is sarcastic, but the smile on your face is totally genuine.

That weekend, Johnny leaves the dorm to go visit some of his other friends in town, which means Doyoung will have the room all to himself for those few days. Normally his plans would consist of studying, trying to catch up on sleep, or seeing what his other friends are up to, but with you as his new girlfriend, he wants to spend that time together.

“So, this is your dorm,” you say, holding Doyoung’s hand as he leads you into his shared dorm with Johnny.

“Home away from home, I guess,” he says, leading you over to his bed so you can sit down. Before he can let go of your hand, you tug him to you and gesture for him to bring his face closer to yours, like you’re going to whisper something to him.

“What is it?” he asks. He’s quickly silenced by you pushing your lips against his in a kiss. When you both separate, it’s reluctant, and Doyoung pecks your mouth once more before straightening up again. You laugh at the slightly goofy grin on his face.

“What should we do?” you ask, getting more comfortable on his bed and leaning against the wall.

“I had movies in mind, but we can do anything you want.”

“Movies are fine! Hurry and start it up, I’m gonna get cold without you beside me.”

Doyoung gives an overexaggerated cringe, and you hide your face. “And you complain about me being cheesy?!”

You both make it through two and a half movies before you start getting antsy with sitting in the same spot for so long. Doyoung is still lying calmly beside you, his arm around your shoulder and the other behind his head as he continues watching the movie. Deciding to act on a whim, you abandon all pretenses of watching any more of the movie and swing your legs over his own so you’re sitting in his lap. When you situate yourself in his lap, he seems a bit starstruck, as if he wasn’t expecting this to happen—like, ever.

“Y/N…” Doyoung’s voice is surprisingly soft, like the day you revealed your feelings for each other. It’s a noticeable departure from his usual demeanor. He blinks at you for a couple moments.

“What?” you say innocently, copying his actions and blinking back at him.

Doyoung swipes his tongue across his lips, though it’s more of a nervous gesture than anything else. “You’re...you know.”

You chuckle. “‘You know’? Let’s use our words.”

“You’re, uh...s-soft,” is what he stammers out, like it was the only thing he could think of at the last minute.

“And you should be hard, but you’re not yet. So let’s fix that. If you want to?” You quickly tack the last sentence on, trying to give him an out if he really doesn’t want this. However, the hands that suddenly go to your hips make you think otherwise.

“Do it, then.” He provokes you, trying to regain his usual confidence, though it still comes out less forceful than intended.

You bring your hand to his crotch and palm him over his pants, and Doyoung takes a deep breath. You bring your lips to his, kissing him deeply and adding to the pleasant feeling. He kisses you back eagerly, flexing his hands on your hips and gripping you more tightly. You end up making out like that for a little while, and he grows underneath your palm as you tease him.

Eventually, you want more than simply feeling him over his sweatpants and pull them down, exposing his bulge. You don’t touch him for real, not just yet; instead, you trace your finger along the shape of his dick underneath the material of his boxers. Doyoung whimpers against your lips at that touch, very quietly, but audible enough for you to hear it over the TV in the background.

“Don’t get all sensitive on me now.” You pull away from his mouth and laugh. “What happened to all that teasing you love to torture me with?” You drag his underwear down so you can release his member, which is still growing underneath your caresses. Precum is already beading at the tip, flushed with need. Doyoung looks down at your hand holding his dick and worries his lip as you begin stroking him earnestly now.

He leans his head back against the wall, and you watch his throat work as he swallows and tries to keep his sounds quiet. The soundproofing in these dorms certainly isn’t the best; the people on the other side of the wall have kept him awake enough nights to know that. The few moans he does let go are low and pretty and soft, and they fit him perfectly.

Though you are stroking him mostly for his own pleasure, you do take the time to explore his dick while you have it in your hand—running your finger over a vein that stands out against the hot skin, sliding his precum between your fingers and using it to get the rest of his shaft slick. You take your time with him, but he doesn’t seem to mind the leisurely pace.

“Do you wanna come in my hand?” you ask him, and his body tenses as you reach further down to tease his balls. Another bead of precum runs down his shaft.

“That would be a waste,” Doyoung huffs, and he shifts his leg a little so his thigh is tucked between your legs now, your heat pressing right down on him. He moves his thigh back and forth slowly across you, and you let out a long, shaky breath at the way the muscles of his leg flex and release against your clit.

“Then where do you wanna do it?” You still your movements on him for a few seconds but keep your thumb on his tip so you can tease the sensitive slit there, and another choked groan comes from him.

“T-take a guess,” he says, and pulls on your hips again so he can drag your pussy over his thigh more firmly. The friction makes you whine.

“Maybe I should just make you cum like this, since you seem more interested in making me ride your leg.” You go back to steadily stroking his cock, tightening your grip on him. His mouth drops open a little at your actions.

“Y/N,” he whispers breathlessly, and lifts one hand to pull at your sweater. “Take this off.”

“Then take yours off.” Doyoung strips his sweater off as soon as you say it and waits for you to do the same. His mouth goes to your breasts once they’re free. You grin at the pleasurable sensation and run your hand through his hair, pushing him closer to your chest. Your other hand goes back to his dick, and it twitches when you make contact. “I really think you could cum just like this, with you sucking my tits and me jerking you off. Wouldn’t you like that, Doie?”

Doyoung’s face flushes at that claim, though he doesn’t deny it. He simply keeps sucking at your nipples and leaving marks across your chest, flexing his thigh against you for added stimulation.

You want him to come first, so you spit in your hand for more lube and stroke him faster, the slick sound of your hand on his cock filling your ears. His moans are more frequent now, though he still tries to hide them; all the while, you try to pull more out of him. If the people next door know what’s going on, they’ll just have to enjoy the free entertainment.

“Y/N,” he pants against your skin, and his body tenses up more underneath you. You pull his head away from your chest so you can tuck your face into his neck, placing your lips over his beating pulse and feeling the way his muscles jump under the slight touch of your mouth.

“You don’t wanna come in my hand, right? Where do you want it, then?” You keep your lips close to his ear and slow your pace to make sure he doesn’t come too soon.

“I…um—”

“Don’t be shy now, you’re about to come, aren’t you?” You twist your hand over his tip and he groans low in his throat; the sound vibrates across your lips.

“I...in your mouth.”

You sit back to look at him, grinning devilishly. “So that’s what you like? Fine then, baby boy.” You remove yourself from his thigh, which is noticeably damp now, and position yourself between his legs with the tip of his cock pointed towards your mouth. You lean forward a bit to take the head between your lips, rubbing your tongue against the sensitive underside of it, and Doyoung comes quick with a soft cry. His cum floods over your tongue in thick, salty waves, and you keep sucking the tip until he has no more to give.

You get back onto the bed after you’ve swallowed everything, and before you know what’s happening, Doyoung has turned you on your stomach and is pulling your panties and sweatpants down in one fell swoop. “Doyoung—” Your sentence breaks when he lifts your hips up and his tongue parts your lower lips, sliding through the slickness and pushing into your hole. Your words melt into a moan as you arch your hips more to get closer to his face.

“Doyoung, y-yes, please—” You curl your fingers in the fabric of his comforter, panting harshly against the material as Doyoung dips his fingers and tongue into you like he’s starving. His tongue on your clit is maddening, circling back and forth and making your legs shake as you try to balance yourself in this position he’s tugged you into.

His fingers find what they’re looking for quickly and he teases your g-spot, thrusting into it only sometimes and leaving you wanting all the other times. In the very back of your mind, you wonder if what he said about being too studious for relationships is true, because how else would he have learned to do all this? God.

When you get close to coming, Doyoung takes some mercy on you and crooks his fingers into that soft spot more consistently now, and you cry out as you tighten around his fingers. It’s beautifully, wonderfully satisfying. The soft sounds he releases while he eats you out make you even weaker, as if he can’t hide just how turned on he is from tasting you.

Your climax hits you suddenly, and by the end of it you are laughing softly with the intoxication of how good you feel, how good he’s made you feel. When he finally pulls back from you, you let your body fully collapse against the small mattress, and Doyoung rests his head against your thigh momentarily, as if he himself is exhausted.

“I...wanted to do that for a while,” he says, and you can’t see his face but you think he must be blushing, with how sheepishly he admitted it.

It takes a bit of shuffling but you eventually end up lying side by side, stripped bare and looking up at the ceiling. The movie has long gone off, and there’s nothing but Netflix’s slideshow of new shows and movies playing on the screen now.

After a few more moments of nothing but the sound of heavy breaths, you say, “We are having round two, like right now.”

“You’re already addicted to me, huh?” Doyoung chuckles, dragging his knuckles over your side and making your skin tingle. You smirk and throw your leg over him, and he groans at how your pussy slides over his hardening length.

“By the end of the night, you won’t be able to get enough of me.”

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chockfullofsecrets · 3 years

Text

Critical Role: Don’t You Know?

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: Clarabelle just giggles, revealing a little gap between her two front teeth. “What?” she asks. “Don’t you know? Caduceus never starts tickle fights, he knows he’s gonna lose!”

“Belle,” Caduceus says loudly, “maybe you should go check on the tea-”

Beau likes to think she has a good sense for potentially incriminating information, and right now it’s pinging off the fucking walls. “No, no, no, tell me more.”

Wordcount: 3.7k

A/N: fill for this anon prompt! and for a bunch of people who want to see poor Cad get absolutely wrecked, apparently XD

spoilers for C2E92 and C2E96 - and a little side note that i may have forgotten the timing of certain Greater Restorations while planning this fic, so let's just pretend that the clerics had two more of them to cast that day 🤦

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Beau doesn’t like feeling jealous. It’s not a frequent feeling, around the Nein, since they’re all pretty much the same level of fucked up, but watching Caduceus and his siblings sit in amiable silence as they work through prepping whatever grows around here that passes for dinner is starting to get to her.

Maybe it’s just too soon, after going back home to Kamordah. She’s fine, or she will be - she loves her friends and they love her and her parents don’t and that’s fine, but -

She grits her teeth. All she has to do is sit here in this corner and wait for Caduceus’ mom to finish making tea in the other room, and then she can take it and run and leave this happy little family tableau to their own devices. She’s got a bottle of wine and access to a trickster cleric, it’s not going to be that hard to have a good evening.

She’s still mulling over what kind of pranks she can play in a petrified temple when the littlest Clay - who’s still a good head taller than her, because fucking firbolgs - finishes scraping the peel off the last unidentified vegetable in her stack and drops her knife with a bright little clank as she turns to her brother. There’s no way Caduceus hasn’t noticed that for every one she’s done herself she’s snuck another into his pile, but Beau’s not going to be the one to rat her out. “Okay, I’m done, lemme look at your hair! I bet I can fix it, I have all my dyeing stuff with me.”

Caduceus eyes his own pile and, very slowly, starts pushing it in his older sister’s direction. Beau chokes back a snort.

Said sister’s eyes narrow. “No!”

The little one pouts at both of them. “But Calliope, look at him, he needs help!”

Big sister - Calliope - takes advantage of the little circle the three of them are sitting in to shove both of their shoulders simultaneously. “No. If you two are taking a break, then so am I!”

Caduceus rumbles out a laugh, already starting to undo his braid. “Sure, but you’re explaining why we’re not done to Mom.”

It’s a low move. Beau approves entirely.

Calliope scoffs and tosses her paring knife in his direction handle-first, laughing herself when he yelps and dodges. “Oh, we’ll see who’s doing the explaining.”

She’s smiling, though, as she gets up and stretches. Beau takes one look at her insanely toned arms and has to swallow convulsively to get her saliva flowing again.

As she wanders off, Caduceus shakes the last of his hair loose and flops the whole pink mass over onto his face. “Don’t pull too hard, Clarabelle, it’s pretty fragile right now.”

“I’m not a baby, Caduceus,” Clarabelle snarks, and promptly climbs halfway into his lap to bury her hands in it and start bemoaning the state of his roots.

The quip slips out of Beau’s mouth reflexively. “You know he’s just luring you in so he can tickle you, right?”

It’s kind of their thing, her and Caduceus, whenever one of their group is standing anywhere in his vicinity and his hands are free. The reactions are great - the warning makes Jester bounce excitedly, Fjord and Caleb go all red and sputtery, Yasha look up in quiet anticipation - fuckin’ adorable, by the way - and Nott threaten to kill them all as she darts away.

And if she’s a little too invested in the way Caduceus huffs and throws her a quiet little smile before reeling his victim in, like they’ve got an inside joke that’s just for the two of them - well, that’s just an unexpected benefit of the chaos.

Today, though, two pink heads snap in her direction. Caduceus makes a panicked little sound, barely audible under all the floof, and isn’t that interesting.

Clarabelle just giggles, revealing a little gap between her two front teeth. “What?” she asks. “Don’t you know? Caduceus never starts tickle fights, he knows he’s gonna lose!”

“Belle,” Caduceus says loudly, “maybe you should go check on the tea-”

Beau likes to think she has a good sense for potentially incriminating information, and right now it’s pinging off the fucking walls. “No, no, no, tell me more.”

Clarabelle beams. “Calliope!” she yells. “C’mere, we have to tickle Caduceus!”

Caduceus’ ears shoot up in obvious alarm. He lunges forward and makes a decent attempt at smothering her through all the hair in his way, but Calliope’s already turning around.

Beau shivers - apparently the smug Caduceus look is genetic. “Did I hear that right, Belle? Caduceus has been going out and starting tickle fights?”

Caduceus lets go of his sister and gets halfway up before Clarabelle tackles him with a war cry. They’re wrestling on the ground, lanky limbs everywhere and absolutely terrible form, by the time Calliope lopes over.

She reaches in with one hand and hauls her seven-foot-tall brother up into a sitting position by the collar of his shirt - fuck, that’s hot. Beau firmly suppresses the urge to fidget as Calliope tugs one of Caduceus’ arms up over his head and yanks his sleeve down to his elbow. “Well, Caduceus? Got anything to say for yourself?”

Caduceus actually whines. It takes serious effort not to gape in shock. “I didn’t do anyth-ING-NO-”

His protests dissolve into near-silent squeaks as Calliope starts to tickle his - hands? Beau watches closely as she drags her fingertips up his forearm, fluttering them lightly in the crease of his elbow, and commits the technique to memory.

Caduceus’ helpless grin is wider than she’s ever seen it. He braces his feet on the floor and tries to twist free, elbows akimbo. “Calliope! Stohop it, I’m - heh - I’m not-”

She snorts. “Not a chance, we’ve got - how many years has it been again?”

“Two hundred!” Belle chirps, and dives in to worry at the backs of Caduceus’ ears with blunt fingernails. The trembling, stuttery sounds he’s making jump an octave as he frantically shakes his head from side to side.

“Ten,” he snickers. “Belle - heeeh, hehe - cut it out, I’m - mmm! - I’m serious, come ohohon-”

Clarabelle turns back to Beau. “See?”

Oh, Beau sees. She’s gonna get so much mileage out of this.

Caduceus looks over at her too, eyebrows furrowing, but Calliope’s already talking over the both of them. “Well, that’s a lot of years to catch up on, I’d better pull out the big guns.”

Caduceus’ eyes widen. Beau decides to help the panic along and mouths big guns? in his direction, slipping her notebook out and opening it to a fresh page.

Caduceus yelps and throws himself forward with alacrity she’s never seen from him, ripping his arm from Calliope’s grip and nearly scrambling past Clarabelle before his big sister takes a step forward and scoops him up under the arms. “Nice try,” she tells him. “Might have worked, if you weren’t so scrawny.”

She drops him on top of Clarabelle. “Hey!”

“Sorry, Belle, you gotta stay out of the way!”

“No, I’m helping!” she insists, and dutifully wrestles her way on top of Caduceus to start tickling his ears again.

Caduceus wheezes and curls into a ball, trying fruitlessly to shove her away. “Belle - Belle!-”

“Let’s see, let’s see…” Calliope muses, crouching down and plucking a booted foot from the pile of limbs. “Legs?”

She grabs Caduceus’ calf and squeezes it like a piece of dead meat. He squeals. “Yep, still ticklish.”

Caduceus kicks her in the knee with his other leg and she staggers back for a moment before surging forward to grab at his hips. “Ow! Oh, now you’re in for it.”

He can’t do anything but flail as she wrestles him onto his back and urges Clarabelle to sit on his belly to keep him pinned. “Nonono! M’sorry - eheheeeeh, Belle, stoppit! - I’m sohohorry! Don’t!”

There’s a pause. Beau leans forward, half excited and half trying to sense genuine distress. She’s never heard Caduceus plead like this - not her fault, the fucker has apparently been hiding his ticklish spots for months, but it’s not like she wouldn’t be willing to jump in and save him.

And maybe she wants to see what Calliope’s arms can do up close. Maybe.

Calliope adjusts her grip on him and smirks. “Heh. No, I think I’m gonna. Belle, you got him?”

“Yep!” she says cheerfully, bare feet planted on each side of his ribcage. Caduceus has managed to press one big palm over her face, keeping her at arm’s length and away from his ears, but she just wriggles her bare toes under him and into the backs of his ribs. “Tickle, tickle, Caduceus!”

