#alternate universe (derogatory) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunboki · 7 months ago

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— THE ALCHEMIST. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. historical! au, set in 1940’s Korea, alchemist! au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst

WARNINGS. abusive behavior toward women, impoverished communities, overall sexist beliefs of the time, reader dresses as a man, mentions of death & disease, smoking (not reader or minho), war conflict, making out??

WORD COUNT. 9.6k words

AUG'S NOTES. although it was a bit out of the blue, i had such a great time writing and shaping this universe, thank you to all the love and support thus far<3 also, huge thanks to @comet-falls for instilling the peaky blinders/historical! minho vision in my head with how incredible tooth and claw was, i truly owe it to you :)

SYNOPSIS. Cities stricken with poverty, the lack of male presence in your home while surviving in a male-dominated society leaves meager food on the table and a piling debt. Left no choice but to make a risky decision, you decide that, if biology wanted to fail you, you’d simply try another approach.

alternatively :

In which deception introduces you into an entirely new reality, and The Alchemist.

It’s one thing surviving with the knowledge you can change something, whatever it may be that’s wrong.

It’s another when that problem isn’t merely changeable, but biological.

Your problem? You’re a woman.

Not as easy to fix, right?

With your father lost in the war, fruitlessly straining to support a family of girls, the household is left helpless.

Representation is nonexistent, and merely walking outside frets harassment and laughter struck in your face at the mention of working.

A woman, working? Hilarious.

Or, apparently to the men in pubs it certainly is.

Some things you can’t change, yes, but there are always alternatives. And as for now, you’re helplessly searching high and low for that alternative, whatever it may be.

Selling yourself is possible, though the inability to remain connected to your family eliminates that option.

When you get so desperate, there’s no incentive in guarding your pride. Because being called derogatory names isn’t as bad as losing them, the people you call home.

October welcomes little warmth, biting your fingertips and sending a tremor of chills cascading down your spine. Minimal sunlight peers through dense clouds, shrouding the atmosphere in a depressing haze.

You’re on your way to the apothecary, but not to purchase anything. The pennies in your pocket won’t amount to anything in the face of medicinal prices, which happens to be one of your many alternatives.

Since day one, you’ve had a rock to rely on.

Medicine.

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness.

Constantly.

Whether it was your mother, your younger sister, yourself, an infection of some sort occupied your respiratory system, wreaking havoc for wallets and mental health altogether.

Purchasing necessary medication became impossible the further you drowned in your debt, to the point drastic measures needed to be taken in order to prevent death from infesting itself in the household as well.

Then came the question. If you couldn’t purchase the medicine itself, why not collect the ingredients?

Alternatives.

Behind the apothecary you discovered mint hedges that, if mixed with wormwood and balm, could aid in curing Sun-ja’s current sickness, colic.

Although, you’d have to be swift in your efforts, ensuring the shop owner didn’t notice your presence.

Too many times had you nearly been caught, risking a good beating from the red-haired, burly man regarded as Mr. Myeong.

Fiery red hair complimented an equally unruly personality you aimed not to cross by. Ever.

Yet, unlike Mr. Myeong, his wife was the polar opposite, an ideal magnet. She was petite and soft-spoken, but out of her appealing traits, you found her resilience to be most attractive.

Mrs. Myeong is stubborn. She’s strong in what she believes, sporting an unquestionably vocal opinion that can’t be quenched.

The woman is, likely, the only woman capable of sealing her husband’s mouth shut.

Hidden between thorn ridden weeds sits your desired leaves, abundant in supply.

You clutch your satchel closer, plucking as quickly as possible whilst crouched to the ground, maneuvering through tickling grasses and itchy reeds.

Your mission remains successful, until the wretched sound of a doorknob rips your head upward, the red-haired man in question standing nonplussed, arms crossed.

He wears a cocked brow, examining what you’re desperately trying to veil away.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Stealing, are we?” Black boot clad frame thumping closer, you immediately prepare to run, hair standing on end like an agitated feline.

Instead, his huge hand swoops down to grab your collar, other evidently ready to land a harsh slap to your face.

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

That is, before a saccharine, lullaby-worthy voice rings from the cracked doorway, belonging to none other than Mrs. Myeong.

“Honey! Have you seen the new envelope that came in?”

Heels clicking whilst padding over cobblestone to where you two stand, her husband fixates you with a stern, threatening glare.

Finally dropping your frame to the ground, you slump forward, pulse pounding loud enough you fear your chest may implode.

Mrs. Myeong, though wearing a taut expression, ushers him off, delivering a curt nod your way, intentional brows furrowed in place.

‘Thank you’ You wish to say, but hold your tongue, watching them disappear inside.

Another time.

Walking home was rather uneventful (much to your delight), left to enjoy the crisp, cool air sifting through your lungs in steady rhythm, the lazy billows of cigar smoke dwindling from gaping doorways.

Calm.

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

Stashing the house key back into your decrepit leather draw bag, your footsteps still upon entering, struck terror-filled.

Your mother, strawn across the floor, hacks amongst her rampant coughs, body convulsing in desperate shivers, skin drenched a ghastly blue.

Sprinting to her side, you kneel down, rolling the woman over to find her face utterly battered, new black eye beginning to swell, cheek bruised a mawkish purple against hollowed cheekbones.

Sharks.

To your left Sun-ja hides in the corner, rags for a blanket pulled to her chest, shielded between the wall and a tipped cabinet.

Over and over they’ve begun visiting, to the point your mother became recognizable by her continuous black eye, her torn clothing and stooped posture.

Exhausted, she was exhausted.

Yet, she took the beatings. The torturous punches. Jarring slaps, traumatic insults, tarnishing. Your mother took it so you wouldn’t, so you and Sun-ja could live.

And it’s at that moment you make up your mind, discover this occasion’s alternative.

“Cut it off.”

“Cut.. Cut it off?” Hyunjin gapes, fingers stalling their descent down a strand of your hair.

You smile, grimacing the longer consideration poises.

No point in thinking too much.

“Yep. Give me the most boy-ish haircut you can.” You emphasize, gesturing toward his scissors expectantly.

Hyunjin, your personally appointed hairstylist, doesn’t seem too convinced. He’s debating, expertly reading your features.

Currently, you’re holed up in his room, a miniature apartment located near the furthest section of town, close to the coast.

In wee hours of morning you boarded the train here, inhaling salty, ocean-smelling breeze. Back in your old residence you met him, your neighbor Hwang Hyunjin. It’s a miracle you still stayed in contact, bond aging like the finest of wines over countless years.

Enough to where you trusted him to help you enact this alternative of yours.

Starting with a haircut.

The man stares at you through the mirror, dark, inky hair matting the longer he runs his hands through it.

Thoughtfully trying to figure out your reasoning, he evidently catches on the moment you witness his eyes roll, releasing a heaving sigh.

“You cannot be serious.”

A torrential truth keeps you from responding, gaze directed at your feet.

“Y/n,” He uttered, eyes filling with a concern you avoid meeting, avoid regarding in a whole. “You don’t have to do this, the war is going to end soon and your father will come ba—“

“He’s dead.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Collecting yourself, you scorn his frown.

“He’s dead and gone. Now I need to protect them, provide for them.“

You deny the shakiness of your voice.

“So, Hyunjin. Cut off my hair.”

Accordingly, he does without another word. Snip by snip, tress by tress falling below, scattering the tile floor in endless strands.

By the time you see yourself, it’s hard to recognize the person in the reflection. Never had you considered your hair a viable source of identity, but now that it’s so sparse, the effect is eminent.

Failing to see yourself in your own reflection beckons a different kind of sadness. For the person you’ve introduced yourself as reigns no more. She’s been replaced.

Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, embrace just as comforting as you remembered. His hand reaches to caress your cropped hair, rocking back and forth on his heels, chin resting on your head.

“Be careful, okay?”

Nodding into his shoulder, you wipe salty streaks from your cheeks.

Hurts.

“And if you need a place to take shelter, I’ll be here.”

Steadying in his hug again, you pull back, cherishing his kindness with a chaste kiss to the cheek.

“Thank you, really.”

Shaking his head at your gratitude, urging you out and lingering by the doorway till your figure retreats in the distance.

Next stop, Mrs. Myeong.

If anyone has any idea how to source the clothing you’re needing, your best chance would be thanks to her.

An hour later you arrive in familiar avenues, creeping out of sight into the apothecary in hopes the woman you’re looking for is working the counter.

Much to your pleasure, after a few unsuccessful attempts do you grasp her attention, edging forward under the guise of a regular hoping to converse.

“I need your help.”

Initially, she carries that sternness, wordlessly lifting your hooded head a bit to notice the latest adjustment. Shock written over her face, Mrs. Myeong drags you along with her, closing the door to a back room.

“My child, what is going on?” She whispers, tone urgent. You can’t help but feel fond of the affectionate nickname.

“I need male clothing and,” You hesitate, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “something to bind my chest with.”

Similar to Hyunjin, she steps back, assessing the situation at hand. Spending a brief few seconds roaming your figure, the woman works hastily toward fetching a petticoat, meticulously fitting each article atop your stock-still frame.

“You’re conceited,” she grumbles. “And foolish.” Carefully peeling off your upper-wear, she’s managed to cut a piece of thick cloth to use as a make-shift binder, assembling the fabric over your breast.

The experience, although strange, wasn’t as painful as anticipated.

“But be careful, and stay in contact.”

Your response is hushed.