Caduceus guffaws and squirms like his life depends on it, but there’s nowhere to go. “Noooo - hahaaaheeh - stop, stop, not my ribs-”

He keeps begging as Calliope levers a hand under his back and starts rooting around for something with a focused expression. She finds it, too - Caduceus screams and arches his back nearly in half as he abandons Clarabelle and grabs desperately for her hands instead. “Pleeeheease! HHAHAH - nonnono - eheaahaaa!”

Beau can’t even see what she’s tickling, but there’s enough potential here to topple a regime. “Fuck,” she whispers. Does this make her the most powerful tickler in the Nein now? Is this what ascending feels like?

She’s surprised that the rest of the Nein haven’t come running yet, with all the noise he’s making. But then again, she and Cad and Caleb are the best at paying attention to their surroundings and Caleb definitely isn’t in a hurry to run towards hysterical laughter.

She doesn’t mean to make any sound herself, but amidst all his struggling Cad’s ears twitch in her direction. “Beau,” he pleads. Shrieks again. “Help mmm-ahahahAA-”

“Hm, who’s that?” Calliope stops tickling, judging from Caduceus’ wheezed relief, and turns to look in her direction. Beau swears that her hair flutter in a nonexistent breeze. “Right, you, the non-important one.”

Beau nearly bites her tongue in despair - why does she have to be such a disaster around every hot woman she meets? “Yep, that’s me.”

Calliope looks at her for a moment, considering. “You look like a fighter. What are you doing all the way over there - you’re not scared of him, are you?”

It’s never been less tempting to confess the time she accidentally hit Cad in the face with some of her weeks-old pocket bacon and he tickled her until she cried. She clears her throat. “Uh, no. No. It looks like you’re doing a pretty good job already, I mean, he’s really-”

Calliope yanks her arm free and uses it to beckon her over. “Eh, come here - Belle, watch it, I’m going to flip him.”

Caduceus squawks in renewed panic as one of his sisters tumbles off him and the other wraps her arms around him and twists him facedown like a wrestling move from the back-alley brawls Beau used to sneak into as a teenager - and, once again, hot.

She swallows again and strolls over as casually as she can while Calliope pins him across the shoulders with her forearm. “Riiight - here.”

She doesn’t even touch, just points to the backs of Caduceus’ thighs, but he obviously knows where she’s leading. “Beau, no,” he yelps.

He tries to pull his legs up beneath him. Beau automatically grabs him just under the knees and drags him out flat. “Hey, hey, where do you think you’re going?”

Calliope raises an approving eyebrow. Beau tries not to blush. “It’s his worst spot - he’s ticklish there if you so much as look at him wrong.”

“We chased him up a tree once,” Clarabelle pipes up. She’s tap-tap-tapping blunt fingernails across Caduceus’ back, sending him shivering. “He stayed up there all night until Dad went to get him.”

“Beau, don’t,” Cad rasps. She’s heard him sound perkier seconds after coming back from the dead. He’s laughing still, quietly, and it sounds somewhere between the lava of the volcano forge they stayed in once and Frumpkin’s rusty purrs.

“Not so fun when you’re the one doing the begging, huh,” Beau tells him. She flicks him, once, in the back of the leg and looks incredulously at his siblings. “So you’re telling me his absolute worst spot… is his fucking butt?”

Calliope shrugs. “He’s so weird, isn’t he?”

All three of them laugh at that, even Caduceus, so Beau figures it’s all right. “Yeah, we’ve noticed. We’re all weird though, it’s kind of our thing.”

“Sure,” Calliope says. “He’s weird and ticklish, though, so if I wanna pin him down and get all his worst spots then he’s just gonna have to deal with it-”

Caduceus peels his face off the ground and gasps out a few strangled syllables that reverberate in the warm air.

Both of his sisters shriek as their eyes fill with black ichor. “Caduceus!” Calliope yells, letting go of him and grabbing for her face with one hand and her holy symbol with the other. “What did you do?”

Caduceus props himself up on his elbows, panting. “Oh, it’s just something I picked up,” he tells her smugly. “Don’t worry, it’ll wear off.”

“After how long,” Calliope growls.

Clarabelle giggles, still draped over Caduceus’ back. “Oh, this feels weird!”

He laughs and starts to crawl out from under them, but Beau’s not done with him yet. Mercifully un-blinded, she snags him around the knees again. “Wow, usually you’re the one telling us not to be mean to people.”

Caduceus rolls onto his side and looks sharply back at her, sighing in relief when she holds her hands up in surrender. “Well, I know these people.” He shoves gently at Clarabelle, wriggles a finger into her side when she doesn’t move. She squeaks. “They deserve it.”

He grins down at her, unrepentant and bratty, and Beau can’t help but grin back.

“So are your thighs really that bad?” she asks. “Or-” she jerks her chin over at Calliope, who’s started praying. “-did you just decide to be a jerk all of a sudden? Also, how the fuck did we not know how ticklish you are? You wreck us all the time!”

Caduceus shrugs. “S’easy to get in your heads,” he says. Beau bristles a little at that, but he’s not wrong - Caduceus has this way of looking at them like he’s going to take them apart one way or another, and the tickling is probably the safer route. Doesn’t hurt that they can always trust him to set them right after, either.

“And they’ll get me eventually, might as well have some fun with it.” He fixes Beau with a stern look. “Now you, on the other hand-”

She interrupts him. “Hey Cad, how long’s that spell supposed to last?”

He blinks. “A minute, why?”

Beau points wordlessly over his shoulder at a clear-eyed Calliope. “Uh.”

Caduceus twists around. “Oh, dear.”

That’s all he has time for before Calliope grabs his shoulders and twists him facefirst back into the ground. “You know,” she tells him, “I was going to go easy on you. Was. You’re lucky I’m not calling Colton in here.”

“That’s ‘cause Colton’s a jerk,” Caduceus says, muffled and remarkably calm.

“So are you, apparently,” Calliope retorts. She forms a vibrating claw with one hand and digs it into his spine, and Caduceus shrieks. “You can’t just blind people!”

“I’m telling Mom and Dad!” Clarabelle agrees, wiping one last black tear from her eye and lunging back in to knead mercilessly at the backs of Caduceus’ ribs.

Caduceus shrieks again, kicking helplessly, and tumbles straight back into hysterical laughter. “Come - hahaAAA - come on!”

Beau’s fairly sure that he’s going to hurt himself if she jumps in, but Calliope looks breathlessly over at her and grins with a bloodthirsty look that Beau recognizes all too well. She usually saves it for enemies, though, or Caleb if he’s being particularly insufferable. “Is that what he does to you guys too? Go on, get some revenge!”

And well, put like that…

It takes a bit of effort to pin one of Caduceus’ flailing legs, especially when he catches wind of what she’s doing and starts kicking even more frantically. “Hold fucking still,” she yells.

Caduceus is losing it, less put together than she’s ever heard him. “I cahahan’t!”

Beau jams the ball of her thumb into the nerve cluster just above his knee until his leg goes dead. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“What was that?” Clarabelle says, sounding delighted. “Can I learn how to do that, Callie?”

Beau ignores her, focusing in on her prey. “Let’s see, how many apologies am I looking for?” She’s pretty sure she deserves every single time that Caduceus has tickled her to pieces, but the opportunity to tease Caduceus the way he does with them is too good to pass up. “I’ve lost count at this point, guess we’ll just start the ball rolling and see what happens.”

She squeezes mercilessly at the back of his thigh, making sure he can feel it through his homespun trousers, and he laughs a bit louder and squirms as best as he can, but it’s not enough-

“Huh,” she says, trying to channel Caduceus, and watches his sisters dig into his back for a moment. Something something destiny, calm, balance-

Oh. She grins and spiders her fingers ever so lightly over the vulnerable spot, and Caduceus howls.

Beau settles in, satisfied, and keeps spidering until he’s thrashing and laughing too hard to get more than a couple broken words out. He’s not anywhere near out of breath, not yet, so she figures they’ve got at least a couple more minutes of squeaking, ticklish Caduceus and she’s going to enjoy every single one of them.

“Oh, dear,” someone says, unexpectedly close. Beau whips around to see Caduceus’ mom, holding a whole tray of mismatched teacups and looking like she’s desperately trying not to laugh.

Caduceus’ ears twitch. “MOM,” he wails. “SAVE ME, I’M GONNA DIE.”

She does laugh then, a little misty-eyed, and juggles the tray so she can prop a hand on her hip. “Calliope, Clarabelle, be nice to your brother,” she chides. “He came a long way to find us.”

“But he blinded us!” Clarabelle tattles, painfully earnest even as she grins from ear to ear. “He hasn’t even said sorry yet!”

“Clarabelle Clay.”

Beau’s spine locks up in instant parental-dissatisfaction panic, but Clarabelle just laughs and echoes back “Mo-oom,” before moving her hands and sprawling forward onto her brother. Calliope stops too, with one last dig into his back that inspires a final agonized wiggle, and sits back on her hands triumphantly as Caduceus wheezes and scrambles up to safety.

Beau rocks to her feet, sticking her hands in her pockets, and takes in the full glory of a seven-foot-tall firbolg doing his level best to hide behind his mother. Clarabelle and Calliope get up too and grab their tea, the former sticking her tongue out as Caduceus peeks at her with narrowed eyes.

“If you two are done,” Caduceus’ mom says firmly, “it looks like there are still vegetables that need attending to.”

“Oh, yeah,” Calliope says, and fixes Clarabelle with a look.

“Yeah!” Clarabelle echoes, looking innocently back.

She yelps as Calliope drags her away. Beau shuffles her feet for a moment as Caduceus’ mom turns to her. “Uh - if some of those are for us, I can take them - I know you guys probably want your time alone-”

Caduceus ducks a little further down, and his mom laughs again. “Oh, dear, you can stay as long as you like, but these will be better hot.”

“Got it.” Beau smirks up at Caduceus. “I have to go talk to Jester, anyway.”

She grabs the tray and speed-walks back across the room, barely hearing Caduceus’ hurried “I’ll go help her” before his heavier footsteps echo behind. If it were Fjord or Caleb she’d channel her ki to beat him handily back to the others, but, well - he doesn’t deserve it, really.

He’s walking fast, anyway - once she slows down, it’s only a couple seconds before she can feel his warm presence at her side.

He holds a hand out for the tray. “Don’t tell them.”

Beau looks at him then, still smug, and grimaces. “Oh, Duceus, you’ve got something on your face.”

He makes a face and wipes at his running nose with his sleeve, still trying to catch his breath. “Don’t tell them,” he says again. “I mean, they’ll find out eventually, and none of you are as mean as Calliope so it’ll be okay, but - please.”

She pretends to think it over. “I don’t know, I think your sister’s kind of great.”

Caduceus sighs heavily. “I’m not surprised.”

“I won’t tell them.” She does reach over to nudge at his spine though, expertly balancing the tray, and laughs as he squirms away from her. “You have to… make tea for me every night though. For a week.”

Caduceus blinked. “I already do that, you asked me to.”

“Which is exactly why I’m not gonna rat you out, Caduceus. You’re just a little bit less of an asshole than the rest of us.”

Caduceus looks - surprisingly pleased, at that. Beau tells herself it’s more about the prospect of not having Jester try to jump him every morning than her approval. “I appreciate it.”

Beau hands the tray over and crosses her arms, looking up at him. “You don’t really mind though, do you? Seems weird that you’d keep getting all of us, if you did.”

He shrugs. “I don’t, it’s just- it’s different around family. They already know everything about me.”

That jealousy sneaks out onto her tongue, quick and bitter, before she realizes it. “Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Beau looks away then, speeding up to get ahead of him. She manages to take a single step before something tickles at the back of her armpit and she nearly drops all of her stuff.

She curses and whirls around. “Caduceus!”

He looks evenly back at her. “Yeah, you would.”

It takes a second to connect the conversational thread, but she can’t help but smile once she does. “Thanks, Caduceus.”

He smiles back. “You’re welcome.”

“Deal’s off though,” she quips, and before he can react she’s sprinting down the hallway as fast as she can.

She’s not going to tell on him, but for tickling her? He’s gonna have to chase her down if he wants to make sure.

#tickling #critical role #caduceus clay #beauregard lionett #clarabelle clay #calliope clay #chocfic

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thebiscuiteternal · 3 years

Note

Different anon but I need more of your YuSangYao AU! Maybe something with a little more about their love for and relationship with NHS? Or just just them being yanderes? Or both?

(I'm not actually doing a writing jam today, but I am procrastinating on working on my WIPs.)

Have a meet cute with underlying tones of ohshit.

_________

Muttering uncharitable things about little brothers that couldn't stay where they were put, Jin Ziyao stalked around the southern gardens of Koi Tower in search of the brother in question. The last thing he wanted or needed was for A-Yu to have been cornered by the other disciples in his age group.

Again.

They both still had bruises from the last time, and from the beating they'd been given for 'provoking their betters'.

He almost passed the pavilion at the furthest corner of the gardens, then froze before immediately backtracking, hoping he had just been imagining things.

But no, the young man in Nie Sect colors was still seated at the table, and A-Yu was still sitting across from him, chattering away on one of his tangents like they weren't in danger of another beating at the very least if they were caught accosting someone from another sect.

"-and I think it would just look more balanced with something in that corner. Maybe some sheep?"

"Sheep?" asked the stranger with a faintly amused smile, and Jin Ziyao bristled, ready to step in and protect his brother from any of the usual incoming mockery. Before he could react, however, the stranger tapped the handle of his brush against his mouth, appearing to actually contemplate the suggestion. "You know, I think you're right."

Wait, what?

As they both watched, A-Yu in stunned joy and he just stunned, the stranger swiped the bristles of the brush against his tongue before dipping it in ink and drawing in a flock of detailed little sheep settled on one of the mountainsides.

"That's much better," the stranger declared brightly. "Good idea, Yu-er."

His brother beamed under the praise, and Jin Ziyao took that moment to approach the pavilion.

"There you are," he said, letting a faintly chiding note into his voice. "I've been looking for you all morning."

A-Yu had the grace to duck his head at the gentle rebuke, but then was right back to grinning so hard it might split his face. "Nie-er-gongzi is letting me help with a painting, come see!"

Jin Ziyao did very well not to let himself feel faint when he looked at the stranger again. He hadn't been paying enough attention before, too focused on his brother, but he did recognize the other man now.

Nie-er-gongzi.

Nie Huaisang.

Of course his brother couldn't just latch onto another sect's disciple. Of course it had to be the sect heir.

Jin-furen was going to kill them both.

"Are you alright?" Nie Huaisang asked, the smile he'd had for A-Yu replaced by concern.

"Just perfect," he said curtly, quickly taking a seat so the table would hide his shaking hands.

A-Yu also looked at him in worry, then picked up the fried bun from the plate in front of him and tore it in half, offering him one.

Still somewhat numb, he accepted and bit in without thinking, and was surprised by how good it was. Rather than the overly-sweet or fancy but tasteless snacks he'd made himself get used to since being brought to Lanling, it had the salt of the frying oil and a little spice heat to balance out the custard filling.

"Where did you get this?" he asked after swallowing the bite.

"Nie-xiong let me have the last of his."

From Nie-er-gongzi to Nie-xiong already? His brother was treading dangerous ground, and at a fast clip.

"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have saved another for you. Da-ge says I need to lay off them anyway, or I'll turn into one," Nie Huaisang said amiably as he twirled the brush in his fingers, not seeming the slightest bit bothered about having already been given a familiar address despite their difference in status.

Jin Ziyao watched the motion, slowly regaining his mental footing. A-Yu leaned into his side and that helped considerably to help him fully settle back into himself.

Okay. This was fine. He was fine. It was casual conversation, that was all. "You were saying something about helping with painting?"

"Nie-xiong was stuck on the design, so I've been giving him ideas."

"Would you like to join in?"

He eyed the other man cautiously, then looked at the painting when it seemed no snide comment was forthcoming.

It was an unfamiliar village nestled among mountains, with birds swooping over the peaks and A-Yu's sheep. It was pretty; not the work of a full-fledged master, but someone who was definitely on their way to becoming one.

But it still needed... something. Nie Huaisang probably wouldn't have asked him to contribute just to be nice, at least Jin Ziyao didn't think he would, so he clearly agreed.

It needed... "Wolves. Watching the sheep from behind the trees."

"Ooh, a hidden danger narrative. Interesting..." Nie Huaisang tilted his head as he considered placement, then he did the same as before, swiping the brush against his tongue before dipping it in the ink. More trees emerged under his hand, their shadows forming a pair of canine shapes that the sheep, had they been real, would have been unlikely to notice in time. "There we go. Anything else?"

Was that a test? He scrutinized the painting, but couldn't think of any additions that wouldn't send it from balanced to cluttered. "No."

"It's done," A-Yu said with an air of finality, and Nie Huaisang smiled at them both.

"I agree. You two have good heads for this," he said as he started cleaning the brush. He said it so casually, too, like it was just simple fact and not the extremely rare scrap of praise it was.

He fought down the rise of heat in his face by focusing on taking another bite of the custard bun. A-Yu, on the other hand, was a bright pink and didn't seem to care, practically wagging his tail as he rested his chin in his hands.