“Breathe in,” The older woman instructs, securing her creation with a threaded pin before moving onto other aspects, like a proper coat and pants.

Mr. Myeong’s trousers, though having to be sewn to fit, make do, and you’re reminded to return tomorrow for shoes. Otherwise, the attire is completed, paired with a curved hat to finish.

Sure, the entire male concept is foreign, but given time, you’ll gradually acclimate.

Oh, right.

Your alternative?

Since medicine is what you know, you’ll stick with that. Difference being medicine is a men’s occupation, and so, if you can’t be a female working in the field, why not become male?

Well, somewhat become male.

It’s a risky wager, easily placing your life on the line in the process.

For your mother and Sun-ja, however, it’s your turn to take the beating. Your turn to endure.

Observation is a virtue. It can save and preserve, heed to oncoming danger, and simultaneously (and discreetly) supply useful information.

Today, seated on a bench in Daegu Station, your first observation is the abundance of people scurrying like mice.

Some tall, some short. Distinct moles, eyes. Upturned and downturned lips. Mustaches, beards. Much to see.

Your legs cross and uncross, Mr. Myeong’s oversized heeled shoes beginning to sink at your ankles. Hat strung low enough to peer out without attracting attention, your gaze is magnetically drawn to a magazine held on the adjacent side of the train tracks, title on display.

Prized Alchemist Lee Minho suspected of being the lone survivor of the Red Plagu—

Ignorant to your surroundings, your senses posed numb to the incoming train, blocking off the last few words of the title from view the moment it soars past—nearly sweeping the fedora off your head.

By the time the last few train cars passed, the man honing said magazine had disappeared, and you were left wondering if the experience was merely a figment of your imagination.

Although, you did have one lead. A name.

Lee Minho.

Where you’d find him remained unknown, deciding to rely on a magazine parlor first and foremost for more intel.

To no surprise, nearly every magazine rack lay lined with haughty opinions regarding the war and its evident cruelty.

Many onlookers of both Americans, Koreans, and foreigners alike chatter amongst themselves about their own take between gossiping hands and fumes of tobacco.

In this town, located far off in the business district by a ship port, people are everywhere.

Wives of sailors, families of soldiers off at war. Women honing gleaning parasols and ivory gloves reaching to their elbows.

Languages you’ve never heard before utter their enunciated syllables, vocabulary petulant with accent—all shrouded in dismay.

Roaming the store endlessly to no avail, you prepare to adventure back through dusty streets and battered wooden stall-shops before a peculiar name pauses your footsteps.

His name, The Alchemist, Lee Minho.

“Bring ‘em home I tell ‘ya,” An aged man by the deepened grooves of his face, hollow cheekbones and bunched wrinkles grumbles.

A fat cigar hangs loosely from thin lips, pale baker boy cap adorning a bald head.

Some sentences estranged, you identify his sentences as French, heavy in dialect, throaty and broad.

And although your fluency stay patchy, exposure from French immigrants who’ve relocated near home allow minimal understanding as to what they’re talking about.

“Say, did you hear that Lee Minho chap was a Red Plague?” His counterpart offered past his own leering cigar, foot tapping incessantly.

The other hacks his bewilderment, feeble fist pounding on an equally feeble chest.

“The Alchemist?”

The man’s astonishment returned with a nod, you lean closer, pretending to be consumed in an article.

“Said he was only nineteen when it happened. Shipped ‘em off only for disease to kill them all. One survived, now people are speculatin’ it’s him.”

Either of them sigh out long drags.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Is all the other huffs in disbelief, and upon recognizing the conversation approaching an end, you stir to action, willing your voice to deepen an octave.

Attempting to appeal in your broken French, you stall the two, cautiously claiming you’re in need of his whereabouts for an esteemed business transaction to which, through confused stares, you’re given loose directions.

Loose, but feasible.

80 Kent Avenue, dark blue doors.

Directions that, according to the sudden blank of streetlights, would have to wait until tomorrow. As for now, the world beckoned you to rest, and any progress would prove futile and rather impossible in the dark.

Luckily, a run-down Inn gifted good few hours of shut-eye before dawn peered through the windowsills and you were begrudgingly forced to your feet.

Fitting the binder snug across your body and fastening your trench coat through minuscule belt loops, you’re taught with much haste the stark difference of men’s prestige entitlement.

First access to everything, the ability to have their way with a woman whether she willingly obliges or not, and just about ten billion other things someone of your hidden status couldn’t fathom.

A man’s world is a world only possible through disguise. Yours just happens to be a last resort.

Charming the mistress at the front desk was unexpectedly effortless, not to mention how easily she spilled the details as to where Kent Avenue would be located.

Another noticeable attribute of your new appearance, no one asked as to where you were going nor your intentions, they merely dipped their heads and wished you off.

Adjustments.

Adjustments that, if you’d been born different, would be normal.

Kent Avenue lay twisted in shadows. The surrounding area brims in barely flickering labels and creaking doorways leading to who knows where. Quaint isn’t the word for it. More ancient, all-knowing.

This place has been here for centuries with many stories to tell, most just haven’t heard them yet.

Significantly dark blue doors make the Alchemist’s residence easily noticeable, starkly contrasting with wooded architecture. Massive doorknobs engraved with lions, windows shielded by moth-eaten curtains. Grand, in its own form.

You swore each door stood eight feet tall, the left in particular left slightly ajar.

Wait, ajar?

Doing a double take to ensure your vision wasn’t playing tricks on you, you inch forward, widening the dark gap exponentially until all you faced was a black abyss—apart from the miniature lamp beaming yellow light in a far corner.

Carefully tiptoeing into said black abyss, the further you explore, the greater the visibility increases. Leather cushioned furniture, clean, polished desks. The desk the lone lamp rests upon is a chestnut wooden, ink feathers residing in the upper corner.

Somehow, the matter grants envy, resentment grating your nerves. This man lives comfortably while other’s are beaten for possessing nothing. Maybe it’s a petty, unnecessary thought; and maybe you’re foolish, but all odds are against you, your disposition seems righteous.

Getting too lost in your head turned out foolish as well.

“What’s this?” A voice behind you whispers, voice ghosting chills tickling your neck at an alarming pace.

Whipping around, eyes struck wide in shock, the person responsible for the remark comes into view, his stature opposing the tone muttered in your ear seconds ago.

Not a plump business man like you imagined, not adorning a spectacle, no pipe in sight. Instead, one lone button right below the chest fits snug white sleeves cuffed by his elbows, black vest hugging a slim torso.

Conniving, cat-like eyes analyze your expressions while dark brown hair parts to the side, loose strands covering his right eyebrow. And when he reaches up to brush a few frayed tresses to the side you note sleek gloves covering long, pale fingers.

If anything, this man is more similar to a Vampire.

“Trespassing, are we?”

Collect yourself. This is your opportunity.

Swiftly brushing off your clothes, you clear your throat.

“I have an offer.”

“An offer?” A smile belonging to that of a Cheshire cat adorns his lips, one leg propping itself over the other, fingers intertwining in front of him.

Ensuring your voice is clear and concise (while keeping the deeper, male-ish tone), you state your claim, despising how utterly debilitating it feels being caught under his observative stare.

Like he sees through you.

“I would be a valuable asset to your studies in alchemy. I know about herbs and their uses better than anyone else, and where they’re located.”

Sure, the bargain might’ve sounded arrogant, but you were technically cosplaying as a man when most men of your time couldn’t shut up about themselves, arrogance was the least of your problems.

Gnawing at his cheek as you spoke, he pauses a moment, then laughs.

Amused.

Dark lashes dust above equally dark eyes, nearly black as they study you.

“You want to be my apprentice? Is that it?”

You remain close-lipped.

“I’ll tell you one thing, kid. This world is all about money,” He raises a cane from where he reclined, using the end to tip your chin up and meet his eyes.

“No?”

To which you simply stare back at him, refusing to avert eye-contact.

“I’m sure that’s what you’re here for anyways.” Rising from his place, he sighs heartily. “But see, I’m a greedy man, not a good man.”

Abruptly, his countenance falls flat.

“And my job isn’t fun, so you’re out of luck.”

Immediately, you’re frantic, trying your hardest to ignore his obvious statement to leave. The last thing you need is to run out of luck, run out of options.

And so, you hastily wrack your mind for a solution, an excuse, whatever keeps you in this dimly lit room.

“You- You were part of the Red Plague, weren’t you?” Spitting out words from the depths of your racing mind, The Alchemist stops, fixing you with an unreadable look.

Red Plague as in, the group of young men enlisted during the war that all died of a deadly disease but one. One who, many speculate is the man before you.

Breathe in.

“I may not know much about you, but I know what it’s like to want to save somebody.”

Breathe out.

Now it was his turn to stand there, and for a second you swore you saw a flash of sympathy cross his face.

You wet your lips. “I’ll run your errands and wash your clothing, I’ll clean this place spotless. Plus, it’s not like I’m a woman asking for a job, so please, give me a chance.”

Slowly, The Alchemist raises a brow, laugh disbelieving.

“Since when did being a woman have anything to do with this?”

Huh?

How.. odd.

If anything, the majority would wholeheartedly agree, likely hiring you on the spot with how impalpable such a jest seemed.

He would’ve laughed, maybe slapped your back. Would’ve wrapped an arm around your shoulders, proclaimed you his friend.

Yet, you almost feel flattered. Flattered in a strange, unrealistic manner.

Basking in a deplorable quietness, The Alchemist sighs, combing a gloved hand through silken strands.

“I have a spare room around that corner.” He points, leather gloves narrowly highlighted by orange lighting. “Make yourself useful, hm?”

And like that, even if it was a long shot, you landed it. More specifically, landed a job.

How preposterous.

How exciting.

Yet, it began hesitantly. As if he was initially testing your usefulness. Sending you on runs to the nearby gardens, having you make sure a concoction didn’t derange itself while he fetched better flasks. Easy things.

However, you didn’t complain. A boring job was better than no job, and as long as a few coins were emptied into your pocket afterward, you’d continue to work without whining.

Burdock, oregano. Motherwort that would erupt billows of chemically-infused air when added to oils or sugars.

Then you noticed The Alchemist. His quirks, his characteristics.

He shifts between a long trench coat or tight vests, his hair is always styled a certain way, though some days, when he just wakes up, he has this tiny bird nest of hair atop his head, it’s charming.

He yawns a lot.

He wears heeled shoes, maybe from his shorter height, maybe preference.

And rather peculiarly, the longer you stay in his lair, the greater you notice the many scars littering his forearms, collarbones. Miniature cuts and imprints left on porcelain skin.

Those observations, conjoined with his reactions, make for a truly interesting character.

Reactions being his dislike toward loud noises, the matter in which his shoulders scrunch at a loud clap outside, eyes blown wide, fearful.

The longer you stay in his lair, the more you notice him, nonetheless his fears. Whether suspicion clarifies anything in specific, there’s no denying he’s a man of war.

Lee Minho has secrets, and as badly as your nosiness itches to uncover them, you, as you had promised earlier, will keep your lips sealed.

And it makes you wonder, what’s life like on your side of the street? What throng of unfairness left you awash, left you both suffering?

You wonder about your oppositions and similarities in different points of each other’s lives. Minutes, decades before you ever met.

Certain stones shall stay unturned, but you hope, maybe one day, those questions will be answered.

Interestingly enough, he never asked about your name; not even when you gingerly introduced yourself as your last name, a rather awkward fit.

Likewise, you don’t complain. There’s only two of you in the house after all.

A week in, you’re finally introduced to something new.

The Alchemist plans to have you tag along with him to Port Nova, a docking station located on the outskirts of Busan.

Business thrives in ship ports, the sole source of connectivity for a growing country like Korea. Each day, millions of shipments come in from countries you can’t name, so you’re not surprised in the slightest he’s headed there for a transaction.

You are surprised he decided to have you tag along.

Even more so that, as you hop off the transit, hurriedly tailing his left, he veers off a sharp turn, approaching a worn Burlesque Club, glittering sign halfway dangling from its perch on a scarlet red awning.

English letters spell out Nova Burlesque, a few missing letters left astray to the side, electrical bulbs spasming with sporadic lighting on the dusty ground below.

In the daylight, the place appears ordinary, blending in with its crumbling, desolate surroundings.

Although, you have no doubt this place utterly delights in the eve, pink-neon inviting enough to lure unaware foreigners upon first arrival.

“Mr. Lee,” You utter, returned with a short scoff from the man who insisted you refer to him by his name, Minho.

“Where are we going?”

It’s hesitant, unsure of whether to intervene, but Minho only smirks, whispering a not-very-assuring “You’ll see” you begrudgingly go along with.

Inside is the last of what you anticipated.

Oh dear.

You’ve only been to minimal Burlesque Clubs, but the ornery perspective of faux jewelry, a glittery, hallucinatory stage, and the constant rendition of Why Don’t You Do Right whirling on scratchy records isn’t present here.

Alternatively, there’s stools scattered around a marginally illuminated clearing, some upturned, others occupied by burly men with equally burly beards.

And in the middle, a boxing ring is situated. The stench of sweat and blood soaks the air in a metallic, pungent aroma.

A brisk realization crosses your mind, a conclusion of a sort.

Play a fool’s game, earn a fool’s reward.

Only you, Hyunjin, and Ms. Myeong know the lengths you’re willing to go to secure your family's well-being, and now, at odds you can’t compromise, you have to do everything in your power to maintain your act.

This is a test.

Sifting behind you, he murmurs a hushed: “Cover your ears.” That you begrudgingly oblige to, cupping either hand over your ears as Minho clutches his leather holster, concealed within the confines of a frequently worn coat.

In a split second, a gunshot is fired to the ceiling, the bullet's shell casing dropping atop the welt of his pointed shoe.

Stunned silence ensues.

Arm still extending the revolver in the air, you haphazardly remove your hands, dragging the hat further over your face as more eyes focus on the both of you.

“I’m looking for Reiner and Manfred.”

The longer the tension rises, the further you grow self conscious.

“Already?” A man bellows from inside the ring, breaking the awestruck spell whilst gripping his opponent by the collar, fist poised and ready to strike.

Unusually, they seem to know each other.

Minho merely exhales a loud sigh through his nose, practically two times smaller than his apparent acquaintance.

Said acquaintances grumbles.

“Leave it to our champion to interrupt the show.”

And with that, he hooks the contender in the jaw, sending him pummeling down to the tarnished mat where hoards either cheer or groan, hustling money left and right over the victor.

Champion of the show? You’re adding that to your collection of never ending questions that’ll likely stay unanswered.

From the crowd arises two men. The victor from the ring and another from the crowd, dressed lavishly opposed to his white tank top-wearing counterpart.

Reiner and Manfred, you assume.

Serving as a mere shadow in The Alchemist’s wake, the four of you hustle outside, met with a nonplussed Minho and two, mildly confused (and enormously tall) men.

Foreigners, certainly.

“..Care to introduce the pipsqueak?” Reiner presumably more talkative, piques, beady eyes scouring your figure enough to where you scorn the beads of sweat collecting upon your temple.

Pipsqueak my foot.

You stave down the retort, inhabiting Minho’s shadow as the three discuss matters of a hospital transaction. Almost like you weren’t there at all, as it’s always been.

If it weren’t for the technicalities, you would’ve interjected, made your presence known. Except, other than herbal instances, you’re a novice in the business department. You’ll leave that up to your current mentor to arrange.

Again, lips sealed.

Minho, ignorant to the previous victor’s question, continues to sign legal documents supplied by the calmer individual, Manfred. You internally thank the gesture.

Well, before Reiner’s sordid gaze becomes too stifling to brush off.

“I’m Mr. Lee’s apprentice, L/N. Nice to meet you,” You initiate, fearlessly reaching out a hand he heartily shakes, features graced with amusement, massive hand practically engulfing yours.

Pardoning a gruff “Likewise”, he nearly sends you flying from the timbre of his voice alone.

“Say,” Reiner mutters, finally completing the last of the package transfers. “Don’t you think this one seems a bit feminine?”

Your jaw ticks, nervousness shrouding your being like an unrelenting fog. Minho’s fingers close around your elbow, pulling you closer, brows knit.

“Perhaps you need your eyes checked, Reiner,” He offers, tone nonchalant opposed to the vice-like grip latched to your arm.

Heftily chortling, the man only pats your back, causing your entire body to surge forward upon impact.

“Well regardless, it’s a cute little thing ain’t it?”

Manfred simply grunts his acknowledgment while you bite your tongue, coveting your retaliation when he referred to you as “it”.

No use growing angered. The feeling is futile.

Luckily, your irritable arrangement comes to a hasty close, more than gleeful to have an understandably annoyed Minho steer you from Port Nova onto a short train back to Kent Avenue, to your newly established home.

A home, but not really a home. Semi-permanent, unofficial.

Either way, you wouldn’t complain. Despite the constant efforts in diminishing your past identity, you didn’t feel as conscious when around Minho.

Safer.

As if, in an alternative reality, you could tell him. Your truths, your burdens.

No. You won’t jeopardize this opportunity. You can’t.

At least, not yet.

“I’ll be back Mr. Lee!” You shout, wielding a briefcase bag to your person, nudging the ghoulish door open using your hip.

As usual, you’re headed off on a restocking trip.

Except on this occasion, the restocking consists of hunting down a peculiar herb: Chinese Chrysanthemum. It’s an appealing plant with fluorescent leaves and a constant need for sunlight.

It’s no surprise he’s sent you to fetch such goods. After two months, you soared in and out of the residence routinely, scouring Korea while Minho hunched over a wildly diverse array of vials and flasks, glasses propped on his slightly hooked nose, hands firmly resting on a wooden exam table.

Studious. He is very studious.

However, a catch diverts itself from eye view. A catch you hadn’t considered until your two feet stepped from squealing train tracks.

Somehow, although unusually intentional, you wound up in a rather peculiar area. An area you never imagined paying a visit to in your wildest dreams.

In the midst of economic outrage and warring circumstances, you’re standing in one of Korea’s most unstable, informal districts. A place that, according to your overhearing ear, was where your precious Chrysanthemum lodged.

This district had an infamous name.

The Den.

A fitting name in actuality, where a person didn’t realize they were stuck till it was too late, unable to see where they’re going, living in belief there’s an incentive to the finish line in a race run in circles.

Also, a place the Sharks who torment your family report to.

You can hear your heart thrumming in your ears, nearly ricocheting out of your chest with its horrid cacophony.

Calm down.

Calm down. Think of the goal.

All you have to do is find a flower.

Grounding yourself, you pinpoint some viable resources.

Fertile soil, maybe even sandy, likely in the inner portion of The Den.

Plus, you’re dressed as a man, you might as well act outrageously boisterous.