"You mean it?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"We don't hear stuff like that a lot. Usually we're getting yelled at instead."

Jin Ziyao pinched his brother's leg under the table and got a sharp glare for it, which he returned in equal measure.

Even if it was true, A-Yu couldn't just say that sort of thing out loud, especially not in front of someone from another sect!

"That's a shame. You really did help me out here, I've been hating this thing for days," Nie Huaisang said, beginning to pack away his materials. Then he perked up. "Why don't you keep it?"

He and his brother both stared at the man, immediately distracted from the argument that was brewing between them. "Us?" they asked in almost perfect unison.

"It only seems fair, since I probably would have ended up trashing it without your input."

They shouldn't.

They really shouldn't.

The custard bun was one thing, no one would ever know about that. But if someone saw the painting in their shared rooms and got nosy about it- "Thank you," he found himself saying instead of the denial he'd intended to say. "We'll be careful with it."

The sunny smile made him feel a little dizzy. "Great! Da-ge should be getting out of the meetings soon, so I've got to go meet him before they call us all to dinner. I'll bring extra sweets next time!"

Next time.

Again, he said it as if it was just an immutable fact that there would be a next time.

"Yao-ge..." his brother murmured once they were alone in the pavilion. "We have to keep him."

He eyed A-Yu. "No fraternizing with other sects, remember?"

"Too late for that," A-Yu replied with a faint smirk.

"For all you know he'll have forgotten we exist tomorrow."

"But he might mean it. He might actually like us." Even with the stars in his eyes, his brother's gaze was sharp, hungry. The look of someone who'd been given a rare gift and was loathe to give it up for anything.

He'd be lying if he denied the same feeling had started to settle in his stomach. Such positive attention, and from a pretty sect heir, no less... it was enticing. Potentially addicting. "We'll see if he keeps his promise first," he said neutrally, finishing off the last bite of custard bun.

#mdzs #mo xuanyu #jin guangyao #nie huaisang #sangyu #sangyao #fanfic #sharing is caring au

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Lost Their Voice From Screaming: Chris

For the @badthingshappenbingo prompt “Lost Their Voice From Screaming” (requested for Chris by Anon) - here you go! Timeline is during Chris time training at the WRU Facility.

CW: Dehumanization, degrading language/victim blaming, noncon touch, referenced noncon, forced drugging, ableism (may be tough for those who underwent ABA therapy), internalized ableism, institutionalized pet whump, captivity, restrainted, shock collar, whump of a minor (character is 17)

---

Handler Petrus is already in the training room when the boy is escorted there, going over some paperwork at a desk in the corner. He glances up at the trainee, gives him a perfectly normal smile, and beckons him inside with a quick, absent-minded gesture. “Come on, ‘499.”

His friendliness is a trap, and the boy knows it, but there is no way to avoid any traps here. The boy must step into them, again and again, until he learns to love the way it feels as they close around him.

Even if he had a way to escape, he’d never think of it fast enough. His thoughts drift slowly, drugged into a foggy numbness. He feels fear, but only around the edges. In the center of his mind, it’s all just… smoke.

He glances over his shoulder at the two handlers who escorted him, who give him blank, uncaring faces in return. Once he’s fully inside, they close the door, and the boy swallows at the sickening familiarity of the ssshhhh-click of the lock.

Alone, now, with his primary handler. Alone, and the only way out of the room is Handler Petrus’s keycard, the ID he wears on a bit of blue stretchy nylon clipped to his belt, right next to his black baton.

“Good morning, ‘499,” Handler Petrus speaks warmly, affectionately.

The boy takes a breath, keeping his expression carefully blank, hands hanging at his sides. He’s wearing the weights again, heavy hexagonal pendants that swing from short chains off the cuffs they put around his wrists. When he moves, they clink together, and he has to work harder. He can’t hide it, if he tries to tap on himself or the walls.

He managed to get one around to where he could hold it pressed into his palm, fingers curled, and he can settle himself just a little by letting his fingertips just brush along its textured edges. It’s something, to settle the nerves that crackle inside him no matter how much they drug him, how chalky they make his meals taste. The fog can’t quite steal all of him away, but he is not allowed to move.

He must be still.

He must-

Handler Petrus clears his throat and the boy jumps, his heart racing in a sudden panic as he realizes he’s been silent too long. It’s hard to understand, when he has to be quiet and when they want him to speak. He can’t read their faces very well, only the punishments that follow his failures. “Trainee-”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m, I’m sorry, H-Handler Petrus, I, I, I was only, I was-”

“223499.” Petrus’s voice goes cold, and so do his eyes, and the boy’s weights click together as his hands jerk in an aborted attempt to tap on himself to calm down. There is no calming. He has to learn how to calm without touch, without taps, without the things he needs but they tell him he isn’t allowed. “I will give you one more chance. Good morning.”

Silence is better than stammering.

The boy’s breath comes shaky and he hears a faint whine at the edge of his own exhale that makes his cheeks flush in embarrassment. He whines more now, whimpers, makes animal noises because it’s safer than using words. They like those sounds. They hate his words because he uses his words all wrong.

He speaks with careful, plodding slowness. “Good morning… Handler Petrus.”

“Better. Do you know why you’re here, when this was meant to be a rest day?” Handler Petrus sits back in his chair, tapping his pen on his desk idly. The boy’s eyes drift there with a twist of ravenous envy.

Why does his handler get to tap when he doesn’t? How is Handler Petrus chewing the ends off all his pens different than the boy tapping on the walls? How in his foot tapping, like it is right now, his work boot hitting the cold tile floor that freezes the boy’s bare feet, any different than the boy bouncing on his feet?

He doesn’t understand how one kind is okay and another isn’t. He doesn’t know why he has to be a statue now. He doesn’t know, and no one can explain it, and no one ever even tries.

“Yes… yes, Handler Petrus.” He wants to rock. He wants to rock, and tap, and move his hands. The heavy weights make his shoulders ache just carrying his hands around all day. But they… they help, he tells himself. They keep his hands still.

He has to be still.

Stillness is better than what I do.

“Tell me.” Petrus’s pen stops tapping, the boy’s eyes frozen on it. The end is all chewed to bits. The boys swallows as he feels a rush of saliva in his own mouth. Deep inside, he remembers he used to chew on the ties to his hoods on coats and sweatshirts-

A sharp stab of pain cuts the memory off before it gets any further, and he closes his eyes against it, the overwhelming pain and the weight of the fluorescent lights on his skin. He feels the buzz, tangible and obvious, a pressure he can’t run from.

“Tell y-you…” He’s trying to buy time, to get his mind back, but his foggy drugged-up brain struggles to lurch in this direction at all. The weights click, clack, together, and he remembers. “Because… b-because H-Handler… Handler Everly… caught me. In my room.”

Petrus starts tapping his pen again. The sound is deafening in the silent room. “Caught you doing what?”

“T-... tapping. With my… my fingers. On… the wall.” It’s so hard to speak like this, and he doesn’t know how other people can do it. He has to let words drop like stones and somehow hold them one at a time when they want to fall out all at once. Somehow, he manages. It’ll only get worse if he can’t use his words right.

“Good. The first step to fixing the problem,” Handler Petrus says easily, amiably, “is acknowledging it exists. I thought we broke you of that nonsense, ‘499.”

“I’m… sorry, sir.”

Petrus finally stands, dropping the pen on top of a stack of papers. The boy’s eyes drift over there, and there’s a word he almost remembers written across the top in thick black block letters, it starts with D, he remembers the letter D-

More pain. He winces, this time, whines at the stab of it right behind his eyes. He has to close them tightly against the tears that instinctively well. By the time he opens them again, Handler Petrus had closed the gap between them. When the handler’s rough thumb rubs across his lower lip, the boy goes perfectly still.

Statue boy - don’t blink don’t move don’t tap don’t breathe.

He waits.

Handler Petrus drops his hand, with a slight smile on his face. “You really do try to be good for me, don’t you, trainee?”

“Yes… yes, sir.” He feels sick with the handler so close to him, knowing what usually comes with the proximity. His clothes, the thin white t-shirt that’s too big and hangs on him like it belongs to someone else, the shirt black shorts… they feel suddenly too constricting. He wants them off, but not because he wants this. He just wants something more. He wants to be coated in clothing, covered in layers of it, until no one can touch him anymore.

“But you failed today. You waited until you were alone and you broke rules. Do you know what happens when you break the rules, trainee?”

He had a name once.

Didn’t he?

Did he ever have a name?

The boy’s breath hiccups with a sob he wants so badly to let out, and he nods shakily, lowering his eyes down to the floor, to those heavy black boots all the handlers wear. Steel-toed, snapping ribs with a kick at just the right angle. He’s seen it happen to a trainee who threw a punch. He’s seen worse, too.

Everyone sees worse and worse and worse and when they think it’s as bad as it gets, the handlers find something new, something that cuts deeper than they knew a cut could go and still be survived.

“That’s right. Discipline.” Petrus’s smile is thick in his voice. “Discipline in a humane and necessary method of ensuring continued good behavior in a pet, right, trainee?”

The boy only nods again, his heart rabbit-fast inside his chest. He doesn’t look up when Petrus’s hand brushes against his face again, his knuckles just touching the boy’s cheekbone, trailing down to his jaw.

He feels the collar around his neck shift, the slightest warning before the shock follows a half-second later on its heels, and his head jerks up, tears bubbling too quickly for him to blink them back. “H-Handler-!”

The pain rips through him, races along nerve endings from toes to top of his head, catches air in his lungs and refuses to allow them to exhale it.

“Eyes on mine,” Handler Petrus reminds him softly, taking his thumb off the button to the remote that controls the shock collar of any trainee within his radius. The pain fades, the boy’s muscles trembling as he forces them to lock, meeting the handler’s eyes with difficulty. He hates looking them in the eyes. The handlers all look cold to him, he hates it, he hates it.

“Y-Yes, sir, yes, so… so sorry, I’m, I’m, I’m-I’m-”

“Sssshhhh. Silence-”

“-is better than, than stammering, sir,” The boy finishes quickly, shaking, and he is rewarded with a smile from Handler Petrus, and finally… finally… he can breathe out.

“Discipline is essential,” Petrus reminds him, voice low. “Get on the table.”

Every training room has one. A padded table - like an exam table in a doctor’s office, the boy thinks, before the pain wipes that memory away, too - with restraints that line the sides, the top and bottom. He knows this table too well, has spent whole days strapped down here. The boy shudders in disgust and his body’s memory of worse things, darker things, pulled from him against his will.

But, no, it’s not.

He signed up for this. They tell him all the time. He wants this, to be strapped down, to be visited when he is trying to sleep, to have handlers tell him things and touch him and worse. They promise him he asked for it, specifically to be this. They tell him he was made for this, or he wouldn’t have signed the contract.

It’s not against his will.

Somehow, all this horror and agony and disgust and the way he never, ever feels clean… somehow, this is what he wants.

They tell him, anyway. They tell him he wants this.

“S-sir? What am, am I… learning today?” He is already moving, following the command obediently. The padding for the table is slightly warm when he climbs up onto it, looking over to Petrus for guidance on how he is meant to position himself.

“Not to think you have an ounce of fucking privacy, and not to tap on the fucking walls ever again. Now, we’ve been kind.” Handler Petrus moves to him, gently pressing a palm into the center of his chest, until the boy shifts onto his back, swallowing against the nausea that threatens to bring up the chocolate shake he was given for breakfast.

How can he have wanted to be this, when it always makes him feel so sick, and scared? How can this be what he signed up for, when he is always holding back a scream behind gritted teeth while it happens?

Handler Petrus hums as he takes the weighted cuffs off the boy’s wrists, letting them drop to the floor with a careless clatter. He takes a thin wrist in his hand, rubbing his thumb along the veins on the inside of the boy’s wrist, and looks up at him.

The boy stares right back, right into his eyes. They look like empty cold marbles in the handler’s face, skin like putty twisted into a smirk.

He hates looking them in the eyes.

Each wrist is shifted fully above his head, buckled into the straps there to hold them fast. Shoulders that have carried pounds of weight at his wrists for days now ache as they are forced into a whole new position, and the boy’s top teeth come down on his lower lip until he feels pain that overwhelms the pain in his arms, if only for a second.

Then the handler moves to his ankles, securing them to the sides of the table. This isn’t… this isn’t a position the boy knows. It’s not a number, but it’s also not a position good for… for…

“S-sir?” His voice trembles.

“Sssshhhh. Just be still.” Handler Petrus pats his stomach, and the boy realizes he’s still clothed. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved - his training usually involves no clothing at all - or even more terrified of the horrible unknown of what could be done that keeps his clothing on. “You broke the rules. Now you receive your discipline.”

He steps away, and the boy’s head twists, trying desperately to follow his movements across the room, but he can’t quite see him. He hears the sound of a drawer being pulled open, then pushed shut again. A click - something opening, maybe? The boy flinches with every noise, because he doesn’t know what they are, and not knowing is worse than whatever it could possibly be.

Or so he thinks.

Until Handler Petrus comes back into his vision with a small square alcohol wipe and a syringe filled with a pale yellow liquid.

The trainee has never received this one before, but he knows what it is. They all know, soon enough. There’s a whimpering sound he only belatedly realizes is his own voice, and yanks hard against the restraints.

Of course they don’t give. He’s exhausted from never sleeping, weak from wearing weights on his wrists, weak from the lack of real food, weak from the drugs. They cheat, he thinks with a sudden wild defiance, as Handler Petrus grips his left arm at the elbow and wipes quickly along the crease. They cheat to break the trainees down, because maybe they couldn’t win without it.

Win what? He signed up to be this, whatever they want him to be. He’s a natural slut, a whore, they told him so, they told him over and over and over again, natural-born slut, made for it, you like this, you want this, you want it you want it you want it-

He cries out as the needle breaks the skin, slides in, finds his vein. It’s an awful feeling, like the drip at the beginning that he can barely recall beyond the eternal press of the needle, the sight of the IV bag slowly emptying and being refilled where the boy hung helpless against the wall.

The handler’s thumb presses lightly into the boy’s arm as he depresses the plunger on the syringe. “After this, I think you won’t break the rules again, even alone.” Handler Petrus smiles at him, but his eyes are still so, so cold.

Just like the liquid that moves into his bloodstream. He gasps at the ice of it, and he can’t begin to thrash, only be held still, forced to take it, just like he is forced to take everything here. Because he wants to be forced.

They tell him he wants to be forced.

He can’t remember, but… but he must have, because how else did he get here?

All pets are of legal and consenting age and sign contracts of their own free will fully informed as to the consequences of their decisions-

The cold dissipates, mixes in with his blood, his heart pumping the new drug through his body all too quickly thanks to his rapid, panicked heartbeat.

“Please, please, I’m, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry-sorry, I’m… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean, didn’t, I just, my body, my body has to, to to to-to-to move, Handler, s-sorry-”

“Your body does what we tell it to do,” Handler Petrus says, pulling the syringe back empty, giving the boy one more smile. “And nothing more. You will understand that now.”

He walks away, leaving the boy to breathe, in the awful anticipation of what he has never experienced before but knows is coming.

He listens to Petrus drop the used syringe in the biohazard disposal box along the wall. He has the symbol memorized, the bright orange lid with black writing he can’t read. He could turn and look and see that if he wanted. But the boy only stares at the ceiling, gasping in breaths.

It starts as heat.

His veins start to burn, like fire pulses through him and not blood. It’s not the warming heat of the purple drug, the one that leaves him panting and desperate, the one that makes them all laugh at him even as they offer to give you what you need. This heat is sharper, stronger. It moves straight from a sense of warming to pain, and the boy catches his breath.

The pain begins in his arm, where the needle went in, but it spreads with each beat of his traitor heart until every inch of him is burning.

At first he whines, and whimpers. He pleads. Apologies tumble from his mouth, catch on his tongue, as Handler Petrus walks back over to his desk and turns his chair around so he can watch. The boy manages to turn to look at him just long enough to realize he is drinking out of a travel mug with a cat on one side. The sharp pain that comes with trying to read is less than the agony in his bones and so he clearly sees the words NO TALK ME ANGY WITHOUT COFFEE written on the side, and lets out a gasping, breathless sound that might be hysterical laughter as he realizes that he’s reading it.

The laughter breaks into sobs as the pain doesn’t stop building. His back arches off the table, wrists and ankles yanking at the straps that restrain them, twisting until they are rubbed raw, until they bleed, until he cannot imagine hurting any worse than he hurts now and still the pain keeps building.

He can’t hurt worse than this and then somehow he does.

At some point, the sobbing tears turn into screams.

Handler Petrus keeps watching, sipping his coffee from his mug, as the boy screams in helpless perfect agony.

The sound of his pain bounces off the ceiling and the walls, contained within the heavily soundproofed room. Only Handler Petrus - and whoever might be checking the security cameras right now - gets to enjoy this show.

The boy is aware of nothing, now - his vision has narrowed to a horrible pinpoint. Everything is white around the edges, the pure cold clear white of the tiny room he sleeps in. The only thing he feels is pain.

Pain, and pain, and pain - because he couldn’t be still, couldn’t be a statue, couldn’t be good when no one was watching just as much as he is when their hands are on him. He wishes their hands were on him now, anything would be better than this, anything-

He is begging, he thinks, but the begging isn’t words, just shrieking screams.