But you’re not, you’re afraid. Perhaps not external, but inside, your lungs feel as if they’re being violently crushed, sinking deeper in an unsteady submersible to the very bottom of the ocean. And for a second, you truly contemplate going back, telling Minho you’re incapable of the task.

Yet, what would you say? You’re haunted by a vision that hasn’t happened? Fearful for a future event with no guarantee? If you had ever done something so horrid, they would’ve found you ages ago.

This time, you’re in their domain, invading what’s theirs as they’ve done to you.

Greater. You aren’t who you used to be, in more ways than one.

Genuinely, what is there to lose?

That’s it. You’ll complete the mission and return. No run-ins, no fear barricading your job.

In and out.

Initially, you scout out your surroundings, regarding the faint sound of voices funneling in the distance, the smell of mixtures you hate being able to identify, far off machinery croaking before smoke spurs from rusted screws and bolts.

Amongst the chatter of street vendors and the many, notorious gang members patrolling in and out of abandoned shops, you roam avidly, keeping as low a profile as possible.

Number one priority is to not be noticed. Drawing attention to yourself is a one way ticket to failure, and the last thing you need is to arrive back to Minho empty-handed.

However, through the blinding clouds of smoke billowing from exhaust pipes, a specific building, shrouded in the shadows of charcoal residue, douses your peripheral.

A Greenhouse.

Bingo.

Quickly looking around, you shrink low to the ground, racing forward to carefully creak open glass double doors and slip inside.

It feels as if you’re enclosed in a furnace. Mere seconds in and sweat already begins gathering upon your temples.

Though that becomes the least of your concerns after assessing what lies inside.

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of flowers and herbs. Rare species, some critically endangered, just sitting here.

It’s strange.

Why would, in the case such an abundance existed, not be used? Why hadn’t this Greenhouse been raptured from the inside out for such valuable items?

It’s not until a commotion stirs ahead of you that you understand the answer to the question.

With about five plucked Chinese Chrysanthemums expertly sealed into their coordinating bags, a piercing hiss followed by multiple shouts and hollers cause you to shrink back, gazing around haphazardly.

A hiss?

From your perspective nearly kissing the dirt, your vision allows a minuscule glimpse of multiple backs turned, boisterously amused men gathering around something in the front of the Greenhouse.

You feel the need to know more.

Inching forward tip-toe by tip-toe, amidst the roaring crowd, you spare a look between the sea of legs to find an utterly deplorable sight.

A cat.

No, not just a cat, cat fighting. They’re watching cats maul each other for the fun of it. As if they aren’t living creatures, but toys for their entertainment.

And perhaps it’s a foolish decision, perhaps laughable being worried, being angered, but you are and you refuse to leave knowing you could’ve done something to help them.

Hastily scouring the floors, a can of Spam discarded below Foxglove stems proves useful enough, tossing it as far as possible where it whacks against the glass wall, immediately averting their attention.

This is your chance.

As dark clouds and incoming rain thunder outside, you don’t waste the opportunity, sprinting forward while the men make toward the direction of the sound and hoisting the first cat you see into your arms.

Sprinting past narrow pathways and dimly lit streets, you force your eardrums numb to the threats they call after you, mind trained on one thing besides getting as far as possible from here.

To Minho to Minho to Minho.

A hand grabbing your shoulder causes you to shriek, swiftly dragged off where you swear your last breaths will be taken, the feline in your arms scrambling with panic.

“What are you doing?” Your captor furiously whispers, hidden in the low lighting of an apparent alleyway.

Wait. You recognize that voice.

“Hyunjin?”

How does he recognize you?

Just then does a breeze swipe past your head, sending chills trickling down your rain-soaked neck.

Your hat is gone. Must’ve fell off while you were running.

“Wh.. what are you doing?” Slipping from his grasp after the men’s hushed conversation becomes inaudible, you regard the man with an incredulous stare.

“Answer my question first,” He reprimands, and as the cat resounds a pained meow do you assess the dire nature of the situation.

You need to get this cat to Minho, and fast.

“Can’t- Can’t talk right now I’ve got to go—“

“Wait!”

Though, as your footsteps breach the security of the alley, the placating cry of crows mock your left, hurried footsteps belonging to those occupying the Greenhouse heading toward you in rampant haste.

Hyunjin’s hand holding your wrist, you grace a tight-lipped smile his way.

“Let’s not see each other like this again, okay?”

He returns a miniature grin, teeming with mischief.

“Agreed.”

Upon letting go, you race off, attempting to speedily navigate back to the train station whilst torrents of streaming droplets cascade down your face.

“Good luck!”

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” You respond back, voice permeated against the rain, eyes frantically searching for a place to evade.

Finally, a crowd appears, swarming amongst diners and flickering street lights.

Your perfect hideaway.

Swimming through the hive of people, you catapult yourself into the nearest phone booth in sight, fumbling through deep pockets before cashing a coin into the metal slot and jarring your index over slippery metal numbers.

Praying the combination is correct as you hold the wired telephone to your ear, you’re consumed with utmost relief upon hearing The Alchemist’s voice answer on the other side of the crackling line.

Amidst roaring rainfall drowning the booth, you differentiate shouting a ways off, likely belonging to the men from earlier.

“Mr- Mr. Lee?”

“Yes? Where are you?”

“Are you.. Are you allergic to cats?”

Never in your life did you think you would be so overjoyed seeing blue doors.

Clambering inside—the rather upset cat in your arms hissing their dismay—you’re overwhelmed with an unexplainable happiness seeing Minho’s face peer from the guest room.

Relief.

“L/N wha..”

Words dying in his throat as he gives you a speechless once over, your urge to hug him dissipates instantly, beckoning a new set of garments upon realizing how utterly drenched your precious disguise is.

Simultaneously shoving the cat his way before rushing to your room, you thankfully strip of your fretfully cold attire, welcomed in the comforting embrace of clean clothing.

A mere five minutes later you exit, greeted by Minho’s stockstill frame. Hand half-raised, evidently about to knock.

You forcefully clear your throat, praying the momentary awkward tension is alleviated.

Luckily, The Alchemist takes it upon himself to break the spell, eyes dancing across the floorboards in order to avoid your own.

“Well, she’s stable. Her vitals are fine, nothing too critical apart from a few cuts here and there. Just shaken up.”

Your stare of astonishment earns a confused tip of his head.

“That fast?”

Said (apparently female) cat rubbing her body along your calf with an obviously delighted purr, you appear nearly concussed, crouching down to pat the soft, striped fur lining her back.

Minho snorts.

“What can I say, I get work done.”

Maybe he is a vampire after all.

Mirroring your crouch, he watches your interaction, similarly feline-like inspection unnoticed till glancing up.

And for a swift moment, you swear he saw through you. Lips parted, eyes scrutinizing. Piecing together the building blocks to a wavering structure you’d strived so hard to build, to protect.

No. You’re overthinking. He couldn’t possibly know.

You failed to notice the forlorn look on his face, one that ushers to ask if you’re okay, fetch a hot beverage to warm your evidently cold hands.

“Might I ask how you ended up bringing this one home?”

Leave it to him to take the title as your greatest ally and worst enemy at the same time.

Ah. Right.

“Y’know I was about to get to that-”

You pause, deriding the high pitch of your voice into something more appropriate. He cocks a brow.

“As I was saying, it wasn’t my intention to bring her back, but the place she was trapped at, the place with the men- the plants..”

According to his expression, you’ve grown two heads.

…

“Go on.”

“Look, the place I found the Chrysanthemum was having cat fights. Do you remember hearing about the dog fights in Gangwon? It’s the same thing. We can’t just sit still while they’re torturing innocent animals.”

“I don’t know what you got yourself into, but I’m an Alchemist, not a hero,” He sighs, and your hand stalls its petting, face falling while the cat in your lap flicks her tail back and forth expectantly.

He has a point. You got yourself into this, you went into the Greenhouse. It’s not his duty to clean up after your messes, but perhaps you can convince him, even by a small margin.

Play a fools game, earn a fools reward.

You’ll mop the floor of your own mess.

“Minho, please. Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?”

Stifling silence making an additional appearance, you nervously await the verdict, perched rather hilariously outside of your bedroom door.

Chewing the skin of his cheek, he scolds himself for falling so susceptible to you, though you won’t ever know that.

“Fine, but you’d better have a plan.”

Ah. Great.

You don’t.

At dawn’s arrival you’re swept upward, fixing a hasty bout of tea and toast prior to dressing in the privacy of your appreciated quarters.

You don a much-needed hat, hopping aboard the first train of the day with a well-dressed Minho in tow.

Retracing your steps turns out easier than you anticipated, The Alchemist tailing you as you had done him at Port Nova.

Though, just when the task seemed a cake walk, you manage a meager detour, regarding your unimpressed mentor.

“From what I can remember, it’s around here somewhere. But I might be wrong, I stumbled upon it by accident and it looks a bit scary but I think—“

“Stop! Stop- Stop talking. Please.”

You quickly shut your mouth, allowing the man to lead instead till the sight of familiar landmarks becomes a gradual reassurance of your location.

Perhaps now it’s safe to talk.

“Mr. Lee, what did Reiner mean by calling you a champion-“

Shoved against the brick wall, your sentence dies instantly, panickedly glancing in all directions assessing the all too familiar pistol Minho‘s drawn, conspicuous in close proximity.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He enunciates, tone unusually gruff whilst scanning your surroundings.

Your face warms an involuntary pink you clamber to ward off, drawn to the sight of his tense jaw and the feather-like arrangement of long lashes, focused on something elsewhere.

Your retort dies not only from his beauty, but upon the familiar Greenhouse coming into view.

“Looks like we found where your little friends are playing.”

Though, as the man begins forward, you grab him by the sleeve.

“Wait! We can’t just waltz in.”

His hand, slipping from the warmth of his pocket, cups your chin, unbearably close to your face to the point you can feel his breath on your nose.

Curse the butterflies.

“Well there’s no need for an introduction, so let’s listen this time, shall we?”

Left at a loss for words either from your slack mouth or the concerning amount of sweat building upon your palms, you don’t argue back, lingering right outside the door, craning to hear voices.

By the sound of it, at least four people are inside at the moment, and the longer you stay out here, the more ample time becomes for additional threats to show up.

As if reading your mind, he slips through the rugged door, gesturing for you to follow while silently navigating through dense, humid underbrush and overgrown foliage.

However, your quiet voyage is quelled when a twig, unbeknownst to the two of you, cracks under the pressure of his foot.

“Shit,” He mutters, cringing back at the immediate quietness that ensued.

The Alchemist curses as well.

Interesting.

Amidst the men bearing closer, Minho turns to you, tone urgent.

“When I get up, you run and free the cats. Don’t look back, just go.”

Nodding hastily, you reacquaint yourself with the area, ensuring a dead set beeline to where the cats were held without interruptions.

Minho, a split second before you can ask a question, whips the gun from his coat pocket, the sound of bullets whipping through the air enough indication it’s time you go.

Finnicking hands make it hard to unscrew the wired cages, surges of adrenaline helping speed up the rescue as you double check every feline has escaped.

Heeding to instruction, you don’t look for The Alchemist, solely driven to freeing the cats and fleeing the scene. No more problems.

Almost an exact replica to your last visit here, a hand drags you off right as you exit the Greenhouse doors, back pressed against his (whom you realized was Minho, not Hyunjin, thanks to the leather gloves) front.

And perhaps from running, perhaps from something else, you can feel his heartbeat, oscillating in a nonstop orchestra that sends your own heart pounding from the confines of your rib cage.

Stifling a shaky inhale you’d held in as the last of the perpetrators scattered elsewhere, you instantly step back, denying every urge to coddle him like a child, fretfully check him for injury.

A certain fondness lay reserved for Lee Minho, a fondness you can’t discern of at the moment.

“C’mon, quick, Soonie might get scared if we’re gone for too long,” He ushers, crashing your tunneling train of thought right off its rails in the process.

“Yeah-“

You stop.

“Soonie?”

“Yeah, Soonie.”

“You named her?”

“..Yes.”

It’s a genuine struggle hiding your laugh.

“I didn’t find you the type to take in cats.”

“Today you’ve been proven wrong, apparently.”

A sort of giddiness you never experienced fills your chest, wishing nothing more than to look back at the man and swoon.

How could you not? He was very much dexterous, and attractive without a doubt, that much was known to anyone who laid eyes on The Alchemist.

Your trek home proved relatively easy, able to skillfully get to the station away from prying eyes and trod along a mixture of gravel and dusty roads without issue.

Silently celebrating your success, you nudge your counterpart's hip, the unimpressed side-eye he grants doing little to dull your happiness.

“Aren’t you an Alchemist? How come you’re oddly good with a gun?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Aren’t you my apprentice? How come you’re getting yourself into trouble when your only instruction was to fetch herbs?”

You conceal a smile he obviously catches, glare failing to quiet your bubbling laughter, his own lips tugging upward.

“It was necessary Mr. Lee! And you know you love Soonie.”

“Unfortunately.”

Nearly a month into her residence, and Soonie has become an effervescent force to be reckoned with. Although initially sassy and wary, she’s transformed into the most affectionate cat you’d ever met.

You have to give it to her, she’s grown on the both of you, a lot.

Plus, you might just have to thank her for unleashing Minho’s tender side, whether that’s the two of them cuddling on the couch while he naps or him picking her up and treating her like a baby while you watch from afar.

Over the course of the five months you’ve been here, you’ve sent countless checks back home—enough to where dues could finally be paid and the hope for a good life came into view.

Everything seems right, seems ideal.

But of course, on an equally ideal Thursday evening, a thousand pounds of bricks drops right on top of your head.

“How long were you planning to keep it from me?”

He, Lee Minho, The Alchemist, voices.

Simultaneously, your stomach plummets to your feet, peeking over your shoulder to find his back facing you, hunched over a straus flask.

Then the bomb drops.

“You being a woman, that is.”

Abruptly pausing, you don’t reply, worried you’d say the wrong thing, unintentionally summon the catalyst to this arising catastrophe.

Yet, you can’t stay quiet for too long. And a fear lingered inside, a fear that if he looked at you, you would break.

“Forever.”

Doing just what you dreaded, he turns to you, wearing a horribly serious expression.

You avoid eye-contact.

“Because you thought I would fire you?”

A nod.

“And that’s why you said that, when you first came to me? That you weren’t a woman asking for a job?”

Another nod.

He sighs, pulling glasses from atop a hooked nose. You remain staring at the floor.

“I don’t decide who to hire based on what they are. If you can do your job and do it well, you’re worthy enough to work.”

Minho spoke softly, the dim, orange lighting of his lamplight doing little to shake how overwhelming the occasion is, how it feels as if your disguise is wearing, thinning to an impossible degree.

Except, your world isn’t ending like you thought it would if someone found out, so why do you feel so heartbroken? So overstimulated with realization?

“How did you..” you trail off, raging tears longing to spill.

No, you can’t afford to cry now. You’ve held out so far, it will stay that way.

Should stay that way.

Minho dips his head lower in order to fully see you in all your lip-chewing, anxiety-ridden glory. The ghost of a smile rests upon his lips.

“It was impossible not to tell. You’re unusually tiny, those shoes are massive, and, um, I do the laundry.”

Watching his once bemused expression dissipate, you mark this as the first time you’ve ever seen him genuinely flustered—and, upon realizing he’d likely seen more than necessary as well, you’re also diminished to a bright red.

The room wilts in stillness before he exhales, stepping a bit closer to where you linger by the bookshelf, your heels tapping against the frame.

Tone minimizing itself terribly gentle, The Alchemist carefully collects your cheeks in his hands, urging you to see him, see those terribly thoughtful brown eyes granting a terribly kind disposition.

“It’s been scary, hasn’t it?”

Well, you had held out thus far.

Cracking into pieces, you melt like droplets of honey in his fingertips. He perfectly catches them in the jar.

Out of anyone in this world, you can’t help but be grateful he was the one who found out, found you.

Chest bubbling with breaking sobs, Minho’s thumbs caress your under eyes, swiping away the many salty droplets in their continuous descent.

Own hands shakily reaching up to hold his resting on your face, you stand there, soaking in his wooded, earthy scent and the soft hums he occasionally emits as if a reminder he’s still there, listening to your cries without intent to leave.

“Mr.. Mr. Lee… It was so scary, I’m so tired Mr. Lee,” You hiccup, mentally berating the endlessly freefalling tears, how your once staved emotions reduced your strong, dutiful voice into nothing but a stuttering mess.

Carefully swiping drool from your chin, he leans forward, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know why you did it, but I promise it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.”

Then another kiss to your forehead, staying there until your sniffling and breathing calms.

Gathering yourself if only slightly, you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him into a warm hug he gradually accepts after a beat of shock.

“Thank you, Minho.”

And just when he thought the shock faded, he’s struck again from the sound of his name leaving your mouth.

Minho.

Mr. Lee had been charming, but Minho, it was different. A good kind of different.

He particularly favored the way it sounded falling off your lips, two syllables he’d replay over and over, savoring each a little bit more than the last.

More so, he wished to substitute his nagging thoughts with you, have you narrate the phrases bouncing inside his skull.

Perhaps then everything wouldn’t be so loud, if he had your voice to nullify the battlefield.

Unfortunately forced to separate, Minho adjusts his tie, clearing his throat in a manner you can’t help but feel nervous about.

You like this flustered Minho.

“I’ll.. I’ll run you a bath.”

You wince at the rawness of your skin when your face wrinkles in a chuckle.

“Do I smell?”

Minho, frantically scrambling for an excuse, rubs his temples, exasperation evident in the grooves of his face, the curve and dip of prominent cheekbones portraying a mature visage.

“No I-“ He grumbles. “It helps calm you down.”

Merely able to halfway staunch your irrevocable glee, you call his name as he begins stepping out, ears an adorable pink.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N. L/N is my last name.”

Not allowing you view of his front-side, you listen to his whispering with delight, testing the newly discovered title on his tongue as if to memorize it.

Ah, you’re falling in love.

Or maybe you’ve already fallen.

Hastily closing the door behind himself and letting you get situated in the bath, it’s not long into your relaxing that you notice a shadow seeping through the door’s crack, a figure standing there, debating.

“Minho?” You announce amusedly, watching the shadow jump and causing you to bite your frothing laugh whilst choosing what to say next.

“Would you like to join me?”

The Alchemist audibly chokes on his saliva outside the door.

Sparing a few seconds for him to collect his oxygen, you hadn’t been prepared for when he replies a quiet: “Another time”.

Your eyebrows shoot up with surprise.

Daring.

Then his shadow, after furious shuffling, disappears, serving as a reminder of your extended time spent bathing.

Assembling the copper drain and pulling foreign nightwear over dampened skin, opposed to your usual rush to your room, you allow the chilling air to grant its harsh greeting, leaving the steamy room in its wake.