At some point the screaming stops.

Oh, his throat is still tensed with it, mouth open in a perfect rictus O, his eyes wide and bulging and running endless tears that collect and pool in the shells of his ears before they drip to the waterproof padding on the table beneath him. His breath still exhales with a force that keeps all the muscles of his body tense and shaking.

But the screaming stops, because at some point he has no voice left to scream with.

When that happens, the Handler has finished his coffee and started back on his paperwork. He glances up, briefly, and gives the boy a pleased smile. Then he looks back at his desk.

How long it lasts, the boy will never know.

The pain fades in increments, so carefully and slowly he doesn’t realize it a first. Eventually, though… eventually he understands that it’s less than it was, and then less again. He goes limp against the table, staring up at the fluorescent lights of the ceiling again. He can feel the trickle of blood along his wrists, his ankles. He can feel the sharp glass-shard pain of his throat when he swallows, hear the whistling exhale of his breath.

Eventually, he can even feel the clothes laid over his skin again.

Handler Petrus’s hand in his hair is gentle and soothing, and the boy pushes into it desperately, trying to please him so it won’t happen again. So he won’t be hurt again.

Handler Petrus chuckles, his voice low and deep, and traces his fingers over the boy’s face, down his neck, rubs a circle just behind one ear. The boy whimpers, but no sound comes out.

“Will you break the rules in your room again?” Handler Petrus asks.

The boy tries to say no, sir, but no sound escapes from him except a hoarse whistle. His eyes widen in panic as he tries, again and again, and he can’t make a sound.

“Perfect,” Handler Petrus murmurs, and undoes the straps at his wrists, moves down to free his ankles. He takes the boy’s hands and helps him up to sitting, smiling at his pale face, the pinch of pain when he swallows. “Silence is better than stammering, 223499. And you can’t stammer if you can’t speak, can you?”

The boy’s eyes are wide and, in the nearly colorless room, terribly green. He nods, slowly. His mouth automatically forms the words, yes, handler, although he can’t say them.

“Good. And you won’t break the rules now, will you?”

A shake of the boy’s strawberry-blond hair, soaked with sweat now, sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck. No, sir.

“Good. Let’s get you back to your room. No more training today.”

The boy can barely stand as he is helped off the table, leaning heavily against his handler. Petrus’s hand around his back supports him, keeps him moving, and the boy is grateful for the gentleness.

The handler could have chosen to have him train, today. Instead he is taken back through the maze of hallways to the room he stays in, shaky and weak, and deposited on the cold floor. Shivering, the boy drops to his knees.

When the handler’s fingertips press against the underside of his chin, he raises red-rimmed eyes. He hates looking them in the eyes so, so much.

But he’ll do anything not to feel the pain again.

“We see everything you do,” Handler Petrus says, almost gently. “Everything. Do you understand me, trainee?”

The boy swallows, licks at dry lips, and nods.

“If I catch you tapping again, I’ll give you the full dose next time.”

That wasn’t the full dose? It can get worse than that?

The boy whimpers, hoarse and barely-there, and then winces at the pain that comes from making any sound at all. He shakes his head, I’ll be good, I’ll be good for you, I’ll be so good, mouthing the words he can no longer speak.

“Damn straight,” The handler replies. He presses his thumb against the boy’s lower lip, and he opens his mouth obediently to let the handler push it inside, press down against his tongue. His thumb tastes like salt and skin and the boy knows that taste as well as he knows the taste of the chocolate shakes.

He is silent.

Still.

“That’s it. That’s a good boy.” Handler Petrus pulls his hand back, ruffles the boy’s hair. “That’s my statue boy. Don’t break rules again.”

He leaves, the door sliding shut behind him, and the boy is alone in the white room.

The need builds and builds inside of him, but he doesn’t try to tap on the floor, on the wall, on himself. He curls into a ball on the floor, arms over his head to try and create enough darkness to sleep, and pushes down the need he has to tap, to rock, to do something with his body into a twisted little ball of fear and pain deep inside himself.

He is good. Just like they want him to be.

Just like he wanted.

They tell him he wanted this, to be fixed of his wrong words and his wrong hands. They tell him over and over again, and so it must be true.

In the white room, the boy weeps.

His tears are silent, and his body is still.

Just like they wanted.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump, @oops-its-whump

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earnestly-endlessly · 4 years

Note

First, thank you SO MUCH for all the fic recs you’ve been blessing us with! I really appreciate all the time and effort you’ve put into making these. Second, could you recommend some historical AUs? Thank you and I hope you have a lovely day :D

Thank you so much for the kind words anon. It’s so good to hear that you guys like these recs. I really enjoy creating these lists and finding fics that are both well-loved but also those who are underrated in the fandom.

I have a LOT of historical AU fics so I hope there are some you haven’t read before. The fics are, more or less, in chronological order, so it starts with Ancient Rome, moves on to the Middle Ages, then to Regency era, etc. etc. This should make it a tad easier to find fics from different eras. Enjoy!

Cherik Historical AU Fic Recs

History Repeating – winterhill

Summary: From a kinkmeme prompt, this is a series of vignettes about Charles and Erik throughout the ages. Each chapter is written as a self-contained era.

Wanton in the Air – Rosie_Rues

Summary: In which Charles rescues a gladiator from the arena and soon becomes somewhat disconcerted by this handsome new slave and his sharksome grin.

Pantheon – Yahtzee

Summary: In the year 96 AD, all Rome is aware that their gods have begun to Mark certain people with their gifts – the healing power of Apollo, the metal control of Vulcan, the deathly touch of Pluto, or the mental powers of Minerva. When those gifts fall to slaves or barbarians instead of the Romans themselves, strict control is necessary.

Then a gladiator from Judea meets an enslaved scribe from Britannia, and the repercussions will shake the Empire itself.

Taken By His Majesty – Pookaseraph

Summary: Erik’s mission was simple, sneak into the Celtic pretender king’s tent, assassinate him, and return to Rome with his father’s honor restored. Unfortunately, he didn’t count on Charles. When the prince chooses to take him as his personal slave, Erik feared the worst, and his concerns weren’t entirely unwarranted. The worst, however, turns out to be falling in love with the greatest enemy of Rome’s primacy in Briton. A historical romance set during the early days of Rome’s occupation of Briton.

Terrible with the brightness of gold – brawlingdiscontent

Summary: The war is lost.

With the futures of his people and his children at stake, former Crown consort Charles of Normandy awaits the arrival of England’s new master, the fearsome Viking warrior, Erik Lehnsherr. (Inspired by 11th century historical events)

“For who could look upon the lions of the foe, terrible with the brightness of gold, who upon the men of metal, menacing with golden face, … who upon the bulls on the ships threatening death, their horns shining with gold, without feeling any fear for the king of such a force?” - Encomium Emmae Reginae

Burn Your Kingdom Down – spicedpiano

Summary: Erik’s people were brutally massacred when the Crusaders took Jerusalem. The sole survivor, Erik fled to northern Europe, only then to be captured as a thrall by Viking raiders. Since that day he has fought his way up to leading a group of Vikings on an invasion of the Christian mainland, killing every Crusader he can find. But when he captures a thrall of his own, a young witch who gives his name only as Charles, he discovers that there is a darker magic than his at work - and the fate of the known world may rest in his hands.

More Than All The World (The Werewolf’s Tale) – Luninosity

Summary: An Erik/Charles story very loosely based on Marie de France’s 12th-century French werewolf tale, in which Erik is the man transformed into a wolf (he’ll get changed back by the end, it’s not that kind of story, though they very definitely do fall in love) and Charles is a king and eventually there’s a happy ending. Also, a villain’s nose gets bitten off.

The Conspirator’s Gift – kaydeefalls

Summary: Medieval mystery AU. In the aftermath of a bloody siege during the 12th-century English Anarchy, the monk Henry and tradesman Erik discover evidence of murder: one corpse too many hidden among the fallen rebels. To see justice done, Erik must tread carefully through the conflicting and treacherous loyalties of civil war, as well as the potentially dangerous schemes of the enigmatic young Lord Xavier.

As Dark Longs For Day – Yahtzee

Summary: A daring young thief escapes from the wicked bishop’s dungeons, thinking herself free – until she encounters a rider with a black horse, a tame hawk and a dark secret. And who is this mysterious young man who only appears at night, accompanied by a protective wolf?

No Longer in Silence – Black_Betty

Summary: It has been eight years since Charles has seen Erik. Eight years since they parted under unkind circumstances and Erik went off to sea. The boy he once knew is Captain Lehnsherr now and they are as known to one another as strangers, and yet–Charles finds that eight years has done nothing to diminish the feelings he had when he was 16 and in love. It’s unfortunate then that Erik doesn’t feel the same way. (Persuasion AU)

Dance With Me – wallhaditcoming (uvcatastrophe)

Summary: After his most recent tour, Erik Lehnsherr has finally earned the rank of Captain and a commission on a vessel all his own. With the prize money he has collected and this new rank, he finally feels secure enough in his future to propose to the man he has loved for years. He just prays that Charles is willing to have him.

Connexions – keire_ke

Summary: When Mr Lehnsherr of Thornfield first began seeking a tutor suited to educate his young daughter, he could hardly have expected the young gentleman who turned up at his door, nor the connection they would forge.

The Master of Charlton Park – Gerec

Summary: On the brink of losing his ancestral home, omega Charles Xavier agreed to do the unthinkable; he would sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of his family, and bear a child for a married alpha and his mate.

But Charles never expected that alpha to be Erik Lehnsherr, with whom he shared an impossible love and undeniable passion.

Move Still – Black_Betty

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr hates dancing, but has a very specific reason for throwing a ball…

To Turn and Look When Thou Hearest the Sound of My Name – lachatblanche

Summary: North and South AU.

Erik, the master of the Genosha steel mill in the north, has lived a hard life, building his industry from scratch with the aid of his adopted sibling, Emma. When Charles Xavier, a young, southern gentleman, takes up residence near the mill, Erik finds himself drawn to him, despite Charles making it very clear that he cares neither for the north nor for Erik.

Based on Elizabeth Gaskell’s novel (takes place about midway through the story).

Frost fairs and fair frosts – diner_drama

Summary: The social circles of the upper end of London were in uproar - not only had the Thames frozen over, but the atypical weather had also prompted the mysterious and uncanny Dr. Xavier and his peculiar young charges to make the journey all the way from his mansion in Chester.

Erik Lehnsherr was not entirely certain that he could countenance meeting another of Mrs. Frost’s high society friends without suffering a violent fit of apoplexy, but perhaps the charming country doctor could break through his iron defences.

What We All Long For – Nos4a2no9

Summary: Charles Xavier was heir to a vast fortune before his stepfather stole his birthright, his dignity, and his freedom. Forced to serve as Kurt Marko’s informant and as a sexual plaything for the wealthy men of Europe’s upper crust, Charles yearns for nothing more than a quiet life free from shame and abuse.

The death of his stepfather seems to offer a way out, but Charles is once again forced to serve the Markos when his stepbrother offers him up as collateral in a game of chance. Suddenly Charles becomes the property of Erik Lehnsherr, a mysterious gambler with a thirst for revenge.

When love between the two men begins to blossom, Charles finally discovers what is at the heart of Erik’s tragic story, and why he is set upon a devastating course of revenge that will endanger Erik, Charles, and everything they have longed for.

Roses & Cinnamon – TurtleTotem

Summary: Charles Xavier lost more than his leg in the war with Napoleon, and the man he’s just pulled out of the water has ghosts of his own – especially when Charles’s involuntary projected hallucinations prove catching. Raven, meanwhile, faces the choice of whether to marry respectably or run away with a carnival fortune-teller.

Ironwood Hall – wheel_pen

Summary: Erik and Emma are Alpha siblings living in an ancient house in the Victorian era… a house that has strong opinions about who its family should marry, that has dispatched unsuitable spouses in the past. The latest candidate? A creative young Omega named Charles Xavier.

Somewhere between Rage and Serenity – Hyperballad

Summary: Charles Xavier is Erik Lehnsherr’s servant in this fic, set in the late Victorian period. Although Charles was quietly enamored with his employer, he had no intimation that the other was equally infatuated with him. Only with the coming of a dark force in their lives would these feelings be brought to light and it will test the strength of their will. Would the raging lust win over a tranquil heart?

In a Compromising Position – Fireflydown (Hyperballad)

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is Charles Xavier’s newly hired manservant in his Victorian Household. He may be cheeky at times and amiable towards his master but he holds a dangerous secret that would trigger the following events and it will change both their lives forever.

Better Outrun My Gun – Magnetism_bind

Summary: Erik is searching for the man who murdered his parents. Charles runs a saloon with his sisters.

Taming the Wild – Penguina

Summary: A Cherik Wild West AU: Mutants in the Wild West.

Charles Xavier finds himself crossing the entire ocean to America to find his sister Raven. However the task turns out to be more difficult than he expected because Raven is nowhere to be found.

In the meantime Charles settles in a small town where he starts a new life as a school teacher. There he meets Erik Lehnsherr - the town’s blacksmith. Although at first he believes Erik is the rudest person he’s ever met, the two start a friendship and Charles becomes a teacher to Erik’s kids.

However both Charles and Erik have their own little secrets that no one should ever uncover.

Would Charles find his beloved sister and is she still alright? Would Erik’s tragic past haunt him forever and prevent him from finding his happiness? Would Charles have the guts to admit that his feelings for his new friend are a bit past the line of friendship? This and more in Taming the Wild!

The Gunpowder Files – Tawabids

Summary: In a 19th century Britain, the wealthy Xavier-Marko couple pay Erik, a hired killer, to put their disabled son Charles “out of his misery”. Instead, Erik saves Charles from dealing with those kind of parents ever again. Charles follows Erik back to London and eventually convinces the assassin to take him under his wing and teach him the trade. When their lives cross paths with a destructive opium cartel led by the shadowy Sebastian Shaw, they decide to take down the businessman down no matter the cost.

Steel Roses – Mikanskey, ximeria

Summary: The year is 1864. While unrest brews in Europe, Charles Xavier is finally able to start his research after spending years trying to find funding. Riding the tailcoats of Charles Darwin, he sets out into the British countryside to find out how much truth there is in folklore, how much of it that can be explained by his own kind, gifted humans with special abilities.

Little does he expect to find new friends, new challenges, a budding attraction both emotionally and physically. Not to mention an enemy with far more nefarious and sinister plans than he could have ever imagined.

Erik Lehnsherr is set with a good business, a manor and grounds, staff and acquaintances he can lean on if needed. However, having tracked down and killed the man who killed his parents, he feels adrift, wondering if this is where he’s supposed to end his life; a respectable man with a respectable business.

Dragging a drowning Englishman out of the river starts him down an entirely unforeseen, but not necessarily, unwelcome path.

They were Paris… – Mikanskey

Summary: Paris, at the end of the 19th century.

This is where Erik decided for a while to lay down his meager luggage.

This is where he hoped to find calm and inspiration for his art.

But instead this is where he found love…

With pulses that beat double – aesc

Summary: It has been thirteen years since Charles watched his beloved childhood companion walk out of his life. Now, in fin-de-siècle Paris, a chance overheard remark may lead them to each other’s sides once more.

The Body in the Bedroom – telperion_15

Summary: Autumn, 1909 – Viscount Charles Xavier has invited friends and acquaintances to spend the weekend, hoping for good company and interesting conversation. But he doesn’t bank on murder being committed under his roof, nor his growing interest in the enigmatic Erik Lehnsherr…

In which there is a country house party (what else?), murder most foul (of course), and almost everyone’s a suspect (naturally).

Your soul is a chosen country – aesc

Summary: He sends letters, of course, because out in the sticks there’s not much to do except tend to Westchester’s endless affairs. And, of course, avoid tending to those affairs by going on walks, riding, and writing letters that make him hard and thrill secretly when he hands the properly-sealed, addressed envelope to the butler.

I was in London the other day, and in a bookseller’s along The Strand I found the most interesting and instructive volume. Or rather, it would have proved instructive if we had not already worked our way through much of the repertoire.

Blue Skies – baehj2915, marourin

Summary: At the tail end of the 1920s, the Twentieth Century is finally changing for the better. When Charles and Erik meet, it seems like an appropriate expression of the zeitgeist–a confluence of passion, romance, and change. But the good times never last. Erik and Charles have to discover if they can weather the gray days together, or at all.

A September as Sunny as Spring – Black_Betty, ikeracity, keire_ke

Summary: Charles Xavier was part of a famous vaudeville act before an accident cost him his career and his ability to walk. He’s pulled together a new life as a musician in Hollywood, but is finding it difficult to navigate his feelings for his old friend and partner, Erik Lehnsherr, the most sought after matinee idol of their generation.

Famous film duo Frost and Lehnsherr are two of the most well-known and admired mutants in the public eye, having built their fame and fortune on silent film blockbusters.When the rise of the new “talking pictures” phenomenon threatens all their careers, they must band together to try to prove that their days of stardom are far from over.

Lay with Me Amongst the Grapevines – kageillusionz

Summary: Young Master Charles’ friend from Oxford comes to stay with him at Westchester House during their break. Their relationship changes over the course of Mr. Lehnsherr’s stay, warmed by the summer sunshine and their mutual affection.

The Eldest of the Gods – lapetitesinge

Summary: It’s 1928, and sixteen-year-old Charles Xavier is intrigued by the new boy joining him at Eton College. He’s thrilled to realize that they may be alike in more ways than one, but there’s more standing between them than he can possibly guess.

Robbers – dsrobertson

Summary: 1933. Bank robber AU.

The Bureau of Investigation are after Public Enemy Number Two, bank robber Erik Lehnsherr. Charles Xavier is fiancé to Special Agent Moira MacTaggart. A closet homosexual, Charles visits the Manhattan pansy club scene and meets Max Eisenhardt. Only as time goes on, Max Eisenhardt turns out to be Erik Lehnsherr. Public Enemy Number Two.

Charles learns exactly what happens when you accidentally fall in love with a male bank robber in 1930s America.

Sign of the Times – dsrobertson

Summary: Casablanca-ish AU.

Charles Xavier meets Erik Lehnsherr in Paris, 1937. They spend the next two years with one another, stupid in-love, until war comes heavy in September 1939. Erik leaves for Poland and the Resistance movement there, promising to return. Charles is left in Paris, where Nazi jackboots march in, Summer of 1940. He becomes a member of the underground French Resistance, publishing illegal newsletters, leaflets, until news comes through in February 1942: Erik is dead. Charles throws himself into more dangerous work, meeting with Communists, helping derail a German train, and he does too much, goes too far. His friends find him safe passage out of France, out across the Mediterranean, to Morocco, Casablanca. It is here he finds Erik, alive.

Alone No more – MacandLacy

Summary: Erik and Charles each thought that they were alone. When they meet as children and discover otherwise, it changes their lives. Set before and during World War II.

The footsteps of uprooted lovers – ninemoons42

Summary: Against a turbulent backdrop of artistic, social, and political upheaval, the playwright Charles Xavier and the photographer Erik Lehnsherr find themselves meeting under less-than-polite circumstances, but part rather more amicably than they’d met.

When they find each other again in a Barcelona that is falling inexorably toward war, they find themselves taking up arms, each in his own way, and together they join a struggle for freedom, for love, and for their very lives.

Theme and Variations: War – ninemoons42

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a musical prodigy and a man destined for great things and great stages. But his life is shattered by a terrible accident that leaves him blind and trying to find his way back to his life, his music, and his place in the world.

Then he meets Charles Xavier, an agent of Section 8 of the Military Intelligence Directorate of Providence, and he finds himself listening in to clandestine radio transmissions and clicking Morse code, and these sounds are part and parcel of a war that can only take place in the shadows and the hidden places of history.

Hier steh ich an Marken meiner Tage – MonstrousRegiment

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a spy in the SS, and his British liaison is strategist Charles Xavier. Their relationship from the moment they meet to a year after the end of the war.

“You’re the only person in the world who knows what I am.”

A fish hook; an open eye – fabeld

Summary: Charles Xavier’s wealth protects him from mandatory service in the British Armed Forces, but he refuses to sit idly by when his telepathy can be used to assist the Allied Powers. As a British spy, Charles gains the Nazi Party’s trust and is sent to Paris to complete one last mission. His plan is disrupted when he runs into someone he never thought he would see again.

WWII AU with nods to Atonement.

A Light That Never Goes Out – R_Cookie

Summary: It was meant to be the war to end all wars; these two men were never supposed to meet. One a German Jew, the other a British surgeon. The odds that their paths should cross were next to none - but War defies the expected. It always has, and always will.

From the beaches of Dunkirk to the treacherous slopes of Monte Cassino - this is their story.

WWII AU.

Xmas in Connecticut – Yahtzee

Summary: In December 1944, the entire nation loves Rebecca Lawrence - “America’s Most Beloved Homemaker.” Her columns about leading the ideal life in the country help lift people’s spirits on the home front during World War II. But when her publisher asks her to host a war hero for Christmas dinner, the world is in danger of learning the truth … which is that “Rebecca Lawrence” is imaginary. Really, she’s a combination of Raven’s snappy writing and Charles’ knowhow in the kitchen.

However, this war hero, Erik Lehnsherr, is headed to Connecticut, so Raven and Charles have no choice but to find a way to make the imaginary real - at least,

Infamy – Yahtzee

Summary: In the aftermath of the Second World War, Erik Lehnsherr – survivor of Dachau, former resistance fighter in Occupied Europe – joins forces with US intelligence to hunt down escaped Nazis. A sensitive mission in Rio de Janeiro calls for Erik to recruit a new operative … one nobody is sure whether to trust. Charles Xavier is the stepson of convicted Nazi spy Kurt Marko, a rapidly worsening drunkard and a homosexual who hardly even bothers to hide his predilections. Hardly ideal.

But Charles is the only person with any chance of getting close to Sebastian Shaw. The one man who might allow them to complete the mission.

And although Erik’s business is keeping secrets, Charles brings something out in him that he’s worked desperately to hide –

What Dreams May Come – AnnaMcb24

Summary: Erik is a holocaust survivor who has recently lost his wife–the only person in his life who kept him sane. He continues to suffer in his dreams–facing the same agonies that plagued him in his early life–until one day he dreams of a young boy who endeavours to free Erik from his subconscious prison. However, the boy holds a great many secrets and, while he works to save Erik, Erik works to reveal his saviour’s identity.

Meanwhile, young Raven Xavier has lost her mother and is slowly uncovering the secrets of her family home–secrets that will lead her directly to one Erik Lehnsherr.

By Faint Indirections - kianspo

Summary: Erik is in his ~50s, and lonely and bitter. He survived the Holocaust and was only ~14 when the war ended; and even ~40 years later, living in a country that helped to end WW2 and the Third Reich, homosexuality is still a taboo topic. Then one day, he stumbles over Charles, who is young(early 20s) and bright and smart and cheeky and full of energy and beautiful. And moving in the same street where Erik lives.

#cherik #fic recs #cherik fic recs #asks #long post #historical au

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the-darklings · 4 years

Note

“If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.” with Hector x reader or Hector x V from COA? ( don't really mind which one ) Because he honestly looks so tough but I just wanna give him a hug! Love your writting!!

⤫ prompt: “If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.”

⤫ pairing: hector + v (coa)

⤫ wc: 2.3k+ (I clowned, your honour)

⤫ notes: So I changed it up a touch, sorry anon. Camorra!V ft everyone’s least favourite event ever…..Tokyo.

You don’t remember most of it.

Not after the taste of blood has washed away all else, leaving nothing behind.

They had come for you. Your idiot friends—family, by Camorra’s standards. By your standards. The Four had found you quickly. But not quickly enough.

“You still breathing?”

His rough voice makes you recoil and he halts sharply a few steps away.

Hector was the one who found you stumbling through the tunnels. Covered in cooling blood and delirious, every inch of you bruised and battered, every fresh cut bleeding. All you can remember from your reunion was the sinking horror that it was him. Him seeing you weak—the one man who would never let you live down such a failure.

You wish it had been Julian or Dario or—heck, even Step would have been better than Hector finding you.

Much like now, he had halted in the shadowed passageway at the sight of you, and his harsh face still covered in the blood of those he had killed cracked for just a second. So tiny, so insignificant, you might have missed it if you hadn’t been frozen in shock and staring at him.

It was a blur after that. You think he carried you, or maybe dragged you. There are brief recollections of others, even Cassian. Then Ares. The horrified silence at the state of you. The unspoken rage.

“Take her,” Cassian’s voice. Distant and rough with anger. “Make sure Santino and Gianna don’t see her like this. Take her to—”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

The grip on you had tightened and a strangled sound of pain escaped you.

“You’re hurting—hey, you’re hurting her, asshole!”

Step’s voice followed and there were hands on you—

You had tried to pull away from them and back into the hardness that you thought might have kept you safe. It promised you it would. Or did it? You hadn’t been able to recall but there were hands and they were trying to pull you away and into another embrace, leaving your feet shaking beneath you. A hard tug like when Kishi was about to force you under the water—

A wounded scream had torn itself free from you and you had lashed out on instinct. Tearing, and screaming, screaming—

It took a joined effort of multiple pairs of arms to pull you back and away from Step.

Hector had dragged you away from the scene by force, his powerful arms now inescapable shackles, your back pressed against his broad chest. You lost consciousness somewhere between seeing the bloody scratches around Steps’ throat, shortly accompanied by his devastated, wide-eyed stare and Cassian calling it in that they found you.

When you woke up next your wounds had already been cleaned and bandaged.

That doesn’t mean you hadn’t screamed and trashed when you didn’t recognise where you were.

Hector had been there, too. Ready to subdue you. Not your first fit. Or even second, apparently.

No one could approach you without unleashing a torrent of terror and violence.

“Hey, did you hear my question?” his voice snaps, and you can tell he’s trying to be more…amiable. Perhaps he’s worried you will dissolve into hysterics again and he’ll have to deal with it. “V? Snap the fuck out of it.”

You blink slowly, lifting your head towards him. The slight movement exhausts you.

He’s fresh out of the shower. He had “clean up” he had to do and returned only 20min ago covered in soot and blood. Even more than you’re used to seeing on him. You had taken one look at him walking through the door and flinched. He had looked furious at your reaction. The weakness, no doubt. You know what Hector does for “clean up” though. You’ve seen him break every finger in someone’s hand for daring to touch him inappropriately once.

Even if he lacks resources, his viciousness—his sheer brutality—has no bounds.

He’s in a simple white t-shirt, baring the colourful lines of tattoos snaking up his arms and showcasing the mighty wings around his throat. For once, he doesn’t look like a killer. He just looks harsh, restless, like a corned animal but almost normal. His jaw keeps clenching every few seconds and the deadly cut of his jawline only accents his poorly leashed temper.

“Did you kill them?” you whisper, your voice a croak; distant and strange.

He takes another step closer, measured, his bare feet appearing in your line of sight. You’ve seen him in far less before but Hector is always an impenetrable wall regardless of his condition. Nothing gets to him. Except now, apparently. This fury is different somehow.

“You look at me when you ask me that,” he says, his words terse. Your eyes flicker up and meet his piercing pale blue and his lips curl; there’s not even a scrap of warmth to be found in the motion. “You want to know if I returned the favour, sweetheart? Wanna know how I bled them dry slowly? Like pigs? How many bones I broke and how much blood I shed? You really think it will make you feel better?”

You stand to your feet, swaying, but he doesn’t move. He simply watches you, unimpressed. His full mouth is pressed into a resolute, merciless line as he waits for your response.

You nod your head. Once.

He regards you silently, knowingly. “That’s not really what you want to ask me, is it, V? What do you need.”

The last part comes out not as a question but as an order, and you try to force the thick lump in your throat down. What you need…

“You can—” your voice cracks and you swallow again, focusing on his chest instead, unable to handle his overbearing stare. “You can think I’m…weak. Call me a-anything you…want. But—”

He steps closer this time. For once he doesn’t smell like tobacco mixed with his favourite rich cologne you could recognise anywhere. That musky, heady scent has been replaced by soap instead. “But?”

Your eyes meet briefly. His expression says that he already knows. But he will still make you say it. Normally, you might have felt resentful about him being such an asshole even now but…

“If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.”

It’s such a pathetic string of words. They tumble from the tip of your tongue and you feel tiny for saying them. For wanting comfort from him of all the people. But you’re…scared. Just so scared and it hurts—

Hector doesn’t reply. He simply gazes at you, his large hands unmoving by his sides.

Finally, he drawls out a low, “You sure it’s not Santi you want for comfort cuddling, sweetheart? Maybe that chicken shit Step, huh?”

You should have known better.

What were you thinking? That Hector will have some shred of empathy in that crevice where most people have hearts? You’re murderers. Both of you. Camorra’s deadliest, most proficient. Practically Giovanni’s pride and joy.

You move past him but his arm snaps out suddenly, grasping you by the back of your head as he tugs you close. The motion is harsher than he likely intended it to be and it’s clear that he’s never done anything like this before. Your forehead cracks against his collarbone and you release a breath. And then another.

Hector holds you to him by the back of your neck without a word. The rest of him hasn’t shifted so much as an inch.

You haven’t realised how badly you’re trembling till his fingers flex against your skin. “I’m not kind enough to kill them, sweetheart. They suffered.”

Coming from him, you can’t even begin to imagine what he put them through.

You bury your face in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and can’t help but feel oddly at ease despite every hard edge of him not being made for kindness or comfort.

Monster. Demon. Giovanni’s most bloodthirsty and loyal hound.

Your arms wrap around his waist even though you know he will hate it, even though he has told you plenty of times how he doesn’t enjoy it when people touch him without his expressed permission. Old hurts, you know as much. Gained from a darker time before Camorra. Before he was respected and hated and feared.

He lets you cling to him.

Doesn’t so much as shift in his spot.

If it weren’t for the strong beat of his heart against the flesh of your cheek, you would worry that he’s not real. That maybe you’re still back in that pit and saving yourself had been a wistful dream.

Your shallow, uneven breaths are the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

“I saw what you did to that fucker,” he voices eventually and you pull your face away from his chest, your eyes snagging onto the wet patches on his shirt. Tears. So that’s why your cheeks sting. Your head tilts away from his, ashamed, but his fingers squeeze against the back of your neck, stopping you before you could move away. His pale eyes are two slits, his stare icy and unforgiving. “You did good. Went right for the jugular. The bastard didn’t stand a chance.”

His words are a low rumble but he sounds…proud, almost.

Such a contrast to the disgust you feel. The awful, animalistic thing you did and felt good doing. Killing can be clinical if you do it long enough. It becomes dull and repetitive with time, easy to digest. But what you did to Kishi—

Your head spins and you sway slightly, Hector’s hand snapping upwards to grip your forearm. He leans over you and scoops you up into his arms with startling ease. You groan softly, a flare of pain shooting through your body at the handling but don’t protest. Once you might have punched him right in the teeth but now you just…

You want to fade away from here for a bit. Disappear.

He moves you from the lounge and into the adjoined bedroom. His steps are slow and steady as he walks, and you can’t help but wonder just how much strength truly lives inside his body if he makes carrying you seem like he’s carrying a pillow.

“Why are you doing this?”

He glances down at you after a beat—as if he’s just remembered he’s carrying you in the first place.

“Figured finding you with a cracked head on a hotel room floor is on no one’s to-do list right now, sweetheart.”

Asshole.

He lowers you onto the bed with surprising care, pulling back the covers with one arm and holding you up around the waist with another. Despite your spark of annoyance at his typical cocky bullshit, you cling to him, leaning into his shoulder. Your eyes snag onto those mighty wings around his throat again, and you don’t know why it’s this specific tattoo from so many others that never fails to capture your attention.

“I don’t need your pity,” you breathe as he lowers you onto the pillow and his mouth twitches, an eyebrow arching. “Nor do I want it.”

He chuckles; a cold, rough sound, lacking joy as usual. “Do you really think I’m in the business of pitying others, huh?”

He isn’t.

You know that. But—

You didn’t know his hair curls at the edges after it gets wet.

He drags the covers over you harshly, uncaring, completely focused on his task. Menial as it is.

You exhale quietly, watching him through bleary eyes. “You’re being…nice.”

The word almost chokes you.

This time he’s all teeth, clearly amused, and glances at you.

“I don’t do nice, sweetheart,” he reminds you and you both know he’s right again, but you’re not sure what else you can class this as. Hector shakes his head once and drags the warm covers up to your chin. “You can go back to hating me tomorrow morning if it makes you feel better.”

Blinking a few times, you frown faintly, “I don’t hate you,” you whisper quietly and he stills—a second, a breath, you would have missed if he wasn’t a hand reach away—and feel a brittle smile appear. “I just figured you would be happier without me around.”

His eyes drag up to you, and the dark circles under his eyes appear like two sunken black holes. If it weren’t for the iciness of his stare, he would be a devouring dark that eats away at all else.

He leans closer, his stare flat. “That so?” he mocks softly and clicks his tongue. “Nah, Camorra would be pretty fucking boring without you around, wildcat. Sleep tight.”

He leans back with that but you speak before he can walk away. “You’re really…not going to call me weak? For failing?”

You had expected him to. Maybe he’s waiting for the right opportunity to do so—to make sure that it truly hurts, truly stays with you. A chance to rub your failure into your face the same way he has always done with you and others.

“You’re the furthest fucking thing from weak, sweetheart, you got that?” he snaps and the venom in his voice—the rawness there—surprises you. He doesn’t look at you when he says it but when his eyes do find yours in the darkened hotel room you suddenly find it harder to breathe. “Never say that self-pitying shit to me again.”

Trying, and failing to find an appropriate reply to that, you choose to remain quiet instead.

He turns to head towards the door, the ripple of his tightly coiled back muscles giving away his lingering wrath. You’re not quite sure at who exactly it’s directed at.

“Sleep. No one is getting to you now. Others will not allow it,” he calls out and pauses by the door, his hand gripping the doorframe. He hesitates again. “And they’ll have to go through me,” he adds, the promise of bloodshed, of pain, clear in his deep baritone.