No more secrets. What a breath of fresh air.

Minho, still cooped up at his desk like routine, barely moves when you place your hands on his shoulders, adorning those charismatic glasses, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“You should go get some rest Mr– Minho,” You beckon, response a sleepy blink of his eyes, obviously exhausted.

“...I really wanted to kiss you.”

The remark drifting off as a murmur, you crane to hear him, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you.

“Hm?” Humming, you lightly push his back toward his quarters, the man begrudgingly following your inaudible orders.

At least he’s cooperating.

Abruptly, he turns around, evading your hands that ease his back forward, sporting a pout adorable enough you might just lose your mind.

How unfair that someone could behave like this and expect you to not go insane.

“When you started crying.” His eyes flicker to your lips, if only for a moment. “I really wanted to kiss you.”

A portion of your stock-still frame wants to blame his tiredness, but another so badly wants it to be true, wants those words to be irrevocably real.

Fighting the urge to scream with how stupidly childish he’s making you feel, you reject every ounce of sensibility, looping one arm around his neck, using your other hand’s index to tug him closer by the belt loop.

Trust, the feeling is mutual.

Why waste the opportunity?

“What’s stopping you?”

The utterance barely graces air, and in milliseconds he’s crashing into your lips, a wordless confession it is real, not a mere figment of your imagination.

Stumbling to loosen his tie whilst keeping your faces impossibly connected, you fall deeper and deeper into the manner he tilts his head, expertly diminishing you into puddy in his touch.

Back and forth, memorizing your taste on his tongue.

Clumsy footsteps lead to his sofa, your fingers tangled in his dark strands, his kneading your waist.

And it’s not until your lungs cry for oxygen that you pull apart, Minho’s bottom lip tugged and bitten, yours swollen with his feverish kisses.

Both of you avidly messy, you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy enjoying the afterglow, his dazed smile.

“Whoever you want to save,” He starts, carefully smoothing over your skin with his thumb . “I will save them, deal?”

Returning that same lazy smile he directs at you, the both of you lean back on the couch, a twine of legs and limbs flailing in every direction.

Close, closer.

A part of you aches at the thought, blinking up at such a stunning tragedy. Aches knowing you can’t return the favor, can’t say the same, promise him that same promise.

Because according to the Red Plague, he’s lost that person, those people. So you remain silent, merely hoping one day they’ll receive proper eternal rest.

That's something you might be able to promise.

Tipping your chin up to where it sits right above his heart, those brilliant eyes of yours blinking up at him do little for his well-being.

Has anyone told you you’re beautiful? Because he thinks you are, he knows you are.

Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?

Minho grins deeper, brows creasing, expression doused in unadulterated adoration.

“And yet, you rope me into something else,” He whispers to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, let’s run another bath. I’ll join you this time, hm?”

FIC TAGLIST. @linocz @foxinnie8 @wonniesverse

sunboki, may 2022 ©

555 notes · View notes

cuntdevil · 2 months ago

Text

★ CYBERGUARD !

thank you for signing up to cyberguard! we heard that you're looking for protection and you came to the right website. cyberguard is aiming to amplify the safety of people through the use and programming of robots to keep you safe. made to answer every beck and call, and more importantly, to provide you safely, we know we've got what you're looking for !

( series demographics. ) x-men, logan howlett, dark and violent themes & sexually mature | minors, ageless & blank blogs: do not interact & 11,667 words !

╰┈➤ robot bodyguard!logan howlett & idol!reader, alternative universe, some political topics, blood & violence, minor character death, possessive/obsessive!logan, erratic behavior, manhandling, rough sex, full nelson, asphyxiation, some slapping, fingering, degredation, unprotected sex because he's a robot, dry humping, sadomasochism, squirting, etc.

( author's note. ) i wrote this in one sitting. no matter how many times ive written robot aus, i always have the most fun with it 😋 !! anyway, this is my first ever wolverine fic, so please be nice to me, im sensitive !!

➤ RETURN TO THE CYBERCORE CATALOG !

You hated last-minute meetings. It makes you feel like you're right back in school again. Sitting around a desk as the authoritative figure looks down at you patronizingly. There's a moment of silence as you're waiting for your punishment, feet tapping agonizingly fast before being prompted to "stop," but not even thirty seconds later, you're right back at it. You've never had to receive punishment, fortunately, but your imagination was a wild one and you'd always see that scenario so vividly in your mind.

Still, you hate them. Never tell what it was about until you're being beckoned in. Just like at school, where they would never hint at the good news, make you wait anxiously for time on end and send you into a near heart attack because they want to build up the anticipation. When in reality, it was anxiety that they fostered inside of you. You have an idea about what this meeting is about, though, so you shouldn’t completely lie.

They’re probably going to be trying to conjure some ideas in regards to you and your safety after the attempt made on your life last night. You’ve become very vocal in political matters lately, letting the world know your stance on your current government and they didn’t like your response. You started getting hit with derogatory statements and slurs being spewed left and right, bigoted pieces of shit not afraid to tag you in their hate. Just like you, they shared a passion for their beliefs, but taking it to extremes.

Building a strong mind and a stealthy rapport, you had become immune to the messages, going about your regular schedule as you had rehearsals and interviews set in place for your recently released music. However, in came the packages made to your company building. They were always vetted before you received them— hence why you’ve received none— but the knowledge that people were so hateful because of your opinions was enough to invoke a shred of fear throughout your body.

Your management had seen this coming. That someone would try to make an attempt on your life, suggesting that they hired more bodyguards in your favor and limited the amount of fan meets and delayed your tour, but you didn’t want that. You didn’t want to show them that you were afraid because that meant they had the upper-hand in all of this. However, things have taken a turn as news has circulated of the events that transpired last night. You’re afraid that you no longer have a choice in this matter anymore.

The blue lights do nothing in your favor as you sing on stage. No matter how many times you’ve requested that they be replaced by another color, a color that would suit your warm undertones, they still shine on you. You try not to have it seem like you’re a spoiled idol that wants everything to your beck and call. You’re not a tyrant, no, but you’re wondering if that’s what it takes for people to take you more seriously.

Still, with your bedazzled mic in hand as you perform, you move on through the night. With a wardrobe made to suit your tastes and appearance to the world, the military green cargo pants hang off your waist and the black straps of your lacy thong shows. Paired with a pink bikini top and a ripped up wife beater that barely hides your breasts. Gold accessories best compliment you, but you make sure to keep it simple, afraid to lose any of your precious pieces out in the crowd while you perform. The Timbs are heavy on your feet as you move, but they help complete your look for the night.

Your hair was in a simple updo, but some of the bobby pins have come undone, not strong enough to hold up your locs that have come to hit your mid back. The stray stands come to get in your way from time to time as you try to interact with your fans. Everything felt ordinary in your extravagant lifestyle. You were an enigma that could move your waist fluidly as you danced, enticing your crowd as they cheered and screamed. Background dancers that sometimes staggered as they forgot their routine.

It was only a split second when the round of shots halted all movement from you. Immediate instincts telling you to drop to the floor, your bodyguards starting to swarm you immediately. Screams of terror and fright came from those on stage and off stage, as you peaked over your left shoulder to try and see through the mountain of men trying to bring you to safety. You manage to get a shot of one of your dancers receiving aid from another and tears well up in your eyes. Another set of shots fire as you can hear one bullet lodge into the lights before you’re being properly escorted backstage.

Not too long after were you informed that they caught the perpetrator— a middle-aged white man that had somehow made it through the metal detectors. Turned out that the device was faulty.

They had given you the luxury to spend the rest of the night to yourself, a traumatic experience that not only affected you, but your fans and staff. Guilt started welling up in your chest as it ruminate all night to the point that you were unable to sleep, but that given grace of somewhat solitude (they stuck a few bodyguards inside and outside your hotel room) ended the moment you woke up to a call from your manager summoning you to speak about the matter at hand.

You had arrived in less than thirty minutes, not bothering to freshen up like you should’ve. A hot and steaming shower could’ve calmed your nerves surely, but that would’ve also left time to ruminate for a bit longer. You didn’t want that. However, arriving on time early also wasn’t the best choice as they have you sitting outside the office door now. Two bodyguards standing by your slouched side. You’re tapping your feet rather annoyingly and you’re sure they want to tell you to stop, the sound becoming obnoxious, but they don’t.

The moment the door swings open, you’re on your feet before your manager could even process your presence in its entirety. “Is Anna Marie okay? Are the ones that got hurt okay?”

Your manager, Ororo, takes a moment before letting out a sigh. Shutting their eyes as they take their breath. She looks like she hasn't gotten any sleep either. She knows that evading your questions will get her nowhere, as you’ll continue to hound and badger her about them until you get an answer. She knows you mean well, but sometimes she wants you to be selfish rather than selfless. “They’re fine, love,” she states. “They’re in the hospital and expected to be discharged by tomorrow or the day after.”

You exhale in relief, one bodyguard heading in front of you as the other enters behind. Ororo trails in shortly after as the rest of management has already had their seats taken, yours being the only one vacant still. Pulling out the swivel chair, you take a seat.

“Hello, dear,” Charles Xavier, the co-founder of X-Men Entertainment alongside Erik Lensherr, speaks with a warm smile. From the times that you’ve had your encounters with him, he was always sweet and kind, making it easy to reciprocate a smile in conversation. With a gentle nod, the corner of your lips turn but never meets your eyes. “I hope you managed to get an inkling of sleep after all that happened last night.”