It shouldn’t be comforting. Not when coming from him—a man you can barely tolerate on a good day.

But it is.

#oc writing #oc x reader #john wick drabble #john wick fic #john wick oc #c: hector #I AM A CLOWN #THIS MADE ME SOFT #TRULY THE KING AND QUEEN OF SLOWBURN HATE/LOVE #s: my lady

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rvmmm21 · 4 years

Text

. you know who i am? part deux .

aand to the anon who first requested this. look what you’ve done. you’ve created a very tiny demand for a part 2. and now i’ve dug myself even deeper because there’s gonna have to be a part 3 as well. i have the restraint of someone who has no restraint at all when it comes to getting carried away with supposed to be one-shots.

if you’d like to read it, it’s also on ao3.

part 1 can be found here.

[badgirl/bully!joohyun x freshman!seungwan]

...

Bae Joohyun loves playing with her food. And Son Seungwan makes a very tasty snack. She finds herself victim of Joohyun’s entertainment time and time again; all these wicked little games of cat and mouse she’s forced to participate in whether she wants to or not. It’s awful. Awfully thrilling too; never able to shake the feeling of being watched from round corners, behind doors and… goddamnit, not even work provides her an ounce of solidarity.

But she… likes it?

After filing out of class, Seungwan spots the black velvet trio in their usual inconspicuous corner, draped in all their menacing glory and laughing about something she can’t quite hear. Seeing as they’re partners now, Seungwan doesn’t think it’s too bad an idea if they got a little friendlier with each other.

Being nice never hurt anyone, she mentally hypes herself up for the challenge.

Feeling emboldened, she gingerly taps Joohyun on the shoulder, proud that she hasn’t passed out from gaining the attention of God herself. She musters up the courage she’s never had to in all her years of living.

“H-hi sunbae,” she says sheepishly, mindful of the girl’s seniority, “I-I think – I think y-you look nice today.”

Her innocent attempt at a compliment backfires instantly, when Joohyun suddenly whips completely round to face her. Books and loose sheets of paper drop like bombs, scattered at her feet when she sees the older girl’s features contort into a scowl that threatens to eat her alive. Poor Seungwan’s absolutely horrified, frantically wracking her brains for where she could’ve possibly misspoken.

The next thing she knows, she’s in a verbal joust; and no points for guessing who’s winning.

“Today!?” Joohyun scorns in disbelief, breaking away from a very amused Jennie and an unbothered Sooyoung, “what, so I don’t look good every day? Huh? Is that what you’re telling me, freshman?”

“N-no! No! Of – of course not!” Seungwan’s brown eyes double in size and she vigorously shakes her head, automatically backing away at the sight of a rapidly advancing, angry Joohyun, “I-I… I just meant t-that–”

“That I usually look hideous but today I ‘got lucky’!?”

The shorter girl gasps in shock when she feels the pointy angle of a door handle dig painfully into her lower back, making her cringe, cornered once again.

“T-that’s that’s th – no no no, I’d n-never!” she winces, brows knitted in fear, trembling hands up in surrender, more than ready to black out there and then.

The intensity of those unwavering pupils is enough to make the kingpin of the largest drug cartel in the world crumble to his knees. And if that’s the case, then Seungwan has even less hope than she’d originally thought. She carelessly grasps around behind her in search of… anything, really.

Joohyun just stands there, clearly enjoying watching the smaller girl fight to stay upright.

“Say, ‘I’m an idiot’.”

The instruction is concise. Clear. But Seungwan unfolds herself in a squeak of confusion; say what?

Her hesitation does her no favours, and a palm slams against the side of her head, rattling the hollow wooden door she’s pressed against. Seungwan’s never complied faster in her life, her words sloppily copied and pasted like a broken inkjet printer.

“AH! I-I’M AN IDIOT! I’m an i-idiot, pleasepleasedon’thurtmeplease…” she pleads, bracing herself for the worst.

And just like that, Joohyun’s sweet, airy music-box giggling fills Seungwan’s ears like she hadn’t almost made her drop dead two minutes ago. Creaking a wary eye open, she sees Joohyun much too close for comfort, grinning knowingly and twirling a lock of her caramel hair between her long fingers. The raging blush now colouring Seungwan’s cheeks is accompanied by distant snickers from the other two loyal observers.

“You’re too easy, Seungwannie,” she whispers so only Seungwan can hear, giving her hair a quick ruffle like she would a little brother, “so cute. Makes me want to bully you all the time.”

Paralysing hysteria and that warm, fuzzy feeling concocts a dreadfully perplexing mixture in her chest, and a dishevelled Seungwan can only watch the back of her bully as she struts off with her posse.

Okay, what the hell was that… and when can she do it again?

~~~~~~~~~~

Joohyun realises she’s five minutes early for her ‘study’ session with Seungwan today. She had insisted they study at her dorm seeing as she had it free for the whole afternoon, but eventually realised Seungwan was too much of a deer in the headlights to be able to make sense of the directions she’d given her. So here she was, playing babysitter, waiting for Seungwan to finish her writing class so they could walk back together.

Blithely sauntering over to the on-campus sweet shop, she orders herself a plain yoghurt smoothie, and a taro milk tea for her little study buddy. Taro milk tea that will definitely stay in the cup like it’s supposed to, this time. Surprised at her own actions, she hands her card over to the man as she hooks her fingers through the handles of the plastic bags holding their drinks. Eh, it’s the least she can do for hovering a jackhammer over Seungwan’s sugar-glass heart yesterday, she thinks.

Her lively mood quickly sours when she notices her favourite nerd across the halls, engaged in conversation with a random boy she’s never even seen. Joohyun grits her teeth, staying stagnant behind the pillar she was passing, watching this stupid boy waste Seungwan’s time.

… … …

Seungwan couldn’t say she’d really noticed him until he’d come up to her today. Deep almond eyes, spidery emerald locks framing a dashingly chiselled jawline, and the fashion sense to match; she could appreciate his good looks. Other than the fact that she wanted to know where he got that black padded baseball jacket and the suede boots on his feet, she desired nothing else from him. That was all it was: objective curiosity.

Although he seemed to be interested in a lot more from her, unfortunately.

“So, I’ve seen you around,” he mumbles through the cigarette between his lips, cupping his palm over the flickering lighter. Seungwan offers a kind smile, unsure of what exactly is going on here.

“Uh yeah…” she offers lamely, trying not to let on the fact that she’s holding her breath to try to avoid inhaling the silvery smoke escaping his lips, “I’m majoring in literature… uh, what are you…”

“I work here part time. Men-Tei, Japanese restaurant just across building B,” he says, cutting her off with a confident puff, “this whole uni business isn’t for me. Dropped out of school when I was 15 and everything.”

She didn’t ask, but okay.

He continues before she can say anything, “yeah, anyway I’m Jong-in. I’ve seen you in my restaurant a couple times too. Figured I’d catch you one of these days to ask you out for a drink or something if you’re down. What’s your name?”

Seungwan lets out a nervous laugh in response to the awkwardness. She really, really wants to leave. This guy may have been blessed with an impressive face, but his approach was anything but. The whole time he was speaking, Seungwan was unfazed by the intensity of his gaze, only thinking about how she could be working under a much more favourable one.

“So what’s your name then, pretty?”

Ugh, gross.

Just as she’s about to hit him with the good old ‘none of your business, coconut head, I have my sights on someone else’, she feels a strong arm curled around her bicep. It’s Joohyun. Just the person she’s never stopped thinking about. She looks proper mad, and she evidently isn’t afraid to speak her mind, looking damned hot while she’s at it; as Seungwan’s fluttering heart will attest without a doubt.

“And that’s not happening, you arrogant bastard,” Joohyun resists the urge to spit in his gorgeously smug face, “get a clue and shove it up your arse.”

Spinning on her heels, she drags an undeniably amused Seungwan along with her, leaving a confused, annoyed man in her dust. The younger girl can’t help but notice a moist coolness brushing against her leg as she’s being led to Joohyun’s dorm, and she glances down, trying to peer into the bags.

“S-sunbae,” she asks between strides. Joohyun is really pulling her along, “w-what did you get?”

Joohyun glares at her for the briefest of moments, but Seungwan sees right past the anger transparently masking those fairy-like features. Plus, she could’ve sworn she saw those cinnamon eyes soften ever so slightly at her curiosity.

“You’ll see. Wait till we get back.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The whole ‘backs-against-walls’ trope fast becomes a common occurrence whenever they are together, and Seungwan can’t help but wonder if Joohyun gets a kick out of this… an innocent kick, of course! Perhaps she finds Seungwan funny when she’s scared out of her mind, perhaps she likes seeing the way she flinches, the way her hands quiver when she’s holding them out like a shield. Or maybe she’s just keeping her on her toes for… god only knows at this point. There is just no straight answer when it came to the girl who pretty much forced herself to be Seungwan’s partner.

They were getting work done, at least. Well, more like Joohyun sat there and let Seungwan juggle between doing a good a job as she could at deciphering age-old literacy, and balancing a rapidly accelerating heartrate and a blood pressure sink-hole.

And she was doing an amiable job at keeping it all together this bright Friday afternoon, if she did say so herself. They were on the floor of Joohyun’s dorm room, open books and note-pad paper spread out around them, and Seungwan was just re-analysing her summary of the notes she’d made against the original text. She was getting into it, finally able to block out the fact that she was unwillingly being observed under a microscope.

That was until…

“Seungwan. Oi. Freshman. Did you hear what I just told you?”

A frazzled Seungwan darts up from her analysis, dropping her pen onto the wooden floorboards with a clatter. She helplessly watches it roll under the bed then looks up to see Joohyun sliding herself across the floor so she’s face to face with her.

“Ah s-sorry… what did y-”

Joohyun suddenly grabs Seungwan by the drawstrings of her hoodie and tugs her in, her cruel smile broadening as she leans in to purr into her ear.

“I told you to be a good girl and not to make me jealous.”

The way Joohyun threatens her so delicate yet menacingly has Seungwan struggling to breathe. She clutches at her own drawstrings, careful not to graze the girl’s grip, and unsuccessfully tries to straighten up, chuckling nervously when it’s obvious Joohyun isn’t done with her just quite yet. Her senior’s eyes warn her of the severity of what she’s just said as she leans forward again, suggestiveness dripping off her words like molten lava.

“…or you’ll make me do something nasty.”

Yep, a defibrillator and stretcher would be useful right about now.

“I-I…”

Seungwan utters the beginnings of a defence as soon as her hoodie is released, but she’s too caught up in whatever the hell that just was, and she just can’t seem to remember how to speak in full sentences.

The one-sided study session continues, thankfully, without another hitch.

~~~~~~~~~~

Her alarm is deafening, and Seungwan blindly reaches her hand over to swipe it off. She hasn’t even had the energy to open her eyes when the image of Joohyun’s teasing smirk the other day flickers in her brain. Before she knows what’s hit her, she’s got a face full of carpet and a sharp sting on the back of her head from where she’d swiped her whole phone down with her. Groaning out loud, she buries her face in the duvet still tangled in her legs.

Ugh, must she be this way?

God couldn’t have blessed her with an actual sense of coordination, could he? Well, perhaps he had, but she’d wasted it all the first day she met Joohyun, and now there was nothing left. Great. Just as she’s pining her loss of the ability to put one foot in front of the other without thinking about her attractive senior, Seulgi’s face peeks through the door.

“Yah, you having nightmares or something? This is the third time you’ve fallen out of bed.”

Seungwan scoffs from under the plush fabric. Nightmares have nothing on Bae Joohyun. She delegates them, if anything. Nightmares have nightmares of Joohyun. She honestly wished she could say she was having bad dreams… I mean, can’t be any worse than accidentally calling your customers ‘babe’, getting very well acquainted with doors to the face, or checking round the corner of everywhere you go just in case a certain someone happens to be there… which was what Seungwan’s entire week seemed to consist of ever since Joohyun had very nicely threatened her. The memory remains pin sharp, and it has Seungwan a complete and utter mess.

Seulgi watches the duvet mountain on the floor collapse and huff in an unspoken request to leave it in peace. It’s a beautiful morning, but the carpet is oh so comfy. The girl rolls her eyes.

“Fine, whatever. I’m making breakfast, hurry up and get ready.”

About twenty minutes later, Seungwan strolls into the kitchen in an oversized, stripey monochrome jumper and some skinny jeans. Her best friend has a piece of toast between her teeth, pattering around the kitchen in search of something or rather. She stops to sniff the air as Seungwan sits at the counter, slouching over with her chin in her palm.

“Are… are you wearing perfume? Ag-again?”

Her only response is a grunt and a hand into the fruit bowl. Seungwan absentmindedly crunches into an apple, eyes glazed over and staring into space. Seulgi observes her zombie of a friend mechanically chew the same mouthful of apple for a good two minutes before she’s had enough.

She sets her own toast down and reaches across to snatch the fruit out of her non-existent grip. Seungwan flinches, almost choking on the apple slush, as it is now, before managing to swallow it down, “yah, what’s wrong with you!?”

“Just checking you can do something other than groan and grunt,” she replies, hands on hips but extremely concerned, “anyways what’s happening? Is this about the assignment? You’ve been talking about it a lot…”

Seungwan hasn’t lied to Seulgi, per se. Told her a vague truth? Yes. Left out a few questionably majorly important details? Also yes. She did feel horrible for it though, seeing as they’d been best friends for years and Seungwan had made them promise to never keep secrets from one another.

With a sigh, she finally comes out with why she’s been acting like a fool all week.

“So… yes it’s about the assignment…and… and I’m uh… I’m paired with someone...”

Seulgi’s reaction is withheld, clearly because Seungwan has a ton more explaining to do.

“And J-…” she catches herself, proceeding to figure out a way to describe ‘she-who-shall-not-be-named’, “… the person I bumped into on the first day… y-you know, the day where you warned me to lay low…”

Seulgi goes wide-eyed with realisation and Seungwan uncomfortably bounces her knee as she finishes the hardest thing she’s ever had to tell another human being.

“Um so yeah, I’m w-working with her, i-it’s good, it’s good though so… so like, no worries or anything we’re good now.”

“You’re working with Joohyun?”

Ugh god no, at the mention of that name alone, Seungwan has another image of vantablack and cinnamon zap through her like lightning. She slumps down onto the countertop, the cool surface almost sizzling at the contact of her forehead. She nods against the marble.

“Oh my gosh, Wan-ah,” Seulgi exclaims. She’s surprised but still able to put the kettle on for her morning tea, “is that why you’ve been such a klutz recently? Yah, she’s messing you up isn’t she? Is she bullying you? Do you need to talk to someone about this?”

Christ sakes, she would’ve… if only she didn’t like being ‘bullied’ as much as she did. She lifts her cast iron head, gazing at her best friend with a look of pure misfortune, “it… it’s not really like that.”

“Then wh-” the other girl stops when it hits her; the perfume, the insomnia, the falling out of bed, “oh no, oh no, no no no… please don’t tell me you’re actually falling for her.”

You poor, poor thing, Seungwan thinks as she sits there watching her friend make breakfast, carrying on with life as usual. She was way past the warning signs; she’d walked right off the edge with a smile on her face. And she’d fallen.

She has fallen and can-not get up.

~~~~~~~~~~

It really was one thing after another with Joohyun. For once, Seungwan is early to class, avoiding the hassle of squeezing past a line of other people and saving herself the embarrassment of having to apologise for tripping over a bag strap or clipping someone over the head. She’s all set up, feeling rather happy the seat next to her is empty. She isn’t claustrophobic or anything, it’s just nice having more room to yourself sometimes. Although Seungwan can’t help her wandering gaze, scanning the sea of faces for a particularly mean one. She spots her usual seat, but it’s just Jennie and Sooyoung. They’ve got their phones out and they’re whispering; probably something evil, Seungwan assumes.

She inwardly shrugs. Guess Joohyun’s a no-show. How typical, she thinks, guess who’s gonna have to catch little miss ‘I’m-too-busy-being-sexy-and-intimidating-to-come-to-class’ up with today’s lesson. God, that girl is something else. Seungwan makes her mind up, she’s standing her ground today. No more reading off her notes. If she can’t come to class on time, then she can find someone who’ll roll over and let her read theirs.

Of course, it’s not until half an hour into the class, when Seungwan’s finally getting into the groove of what the lecturer is saying, when she feels an all too familiar presence materialise in the seat next to her. She almost doesn’t want to look. And when she finally not so discreetly does, she’s met with windswept tresses cascading in shiny, black waves down a Saint Laurent rib-knitted black cardigan and cheeks flushed a slight pinkish. How someone who’s clearly had to run to class can still look like she’s ready to walk the runway at Paris Fashion Week is beyond Seungwan.

Whatever concentration she’s built up in the thirty minutes class has been in session evaporates into thin air sitting next to this stunning beauty. This stunning beauty whose hand was ‘accidentally-not-on-purpose’ gently resting on her forearm, raising her body temperature to dangerously high levels.

“Can I see your notes?” she whispers, leaning in so her breath is hot against Seungwan’s ear.

Shivering inside and out, she instinctively slides her exercise book across the table. She doesn’t see Joohyun’s sneaky little smile as she reads the neat cursive of Seungwan’s hard work. The younger girl focuses extra closely on the way the lecturer’s tie is slightly off-centre and how he has one cuff folded while the other remains snugly buttoned. She knows she’s just going to give herself a breathing problem if she looks the other way.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Hyun-ah,” Jennie says, bringing a fistful of popcorn up to her mouth, “when are you gonna quit playing with her?”

Joohyun gives her a questioning hum, as if she doesn’t know exactly what her friend is asking her.

“Yeah,” Sooyoung quips with a laugh, “come on, aren’t you worried you’re gonna give her like… a heart attack or something? That poor kid’s a medical emergency waiting to happen if you ask me.”

“What’re you implying, Young-ah,” Joohyun says, nonchalantly pressing a strawberry to her lips, “you saying I’m gonna kill her?”

Sooyoung huffs in amusement, “duh, I mean I literally saw her soul leave her body that time after class. You aren’t afraid she’s gonna like, I dunno, snap and get you back someday?”

At this point, even tough-as-nails Kim Jennie and Park Sooyoung can sympathise from afar, all too knowing of how Joohyun’s little bullying games could end.

“Nah, she’s a good girl, she knows she’s mine. C’mon, start the movie.”

“Good girl, huh,” Jennie sneers, snatching the remote away before Joohyun can even reach for it, pink lips curled into a playfully sly grin, “hey Young-ah, I think Hyun has a crush on that little nerd.”

“Defs,” the girl replies, settling down between them both, “this is the longest you’ve kept up with tormenting someone. When are you gonna move on, huh Hyun? Stop playing with her.”

Sooyoung and Jennie’s smug expressions visibly deflate when Joohyun purses her lips, indifference written all over her face as she looks them straight in the eyes.

“I’m not playing with her. I’m going to make her my girlfriend.”

The almost indiscernible smile that traces her lips after that last sentence tells the other two that she means damn well what she says. The conviction in her aura is unwavering. Jennie and Sooyoung exchange quick glances before shrugging; nothing they can do about it anyway. Joohyun’s mind is made up. And their friend’s the definition of a go-getter.

“Aight, whatever, call me when you guys get together,” Sooyoung teases, grabbing the bowl of popcorn out of Jennie’s lap and reaching for the nearest cushion to cuddle as the latter presses play.

Joohyun finds it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the movie they’re watching and not let her mind wander to clumsily charming milk tea spillages and nervously stuttered apologies.

~~~~~~~~~~

Seungwan would find it easier to wrap her head around if someone had dumped her upside down in a mirror maze with a map of Disneyland and a small audio recording of a voice screaming, ‘biscuits and cheese’.

Because right now, she is confused with a capital ‘c’.

Joohyun magically pops up during every one of her shifts at the café, and Seungwan can pretty much make her iced Americano blindfolded with her hands tied behind her. Joohyun likes it with exactly five ice cubes, no more, no less. Not that Americanos are hard to make in the first place, but Joohyun seems to know how to make Seungwan’s hands just that bit shakier, and her mind, just that much fuzzier. Between spilt milk and chipped teacups, it’s a wonder she hasn’t been fired yet, if she’s brutally honest.

But it isn’t as simple as that.

Joohyun is there during her break hours too, every time without fail, holding up none other than her favourite: taro milk tea with half sugar and less ice. Seungwan notices the seat next to hers in their shared literature lectures might as well be reserved for her royal highness, with how frequently she turns up ‘late’, and has to sit next to her out of nothing but ‘convenience’. And that one pivotal occasion where Joohyun corrected her ‘sunbae’ to ‘unnie’ in the midst of one of their little weekend revision sessions. That’s another thing. Their usual allocated Friday meetups after Seungwan’s writing class has bled into full-blown weekends of ‘study time’, where Seungwan finds herself discovering more and more about the girl who wears mystery like a well-loved winter coat, the girl who’s like a baked cinnamon roll; burnt and scalding to touch, but warm and sweet in the middle.

There is really no turning back from all this.

Seungwan is in waist deep, and she can only pray Joohyun is too.

#red velvet #wenrene #red velvet scenarios #university au #red velvet imagines #i've dug myself in deep #oh god #please help i have fallen and can-not get up #bully irene #irene #wendy #kpop scenarios #girl group scenarios

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clumsyclifford · 4 years

Note

“i just lost the Celebrity X Lookalike Contest (I AM Celebrity X) and threw a tantrum about it, you’re the security guard who escorted me out and doesn’t believe me” au

thank u anon for this gift it’s precisely what i needed. literally just whacked this out instead of doign my lab final please forgive me if it sucks at least i finished something for once lmaoo (also me?? being brief?? nah)

Calum’s done security for plenty of these events, but he’s never seen a blowup quite like this one.

“Sir,” the host (Jeff) says, “please step off the stage.”

“This is bullshit,” the Michael Clifford lookalike says. He’s wearing a five around his neck and he looks positively enraged about it. “You’re telling me I lost a lookalike contest for my own face? Do you even know who this contest is for? I’m Michael Clifford! I can’t lose a lookalike contest against myself!”

Calum squints. He supposes Michael #5 looks roughly like the real Michael Clifford — not that Calum, like, knows what he looks like, not that he follows him on Instagram or likes all of his Tweets or anything like that, because Calum is a normal 24-year-old man — but some of the other Michaels onstage have him beat. And anyway, Calum’s pretty sure Michael isn’t even in Sydney today. His show isn’t until tomorrow. (Not that Calum would know. He’s not going.)

(Not on his measly security guard paycheck, anyway.)

“Sir, we appreciate your participation in the contest, but if you don’t calm down we’ll be forced to remove you from the premises,” Jeff says, belatedly realizing he’s speaking into the microphone. Michael #5 laughs wildly.

“This is insane! I literally have my driver’s license right here, I can prove it. I’m actual Michael Clifford and you’re going to let this —” he grabs the number plate of the winning Michael (Michael #12) — “this guy win “Best Michael Clifford lookalike”? This contest is not, by the way, Michael Clifford-approved!”

“Security,” Jeff calls, and that’s Calum’s cue. He heads for the stage as Michael #5 looks around and seems to realize he’s not going to win this battle. Calum watches that thought pass over him and sees him decide not to care.

“Brilliant,” Michael #5 says, “call security on me, the real Michael Clifford. Look, it’s not a fame thing, honestly, it’s just a pride thing. You can’t say you know what I look like and then let me lose in a lookalike contest for myself.”

This guy’s really lost it, Calum thinks. He really, properly thinks he’s Michael Clifford. But the brown in his roots has grown too long. It can’t be him.

“Sir,” Calum says, hoping he won’t have to use force. Michael #5 may not be the real Michael Clifford, but he’s just as pretty, and it would be a shame to hurt him. Calum’s not above it, but he’s largely opposed. “Please step off the stage and come with me. I won’t ask again.”

Michael #5 groans. He sounds frustrated. Calum thinks he’s a little bit crazy. “This is insane,” he says again, but at least he gets off the stage. “Congratulations, Michael #12. Are you Michael Clifford?” Michael #12 shakes his head. “Thought not,” Michael #5 mutters as Calum puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him to the exit. He’s almost embarrassed for Michael #5. Calum’s more of a fade-into-the-background kind of guy. He’d never have a meltdown like that, and certainly never over such a delusion.

Michael #5 turns to Calum as they leave the building. “You don’t have to hold on to me, I’m not going to make a break for it,” he says bluntly. Calum lets go. “I am Michael Clifford, you know. Those guys don’t believe me, for some fucking reason, but why would I lie?”

“If you were Michael Clifford,” Calum says, disbelieving, “why would you enter a Michael Clifford lookalike contest?”

Michael #5 throws his hands up and laughs incredulously. “For fun! To see what would happen! Look, some of those people really did look like me. But I swear up and down, I am Michael Clifford.”

Calum shakes his head. The inside silence had felt like everyone was holding their breath (which they all had been), but the quiet outside is peaceful, and the cool air of the night feels like a refreshing reboot on Calum’s brain. He’s been sitting in there, watching contest after contest, for what feels like forever. He needs water. Or a smoke.

“To be fair, you do look like him,” he says kindly. This seems to further upset Michael #5. “If I were in charge, you’d have won.” Michael groans and rubs his face, aggrieved. “Look, mate, I’m really not trying to step on your parade or — I mean rain on your parade, or whatever. If it’s, if it makes you feel better to, like, embody Michael Clifford, I’m not going to be the one to stop you.”

Michael #5 looks like he’s at war with himself, stuck somewhere between entertained and dismayed. “Jesus Christ, I’m losing it. What’s your name?”

“Calum,” Calum says, because whatever. Calum’s a common enough name that if Michael #5 turns out to be a maniac, he should still be safe. And he feels a little badly for this guy, to be honest.

“Calum,” Michael #5 says, “I swear on my life that I am really Michael Clifford. I can call Ashton — my manager, Ashton Irwin — right now and have him confirm it. I can literally call James Corden and have him tell you, if that’ll make you believe me.” He sounds desperate. A very, very small part of Calum thinks, what if it is him?

It’s not, the majority of Calum’s brain insists. It can’t be.

Yeah, but you’ll be really humiliated if it turns out to be him.

“Michael Clifford’s not due in Sydney until tomorrow,” Calum says, ignoring the voices. He’s almost embarrassed to know that, but it’s not like Michael #5 doesn’t know that. Anyone who’s willing to go to such lengths to pretend to be rockstar Michael Clifford is clearly acquainted with his schedule.

Michael smirks. “Oh, so you know my schedule to the minute, then? Coming to the show?”

If this were the real Michael Clifford, Calum wouldn’t engage. But it’s just some random person who’s had a bit too much to drink, maybe, or a few too many fantasies, so whatever. It’s better than sitting in there watching the next lookalike competition (Selena Gomez), even if that is technically his job.

“No, I wish,” he says. “Like I can afford concert tickets on my salary. Are you going?”

Michael #5 sighs heavily. “I’m performing, mate. It’s my show.”

“You’re awfully committed to the role,” Calum remarks. “I have to say, I admire your persistence. What’s your name?”

“My name is Michael Gordon Clifford, and I’m embarrassed for you,” Michael #5 tells him, which is funny, because Calum had been thinking the same thing about him. “God, this is literally the strangest day of my life. I thought it would just be a laugh, enter, see what happens. What can I do to prove it to you that I’m the real Michael? Can I show you my license? Will that do it?”

Calum thinks. He’s seen his fair share of fake IDs, but some people are willing to go to great lengths to pretend to be someone they’re not. And Michael #5 had been willing to use it as evidence against the host, so it’s probably a prop.

Michael #5 has already taken out his license, though, and is holding it in Calum’s face. “Please, please believe me,” he begs. “I’m starting to lose my sense of self, honestly.”

“What does it matter if I believe you?” Calum asks, looking bemusedly at the driver’s license in Michael #5’s hands. “I’m just security.”

“Well, for one, you’ve been nicer to me than anyone else here,” Michael #5 says. “And for another, I’ve never been flat-out told that I’m not the person I am. So that’s weird. Admittedly, I’m not used to anonymity on this level, and it probably won’t last very long. But moreover, I was going to invite you to my show. You know. The actual show that I actually have tomorrow, at Sydney Opera House, where I’ll be performing my own music.”

Calum takes the license and looks closely at it. He’s a very good security guard, he likes to believe. And he can tell when an ID is fake. He can.

This one is absolutely real. Michael Gordon Clifford, it says, and then a picture of this guy — of Michael —

Oh, holy shit.

Calum looks up, and Michael #5 — no, this is Michael, real Michael Clifford — is looking expectantly at him.

Somehow, all he can think to say is, “You were right. I’m extremely embarrassed.”

Rock star Michael fucking Clifford laughs at him, amiably. “Oh, that’s alright,” he says. “You seem like you’ve had a long day.”

“The longest,” Calum agrees, somewhat dazed. “You think that was boring? Imagine sitting through seven hours of that.”

“You should try my job,” Michael says.

“Oh, I did,” Calum says. “Didn’t really take off for me. Way to complain about fame and fortune, though. I really pity you.”

“Hey, you didn’t even think I was really me,” Michael shoots back. Which. Fair enough. “Wow, I must have sounded like an asshole, huh? That’s not me, I swear. I’m usually super chill. It’s just…imagine entering a contest for Calum lookalikes and losing. Wouldn’t that just throw you?”

“You weren’t so bad,” Calum says, and then amends, “Okay, you were a little bad, but only because nobody believed you. In retrospect, your anger is justifiable.”

Michael looks gratefully at Calum. “Thanks.”

Okay, Calum’s cool. Calum’s totally relaxed. He’s just having a chat with his favorite musician of all time. This is fine. Calum’s a security guard, for fuck’s sake. He’s practically known for being stoic. That’s his whole gig.

He tries a smile. Okay, he’s not cool at all. Michael is gorgeous and Calum is weak and he doesn’t even know how to talk. He can’t remember any words. Relevant topics. Calum sifts desperately through his brain. “Uh, you’re in Sydney early?”

Michael laughs again. It’s a wonderful sound that Calum’s heard many times in radio interviews and the like, but never in person. He wants to hear it again and again forever. “Yeah, well. It’s home, you know? And I didn’t have anything else going on. Plus, I heard about this,” he gestures vaguely behind them to the building which is housing the lookalike contests, “and thought it’d be a good time. You know. Funny prank, or something.”

“That went well,” Calum says, joking.

Michael shrugs. “Could’ve gone worse. Met you, didn’t I?”

Well, if Michael’s trying to stop his heart, he’s succeeded. “I’m not,” Calum says. His tongue fails him. He tries again, smiling feebly. “I’m not, uh, usually the one people are excited to meet, out of the two of us.”

“Well, I’ve already met me,” Michael says. “And honestly, I could take me or leave me. You’re nice, though. And very handsome, which helps.”

Calum hums. “I thought Michael #12 was a bit better-looking than you.” Oh, don’t mind me, just FLIRTING WITH MICHAEL CLIFFORD OVER HERE.

Michael fakes looking hurt, impressively well. “Unbelievably rude of you. Here I am, being charming and delightful, and you say that shit?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” Calum says. Michael eyes him suspiciously, but Calum can’t resist: “Michael #8 actually did it for me.”

“That’s it,” Michael says. “I take back the invite. You can sit at home and eat chips and feel sorry for yourself tomorrow night.”

“What invite?”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “The…the show, Calum. I was serious. Unless — if you were joking about wanting to come…” This time he really does look hurt, and does a bad job trying to hide it.

“No,” Calum says hastily. “No, no, I meant it, I just — I thought you were joking. Of course I’ll come, that’s — that would be amazing.”

Michael bites his lip. “If I asked you to get dinner tonight, is that too forward?”

“Too forward?” Calum echoes, because that’s the only part of that sentence he’s able to process without his brain melting.

Michael nods. “Yeah, like. We just met, and you’re a fan, which is cool, but you just, honestly, seem like a really good guy. And you’re cute. I’m not trying to leverage power or anything because you like my music. You can totally say no, I won’t, like, have another meltdown. Just, I don’t know. I guess I could stand a few more good guys in my corner.” He looks down at his shoes, scuffing the ground.

It makes Calum (the part of Calum that’s still chugging along and not frozen solid at being asked on a date by Michael Clifford) wonder if Michael is lonely, or something. He’s clearly nervous. He’s nervous. He’s Michael Clifford, and he’s played to sold-out stadiums hundreds of thousands of times, and he’s standing here, nervously asking Calum on a date.

“I’d love to,” Calum says sincerely. Michael’s face lights up. “But, uh, I work until midnight. So unless you want, like, midnight pizza…”

“Midnight pizza is exactly what I want,” Michael declares. He glances back at the building. “You should probably go back in, right? Without me, since you were supposed to escort me out and, like, discipline me.”

“Discipline you? What do you think my job is?”

Michael waves him off. “It’s fine. Here, let me give you my number. You can just call me when you’re done here.”

Calum tries to blink the stars out of his eyes as he unlocks his phone and hands it to Michael. Michael puts his number in and says, “How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Calum says. “I’m starving. Midnight pizza sounds fantastic.”

“If one of the other Michael lookalikes showed up in my place, you reckon you’d notice?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Calum says. “None of them are as pretty as you.”

Michael blushes, lips wide in a smile, and Calum had been kidding, but now he really means it; there’s no mistaking the sheer beauty of Michael Clifford. There never will be again.

(When he goes back in, the other security guard, Emily, gives him a sympathetic smile, and Calum almost breaks down laughing.

“Sorry you got stuck with the crazy one,” she says, grimacing.

“Oh, that’s alright, he turned out to be more misunderstood than anything,” Calum says cryptically. “But we worked it out.” Emily looks confused, and Calum grins. “You can take the next one.”)