“I didn’t,” you answer truthfully, meaning to lie, but it just came out. You chuckle, trying to play it off. “But the show must go on.”

“I’m sad to hear that,” Charles frowns. “I know it’s been very hard on you, and I can ensure that we have something in hopes to make this all the more… bearable, for lack of a better word.”

“Yes,” Erik nods, finally speaking as he sits up in his seat. Unlike Charles, his button-up fit snugly against his skin, tightening as he fixes his posture. “I apologize for being straightforward, but I think it’s time that we really focus and put emphasis on your safety. What happened last night should’ve never happened and part of it is on us to blame for not ensuring that all of the equipment worked.”

Unlike the plenty of record labels and entertainment studios that tried hiring you once they heard your voice and saw your incredible talent, you’ve always felt like X-Men was the most genuine of the bunch. They weren’t the biggest of the bunch, but they’ve managed to stay honest with you through it all, helping you to become the star that you are. And you’ve surely proven yourself as many more talents have come to start switching over to them.

In a sense, they’re right. What happened last night shouldn’t have happened. The faulty metal detector had led to the harming of people and ultimately an attempt on your life. Others would have tried to blame it on the stadium, and despite the role they had to play in it, your company did as well. However, that fact doesn’t make you feel any better about the entire ordeal.

“And we’re all aware about your disdain for more bodyguards,” Erik continues, “however, your safety is our biggest concern and we must prioritize that right now. We’ve canceled the rest of your fan meet and greets and your tour is being delayed.”

There’s a long pause, as though they’re expecting a rebuttal from you. Maybe if you were in your right mind, you would’ve had one come off the top of your head, but you don’t. You’re exhausted, sleep-ridden and restless. Your mind is a mess, thinking about a lot of things, but can’t focus on one. Last night was a fright and though you wanted the upper hand all this time, you’re afraid that they had it all along.

You’re afraid, and you hate this feeling, so you don’t argue back. You don’t have the strength for it and you don’t want to. They were right the first time and if it wasn’t for your strong will and stubbornness the first time around, this could’ve all been avoided.

Your silence is Erik’s assurance to keep going. “We think it’s best that you receive therapy so that you have a healthy outlet, and we’re hiring another bodyguard.”

“Okay,” you nod in understanding. Everything that’s been said so far has been reasonable enough for you to agree with. “I’m fine with that.”

“You’re familiar with Cyberguard, aren’t you?” Charles speaks, clearing his throat at the end. The question catches you off guard as you tilt your head in question. You’ve heard about Cyberguard, underneath a bigger corporation called Cybercore, it’s an initiative to amplify people’s protection. A bodyguard service, only that the security themselves, being a bulk of metal.

You’ve seen and researched their prototypes, eerily resembling human kind that it’s unsettling. Something that you were also against as you’ve become to question the overall objective of the company. It all seemed like a ploy to get rid of the human race.

For the first time since this morning, your thoughts become more clear and coherent as you come to understand what Charles is silently trying to tell you. He’s seen your videos, heard the interviews of your political views, but never have you told him about your skepticism with the advancement of technology. However, he’s very perceptive and wise in his old age.

“No,” you shut your eyes, shaking your head repetitively as you’re adamant on your choice. “I thought you said you would just hire more men— women— but not a robot to babysit me.”

“Yes, my dear,” Charles sighs, knowing that this was going to take a turn the moment he suggested it. “But, things have taken a turn and we’ve had other idols and celebrities use them, and it seems like this is the best solution—”

“What about Scott and Hank?” you gesture to your current bodyguards. “What will you make of them? Or will they just be fired and not have a stable source of income now?”

“No, they will be temporarily placed with someone else,” Charles answers. “You don’t have to have the Cyberguard permanently. Just until everything settles down and you’re safe.”

“I'm safe with Hank and Scott right by my side,” you retort, crossing your arms.

“You once told me that you really appreciated our honesty,” Erik interjects. “So, I'm going to be frank when I say this to you, (Y/N). You no longer have a choice.

“The Cyberguards are more stealthy and faster than the average human. They're built to exceed the strength and abilities of a trained marine. No offense to you, Hank and Scott—” Erik gestures towards them to receive a silent and curt nod from them. “— But, they're regular men in comparison to their abilities. They're valuable men that we don't want to lose, but just like Charles said, your safety is our concern and you're our biggest idol, right now.”

You know that they only want the best for you, but you keep shaking your head. “I don't like it,” you speak barely above a whisper. “Are they even properly tested? What if it malfunctions and something goes haywire?”

“They have been properly tested actually,” Charles nods. “The celebrities that have been assigned one have positively acclaimed their uses and like them quite a lot. If anything goes wrong, you know that we'll be quick to replace it.”

“But—”

“My dear,” Charles tilts his head pointedly. “I hate to say it, but Erik is right. You do not have a say in the matter, not unless you want the next headline in the news to be one dreadful and in mourning.”

With a huff, your shoulders drop. Fuck.

—

Your new security has a name— Logan Howlett. And you’ve come to realize the appeal to the artificial being. While you have seen pictures of celebrities and their cyberguard, nothing compares to the real thing standing in front of you. Removed from its seven foot box and the styrofoam and wrappings, you would’ve mistaken it for being a real man— an attractive one at that.

You try not to audibly say anything as the handymen continue setting everything up for you in your luxury apartment. Barely home because of your busy schedule, now that you’ve been placed in a witness protection program as you like to call it, you finally have time to give it the homely and comforting touch it desperately needs. And hopefully (it makes you scoff having to say his— its name) Logan Howlett can make itself useful and do some of the heavy lifting.

“Wow,” Hank breathes, impressed by the cyberguard just as you are, though you’d never admit that. “I’m starting to feel less offended about what Mr. Lensherr said. This is a beast of a man.”

“Robot,” you correct him. “You mean, a robot.”

“Well,” he comes to the currently inanimate object’s defense. “It looks human, so might as well—”

“No,” you snort. “It’s not a living thing, so don’t give it the luxury by calling it one.”

“Listen,” Scott finally inserts himself into the conversation, sitting down at your dining table. “I don’t like this as much as you do. You’re right, after all. It does seem like the government wants to get rid of us, but maybe this thing will do you some good. Maybe it can help you more than we were able to.”

Since the concert, the two of your bodyguards who you’ve come close to to the point you consider them family, they’ve never really vocalized their opinions on the matter. They knew it would be too much for you and that you wouldn’t be able to handle it. They don’t want to be reassigned to someone else who might not show the same kindness that you have given them, but there’s enough guilt sitting on their chest as well to cooperate alongside Charles' and Erik’s decision.

“Just like Charles and Erik said,” Scott continues. “This is temporary. Once people calm down and you’re in a safer position, we’ll be back to you in no time.”

“Do you really believe that?” you frown. “Maybe this is some sort of way to silence me? To play the part as being a public figure that’s silent. This goes against everything I’ve said!”

“Well,” Scott sighs. “Sometimes you have to go against your word in order to get to where you need to be. Plus, they expect you to lock yourself up, so if you stay true to your word—” Scott jabs you in your shoulder, raising his eyebrows in warning “— press won’t release an article about how much of a hypocrite you are.”

“Just…” Hank breathes. “Make sure to keep yourself safe for the time being, okay?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you smile in a jesting manner and pull Hank in for a hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”

“Oh, you’re so dramatic,” Hank reciprocates the hug, his embrace warm and comforting to you. It lingers for a second longer than ordinarily until he’s pulling away finally. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you point at him. Hank chuckles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black pantsuit.

“I know you will.”

In another hour, the cyberguard finally lights up. Posture straightening as Logan’s eyes blink open. He has a rather gruff appearance, a scowl settling on his face as he scans his surroundings before his eyes land on you. He’s what the ancient Greeks thought of during the Hellenistic period. Features that seemed to be meticulously crafted by the Cyberguard designers. He has an oval-shaped face, dark facial hair that shapes it magnificently. His hair is styled in a particular way that has you chuckling. Is that why his last name is Howlett? Bouncy hair styled to resemble the ears of a wolf itself.

His physique is just as spectacular as his facial features, glistening under the light that peers through your windows. His skin is tanned and bulging in muscle that isn’t just for design. His outfit is basic, a white t-shirt that hugs to his skin, a pair of denim jeans and dark boots. Scott reaches for the pamphlet on your coffee table. Leaning to your ear as he stands to your left with Hank at your left, he whispers, “Says here that he’s from Alberta, Canada. Previously a lumberjack—”

“Shut up,” you whisper back, nudging him with a roll of your eyes. Hank snorts, adding his two cents in, “Apparently these bots are designed after real people— ones that have served the country.”

“If you both are still trying to convince me to be fine with this, you’re not,” you frown. “How is that even ethical? And how does that even make sense if he’s Canadian?”

“It is, apparently,” Scott shrugs. “Says that the families consented to this. Seems like he was well remarked during his time.”

“This is absolutely stupid—”

“Hello,” comes a voice abruptly. It’s deep and robotic. “My name is Logan Howlett, previously known as Weapon X by the company Cyberguard. I have been assigned to service (your full name) as a source of safety. It is my pleasure to work with you.”

“That’s our queue to leave,” Scott says, making his way towards the door with Hank, leaving you baffled as the handymen start gathering their belongings and leaving the garbage for you to clean up.

“Wh–What?” you choke. “That’s it? You both are just supposed to leave me alone with this thing?”