#fic #malum #ur a goddamn hero for sending me a prompt #i needed to break out of my writing slump or whatever was going on with me #did i need to do it TONIGHT?? instead of MY LAB FINAL???#no #yall are gonna hear a lot about this lab final tonight and then never again #bc i believe it's due tomorrow #so if it's not done tomorrow....hmmmm #anyway #i love u for sending thissss #my fic #Anonymous #ask #answered #5sos

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taste-thewaste · 5 years

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Shy (Madderton fic)

Anon asked me to write for kissing prompt #19, a shy kiss! This is longer than I thought because I have no ability to write succinctly and also a kind of weird AU where Taron and Richard weren’t friends immediately. Thank you anon!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is how it begins: slowly, excruciatingly slowly. Moments feel like hours, hours feel like days, days feel like weeks. Taron is hyper-aware of his every move in a way he’s never been before. He’s self-conscious of everything he does, everything he says. It takes him ages to get dressed in the morning, even though he’ll be changing into something else on set-is this too much? Will he like this? Does this make my arse look too big?, etc. He finds himself more clumsy than usual, which is saying something, honestly; he trips over end tables, cords, flat floors, his own words. He can barely speak around Richard sometimes, and it is frustrating beyond belief.

This man he has known for only a few weeks has turned him into a clumsy, messy, self-conscious puddle, and Taron can’t think of any way to remedy it.

Also frustrating is the fact that Richard seems unphased by him. He smiles at him, and while Taron tries to ignore the blush rising to his cheeks, Richard just cocks his head and continues grinning. Richard comes in with his lunch and flops down next to him, opens his salad and starts eating, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Taron has blushed, again, and spilled mustard all over his shirt. Richard jokes with him, ribs him constantly, chats about anything and everything from Game of Thrones to politics to Kingsman, and doesn’t say anything about the way Taron shyly stammers that “y-yes, working with C-colin Firth is l-l-lovely.”

He has never been this smitten with someone, and is frustrated and concerned and shocked at his reaction to Richard Madden. He’s just another actor, T, he tells himself at night when he’s laying in bed and thinking about what an arse he’d made of himself that day. Why’s he got you so flummoxed?

Because he’s not another actor, he thinks. He’s been crushing on Richard since they met, since he discovered how brilliantly talented he is. But it isn’t just that, it’s...it’s how unbelievably kind he is, how funny he is, the way he bites his lower lip when he’s nervous or thinking. It’s everything.

Their big scene is coming up, and Taron is both dreading it and thinking of nothing else. He can’t imagine getting almost naked with Richard when he can barely speak around him as it is. At the same time, he can’t wait. The thought of being held in Richard’s arms, kissing him with raw, unbridled passion, even if it’s just for film...just the idea of it is enough to drive him mad.

This is what he’s thinking of on set one morning after Dex has called for a break, and he’s carrying a cup of coffee back to the secluded area where he sometimes sits to be alone. He’s thinking about Richard, about being with Richard, and then he sees Richard, in his spot, and he promptly stumbles over his own feet, spills coffee everywhere, and finishes his brilliant entrance by slipping in the puddle and landing flat on his arse.

His face is beet red with embarrassment, and Richard jumps up and extends a hand to help him up.

“Oi, mate, you alright?” Richard asks, and Taron dares himself to look up into Richard’s eyes. He is struck by the concern on his face, and there’s no trace of laughter or mocking anywhere, a fact that punches him in the gut.

“I-I’m alright,” Taron mutters, but he’s not. He’s embarrassed and he’s angry that he’s embarrassed and he’s covered in coffee and Dex is going to kill him.

“Quite a spill, that. You should be more careful,” Richard says, amiably enough, and takes a seat on the folding chair. There’s another chair (there isn’t usually, and Taron files that away for future consideration) and Richard gestures to it. “Join me?”

Taron hesitates for just a moment and nods before taking a seat. He is acutely aware of how close they are, how he’s practically touching Richard’s arm, and it’s driving him mad.

“So. Taron.” Taron looks over at Richard, likes the way his name sounds coming out of his mouth, different than everyone else.

“Richard,” Taron says, hesitating.

“Why are you so nervous around me?” Richard asks, and again, it’s not unkind but it’s nerve wracking, to say the least, and Taron is glad he doesn’t have anything to drink because he’d be spitting it out right about now.

“I-I’m not nervous around you,” Taron says, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt. Nervously.

“Oh, my mistake. I mistook the fidgeting and clumsiness and stuttering as nerves,” Richard says, and Taron flushes again.

“I guess I’m just not...not good with new people,” Taron says, still fidgeting with his shirt. He’s avoiding looking at Richard and so he misses the subtle shake of his head.

“You seem fine with everyone else,” he says gently, and he is so close that Taron can’t think of anything else, can’t focus enough to say anything else, so he just shakes his head.

Suddenly Richard’s hand is grabbing Taron’s, stopping him from continuing to fidget with his hem. He threads his fingers through Taron’s and if you had asked him ten minutes ago how holding Richard’s hand would make him feel, he wouldn’t have said calm, which is what happens. It is calming and simple and reassuring, and he finds the courage to look up and meet Richard’s eyes.

“You don’t have to be scared of me, Taron,” Richard says quietly. There is so much electricity between them that it is almost visible and Taron wonders if Richard can feel it, too. “I won’t bite...unless you want me to.”

Taron gasps, actually gasps, and he bites his lower lip hard to stop his mouth from gaping open; what it doesn’t stop is the small whine that comes rumbling from the back of his throat. A small smile crosses Richard’s face.

“Guess that answers my question of whether you feel the same,” Richard says, and Taron nods quickly.

“I do,” he says, and they haven’t said exactly what the feelings are but it’s implied and...god, it’s hot, whatever this is. Taron’s face is flushed and the blood is rushing to his head and other places.

“I want you to kiss me,” Richard says in a low voice and Taron is slightly confused, because he is not used to being asked for a kiss, he is just used to kissing.

“You…” Taron says softly and he is too nervous to be the one who goes first. “You go,” he finishes lamely.

“No. I want it to be you, it should be you. Cure the nerves, you know,” Richard says earnestly, and he’s never argued with a boy about who should kiss first. He’s always just kissed, and yet Richard is different, that much is clear.

Taron takes a deep breath and leans forward, letting his other hand rest on Richard’s knee. He brushes his lips across Richard’s, so softly that it is almost non-existent. It is gentle and shy and quiet and somehow more intimate than almost anything else he’s done. He sits back slightly and looks Richard in the eyes, then leans forward and does it again, a touch more insistently this time.

“Not so hard, eh?” Richard says with a grin, and Taron is blushing again. He leans his forward against Richard’s and stares into those eyes.

“Not so hard, I guess.” He gives Richard’s hand a squeeze and finds his own smile playing on his lips.

#richard madden fanfiction #taron egerton fanfiction #madderton #madderton fanfiction #my fic #kissing prompts #shy!taron

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wolfiefics · 4 years

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WIP Wednesday-A Vampire Knight Tale

Tentatively titled “How to Get a Life, by Takuma Ichijo, Bookworm”, which I kind of like but I’m not sure I’ll keep. I have not kept up with the Vampire Knight series of late and have been relying heavily on the Wiki. So it’s a bit of an AU, more than likely, but takes place 400 years after the first series ends. Snippet under the cut. Would appreciate feedback as I’m not sure about it at the moment. I know where it’s leading and whatnot but I’ve so much on my plate at the moment, it’s unreal.

This is Takuma meeting with the ‘heroine/love interest’. I’m horrible at creating Japanese names, especially as the author of Vampire Knight uses kanji meanings for hers, so I’m just ballsing it. It’s fanfic. Treat it like Firefly did English and Cantonese/Mandarin.

Just to let you know, I do accept anon but flames and rudeness will just either get you mocked publicly or ignored, depending on my mood. It’s fanfic, make-believe, fiction. If you’re so offended by fictional stories that you have to treat someone like garbage on the street, I feel really, really sorry for you. You must have had no friends to play with as a child, real or pretend. I suggest therapy. Constructive, USEFUL criticism accepted gladly...as well as gushing praise. LOL! Goddess knows I need a cheering squad.

Abigail O’Malley was ready to tear her hair out. This freaking chapter just wasn’t working. It was the sixth time she’d written it and it still wasn’t right. Was it too early for the second victim? Did she need more social interaction between the killer and the investigator? More cat and mouse?

“Ugh!” she groused. She got up from her swivel desk chair, purgatorial thing that it was, and was heading for her kitchenette when she realized someone was knocking at her door. From the determination and strength behind the knocks, the person had been there awhile.

Grimacing at having to deal with people when she was late for her deadline and stuck in the middle of the damned book as well, Abigail stalked to the door, intending to give her visitor a tongue-lashing. She twisted the knob, jerked, found the door locked, undid the dead bolt, and tried again. The door creaked open like from some ancient tomb, and she gave a bit of a grunt as she exerted force to open it enough to peer out.

“What?” she snapped. “I’m busy.”

“Ms. Abigail O’Malley?” The voice was male, low, calm and friendly. No trace of irritation at having been knocking on her door for so long was evident.

“As I said, I’m busy. Can you come back another time?” She wasn’t paying any attention to the man, eyeballing the hinges of the door, wondering when they’d gotten so gunked up. What cleared up door hinge gunk? Oil? Rust cleaner?

“I am Takuma Ichijo. I am interested in purchasing the shop space you have for rent in this building,” the stranger was saying.

“Not for sale,” she said absently, still not looking at him and concentrating on the what definitely looked like rust on the hinges. She sighed. She hated all this home owner crap. She needed to use all this money she had to hire a maid but then that maid would want to straighten up the place and thus dislodge Abby’s chaotic filing system.

“I am very interested in that space, Ms. O’Malley,” the stranger persisted, his voice still friendly, not forceful or angry. “I want to open a bookshop and I plan on being there for quite some time.”

At the word ‘bookshop’ Abby’s gaze finally focused on the man standing in front of her. He was stunningly handsome and didn’t look at all like any bookworm she’d ever met. And as an author, she’d met a ton of them.

Abby hiked a skeptical eyebrow. “A bookshop?” she asked.

He smiled as if relieved to finally have her full attention. “Yes, mostly rare, out-of-print, or signed books but I do plan on catering to popular titles and new releases to augment sales. I’m quite fond of pulp thrillers, mangas, and murder mysteries, so I expect I’ll have a nice collection of those.”

Abby narrowed her eyes at him and gave him a more thorough once over. Late twenties, early thirties at the most, tousled light blond hair, absolutely gorgeous green eyes that brought to mind descriptors such as ‘grass’ or ‘verdant’, a tall build with an edge of masculine power, pale skin that looked like he refused to set foot in the sun, and clothing of fine make but worn for comfort not style. Again, not someone she would peg as a book nerd.

But then, she reasoned, everyone was always surprised that a half-dead, cancer-ridden twenty-something woman was the author of more than fifteen best-selling murder thrillers. Appearances were more than deceiving.

Abby opened the door wider, inviting him in. “You’ve intrigued me, Mr. – “ She hesitated, realizing she missed his name.

“Ichijo, but please, call me Takuma,” he said with a cheerful smile, stepping past her into the cramped apartment.

“Um, call me Abby. Abigail is reserved for my grandmother when she’s getting ready to yell at me for doing something stupid,” she replied, looking about with a stranger’s eye the state of her apartment. Hmm. Maybe she should rethink the maid idea.

She shuffled by him, gathered up some print outs she used for reference for one of the last books she’d published, looked around for somewhere to put them, and wound up stacking the papers on some notebooks in another chair. Ah well, at least he had somewhere to sit.

He sat down, oozing elegance, and gave her an amiable smile. “Mr. Yakata told me you are an author,” he said with a hint of eagerness. “Is all of this your research for your book?” He waved a hand at the mess.

She grimaced. “Books, actually. I think I used that stuff,” she gestured to the stack she just moved, “in either the last book or the book before. I don’t remember,” she confessed. “They kind of run together after awhile.”

He looked intrigued, staring at her as if she were a fascinating specimen. Having such narrow regard on her flustered Abby a bit and she cast about for something else to say. “I was getting ready to make tea. Want some? Then we can discuss your proposition regarding the rental space.”

“Tea would be lovely,” he said with a wide, blinding white smile. Good Lord. Was he a statue come to life of someone’s ideal human being? He was damned near perfect in every way. And he smiled a lot. Nothing looked awkward, out-of-place or, well, human about him. An angel?

She scowled at her fanciful thoughts. Angels were make believe. She should know. She’d been begging for one to save her, help her, since she’d been diagnosed three years ago. The supernatural was fairy tales. Pain, fear and misery was life.

She clanged about the kitchen, heating water in her electric kettle, setting up a tray with a tea pot, the delicate cups to match that belonged to her great-grandmother, and a little bit of cream and sugar in case this Ichijo guy took it in his tea. She put her favorite cherry jam on there for her own use and once everything was assembled, took a deep breath as she prayed she wouldn’t have a bout of weakness and drop the damned thing.

She managed to set the tray down on the coffee table and it perched precariously on some almanacs and forensic reports she’d gathered for research. Unsure of etiquette with a guy this gorgeous, Abby hesitated and was relieved when he took the lead.

He poured the steeped tea into the cups with great delicacy and practice. His nostrils flared when he caught scent of the flavor and then he put a healthy dab of the jam in both their cups before handing her one.

“You like jam in your tea?” she asked in surprise.

He smiled wistfully. “A friend taught me to drink it that way. I’ve found I prefer it more than anything else. You have good taste in teas and jam, I must say.”

‘Okay, points to this guy for liking jam in his tea,’ Abby thought as she sipped at her tea a couple of times. She watched him look around her apartment with great interest. Those beautiful eyes missed nothing, she noted. He was sharp as a tack and undoubtedly highly intelligent.

And extremely handsome. She was starting to get light-headed just looking at him. Or maybe that was the new cancer treatment catching up.

“So, Takuma,” she said, clasping her cup in both hands when they began to shake. “The shop. Why buy when you can lease?”

He turned his attention back to Abby. “I found your space perfect for my needs. Just what I pictured my little shop to be, in fact. The location is ideal as well. I do not want to lease, however. I plan on being in whatever spot I choose for a very long time. Purchasing is imminently more practical,” he explained.

She nodded. “I get that,” she said honestly, “but I can’t just sell that little corner. I’d have to sell the whole building.” She grimaced. “Some weird city ordinance,” she added. “I mean, it’s never been a problem before, but with you wanting to buy not lease…” She trailed off and gave a shrug.

“I would find it no hardship to purchase the building and give you a very generous price for it,” Takuma told her.

Abby frowned at that. “Well, first of all, I live here. I don’t really want to be a renter on property I used to own. Second of all, most of the other residents are elderly or disabled. I’m not exactly hurting for money so when they are a little late on the rent and such, I’ve got no problem giving leeway.”

Takuma nodded thoughtfully. “I see no reason why such an arrangement cannot remain with the current tenants,” he noted.

“And lastly my family has owned this building for a long, long time. I’m pretty sure if I sold it, my great-great-great grandfather would rise from his grave and do what my cancer hasn’t done yet and that’s kill me.” She tried to joke but knew it fell flat when his gaze sharpened and those keen eyes gave her a more thorough once over.

“You are ill?” His voice was sharp, almost disapproving.

She stiffened. “Not everyone gets lucky and has a long life,” she snapped. “Some of us have to deal with the shit poker hand life has given us.”

Takuma was taken aback by her tone and set his cup carefully down on the tray. “I meant no disrespect,” he assured her calmly. “It’s just – “ Here he faltered, frowning as if trying to find the right words.

But Abby had enough. She was beginning to feel worse by the second and having this healthy, beautiful man in her apartment made her feel like some sort of defect. When was the last time she ate?

“Lease or leave, Mr…” She blanked on his last name, “Takuma. Make your arrangement with the real estate agent or find somewhere else. Please leave.” She didn’t add ‘and don’t let the door hit you on the way out’ but she was positive he picked up on it, if the narrowed gaze he gave her was any indication.

He rose with a wounded dignity that raised Abby’s ire just a bit more. He walked with an even pace to the door and paused before opening it. “I offer $4 million for the entire building,” he told her. “I will change no agreements the tenants currently have for their residences. The other businesses are also allowed to keep their existing arrangements. Furthermore, I will charge you no rent at all, until either you move or…” His voice caught and she scowled. What did he have to be upset about? “Or until you pass.”

“Get out,” she snapped.

“Please consider my offer, Ms. O’Malley,” he said in a soft voice. “I make it in good faith. I am willing to let you look over my finances and credit to assure you I can uphold my end of the bargain.”

“I said get the fuck out.”

He stood there for a long moment but she refused to look at him. Hot tears were threatening to spill down her cheeks and she didn’t want to look weak and frail in front of that perfect human being standing at her front door.

“Very well. Again, please reconsider.” He opened the door and left, the door closing with a gentle click behind him.

Abby looked around her. This apartment was her refuge. It was a place to hide from the poking and prodding of doctors and the interminable tests that offered hope only to snatch it away over and over again. It was a safe place that well-meaning but morose family members wouldn’t go with their platitudes, remember-whens, and sad-eyed, mournful looks. Here she could defeat evil, overcome adversity, and create a happy ending with her stories. The happy ending that would be denied her.

Angrily, Abby dashed away the tears that finally fell, stood up and marched on unsteady feet to her desk.

She had a chapter to write. Many chapters. And the next victim was going to be a green-eyed, blond, too-good-to-be-true, insensitive jerk.

With relish, she began to type and soon immersed herself in murder and the investigation that would bring a bad guy to justice.

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