“According to Charles and Erik, yes,” Hank nods. “They said that within the first forty-eight to seventy-two hours, it’s best that the cyberguard gets acclimated to you as it goes through an update to familiarize itself with the… world. Says it’s not safe for more than one other presence while it does so. It’ll view us as a threat.”

“This is complete and utter bullshit,” you mutter under your breath as Scott unlocks the door. He gives you a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “We’ll check up on you when we have the chance. Message us if anything goes wrong. We’ll be available until the week after next.”

“Okay,” you slouch, watching as they give their final farewells. The handymen follow not too long after, leaving you alone with Logan. He simply stands there, watching you and your every move. When you go to the couch, he watches; when you reach for his instruction manual, he watches. From your quick skim of it, you cannot leave the vicinity of whatever area you’re in for the next hour or two so that it can memorize you in your entirety. It’s supposed to perfect its match when it begins to follow your every movement.

You read through it all, about the questions you ask and what it knows how to do, which is very little outside of providing protection. You learn how to charge it and where it can’t function, informing you of an app that you must download. Reaching for your phone, you do just so as you quickly ditch the paper as you begin to tinker with the app, inserting your bot’s information. You turn on the television to help pass time, but with the meaty man standing before you, it’s hard to focus.

Fortunately, within an hour, he’s finally announcing, “I will undergo a lengthy period of software updates within my system. During that time, you are finally able to move freely, but please make sure not to leave the building whatsoever.”

You finally sigh as you immediately rush to stand on your feet. Your body had started to ache, stretching out your limbs as Logan’s head tilted down and his eyes shut. Underneath his white shirt, a light shines, it’s blue as it starts to hum.

For the next two days, being on house arrest, you find yourself partaking in the hobbies and tasks that you never had time to do as an idol. It was fun picking up a hook and crocheting to your heart’s content. You didn’t have an idea of what you wanted to make, you just started creating. It brought you a sense of piece as you’ve come to terms about your current predicament.

Your phone starts buzzing rapidly, multiple notifications coming in at once. You needed to take a break anyway, your hands starting to cramp and you’d hate to get carpal tunnel. You crack your knuckles before picking up your phone. Twitter, Instagram, Netflix with a new movie you’ve been wanting to check out, but most importantly, the Cyberguard app and Ororo. You prioritize Ororo’s message, opening it. You had asked about the condition that Anna Marie was in, one of your background dancers, wondering if the girl would be willing to give you her number so that you could stay in contact with her.

From Ororo: Anna Marie said yes. From Ororo: [ Anna Marie’s Contact Information ] From Ororo: In regards to the fans, they accepted your offer in paying for their medical bills. From Ororo: But while this is happening, I really want you to look after yourself, love. I understand how you may feel as if this is your fault, but—

You don’t get an opportunity to finish reading the message when you hear a voice inside of your bedroom. “My update has completed and (your full name) is officially under surveillance.”

“Fuck!” you shout, dropping your phone on the bed as you shift around to see the culprit. The Cyberguard itself stands right at your door, taking in your bedroom and its disheveled state. Whenever you start crafting, your room makes sure to hold the evidence of it. The robot takes notice of it, looking at the floor.

“The current state of your room is not safe to be in,” he states. “It is best that you leave while I prepare it for a more suitable state for you, Miss (Y/L/N).”

If you had paid closer attention to the Cyberguard notification, you would have known that Logan had finished its update, informing you that he was heading to your exact location. You clutch your chest as you finally calm yourself down. For something built to keep you away from fear, it does a very good job at inducing it.

Of the two days that it spent updating, you’d walk past it and stare at it. You would contemplate on what everyone has told you about the Cyberguard and the pro’s that it presented, but you were adamant on not listening. The two days gave you a chance to really digest everything and your ordeal. If you wanted things to go back to normal, you had to cooperate. You couldn’t keep walking around with a stick up your ass and put yourself in danger again. While you still preferred to have Scott and Hank by your side more than anything else, you were clinging to the hope that this is what’s promised— temporary. So while you had Logan in your possession, you’ll make the best of it— you’ll have fun.

You test the waters, remembering that in the manual, he’s programmed to understand the majority of what you say as if he were a regular human. For everything he doesn’t know, he’ll undergo an update if requested enough outside of his scope. Some people who have Cyberguards in their possession have given you their experiences with them, saying that while they might be initially tasked to protect you and its their main objective, they do evolve into doing more. The idea of it all still creeps you out, sending a chill down your spine, but you start to accept it. You don’t want anyone else to come to harm because of your one-sided ideology.

“Hello, Logan,” you say, tasting his name on your tongue. “How are you?”

He tilts his head in a way that’s robotic, resembling the movies you watch as the artificial intelligence tries to gain some more understanding. “I am doing well. How are you? Are you doing well?”

A week passes before you’re getting a phone call from Scott. You answer it in a heartbeat. “Took you long enough to call.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly on the phone. We got assigned to someone else sooner than we thought.”

“Excuses, excuses,” you sing, propping the phone in between your ear and shoulder as you stand inside the kitchen, Logan standing not too far away as you’re boiling a pot of noodles. You stir it, making sure not to have it stick to the bottom. “How’re you? How’s Hank doing? Who are you guys assigned to?”

“I’m doing fine,” Scott shrugs on the other line. “I’m with someone that’s actually pretty chill despite his cold attitude to the media. Dutch Duval— you’ve met him before, right?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “In passing. Good to see that he’s warm around you. I didn’t get that luxury.”

“Man,” Scott sucks his teeth. “That sucks. Maybe he’s a he-man woman hater.”

You laugh at the reference. “Nah, maybe he’s cool. He did seem to be in a rush when we were introduced. What about Hank? How’s he doing?”

“He got the short end of the stick,” Scott says. “Hired twenty-four-seven. The asshole won’t even let him get a break for himself outside of pissing, eating and breathing.”

“Damn,” you breathe. “That’s tough. Hope the jackass doesn’t try to keep him permanently though. He’s mine.”

You giggle jokingly, but Scott doesn’t meet your laughter. Only responding with a ‘yeah.’ “You’re asking so much about us, what’s up with you and Logan? You haven’t called us at all, so we can only assume he’s safe and functionable.”

“Yeah,” you hum. “He works. Can’t say much about him, though. Does what he’s told and always trailing me like a lost puppy.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be for too long.”

“Six months is too long in my book,” you scoff.

“They said three to six months,” Scott corrects you. “You should be more optimistic.”

“I’ll try harder just for you,” your voice is monotone.

“I’ve got to go,” Scott comes to end the call. “I’ll talk to you whenever I can, ‘kay? Call me if you ever need anything.”

“That’s what I have Logan for, remember?” you point. “But, will do. Talk to you whenever.”

Scott doesn’t respond, simply ending the conversation there before you hear the line go dead. The water starts to bubble and you give the pot of noodles a good two more minutes before you’re pouring the majority of the water in the sink. However, as you’re pouring, you carelessly look away, the hot pot getting too close to your skin and burning you. You yelp in pain as you nearly drop the noodles down the drain. “Shit,” you curse, before you feel arms around your waist and pull you back.

“Scanning area to see the severity of the wound,” he announces, grabbing a hold of your wrist, a flash of blue shining in his brown eyes. “Seems to be a first degree burn. Can be handled with ice or running underneath cold water.”

Still holding onto your wrist, he leads you to the sink as he moves the pot aside and turns on the pipe. This is the first time that you’ve been under any “danger,” rendering you speechless as you watch him in action. Shifting the pipe to blue, he pulls your wrist to the water. There’s a momentary sting before it resolves in a comforting feeling, you exhale as the pain leaves your body. Watching you and feeling how your heart rate eases back down, Logan asks you, “You are back in a calm state. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you reply. “I’m fine now.”

Letting go of you, Logan returns back to his previous position. “Due to your carelessness, I deem that cooking isn’t appropriate for you. I will undergo an update in order to learn culinary skills to better serve you.”

You scoff in disbelief. “Due to my carelessness? It was an accident.”

“An accident that resulted in you getting hurt,” he retorts.

“I don’t need you cooking for me,” you shoot back. “I can do it on my own.”

“My update will begin at the start of midnight and last for approximately twelve to twenty-four hours,” he responds. “You may finish making your meals until then.”

You continue watching Logan incredulously, continuously snorting and huffing under your breath about what he said. You're sure that he hears you, but has the knowledge to understand that he doesn’t need to answer back. If it wasn’t for his robotic way of speaking, you could swear you were arguing with a real person.

Give the robot a chance, they said, you think, resuming fixing your noodles. If I knew it would be so sassy with me, I would’ve fought harder to not have it.

—

“The father is the murderer,” Logan announces from his side of the couch abruptly as your eyes are glued to the screen. Blue lights illuminate from the television screen in the dark as you’re covered underneath a blanket with a bag of Cheeto Puffs residing next to you. Logan sits up obnoxiously straight, a creation of perfection. You’ve managed to change him from his old attire, which proved to be harder as he was stubborn as a mule. Constantly arguing over your safety as he swatted at your hand from reaching for the hem of his shirt. Finally, you managed to convince him that because of the dirt, it could lead to you getting sick and potentially dying. His programming to be concerned over your very being worked as it was able to convince him to shed the shirt and pants.

Your chest could burst from his incredible physique, his pectorals and abdomen lined and glossed. Every inch of his was thoroughly made as body hair veiled his chest, even more closely replicating a human. Is this how the original one looked like? You thought to yourself before snapping back to reality. Now, he’s sitting across from you, eyes glued to the screen with his arms bulging out in the black shirt all the same as the white. You furrow your eyebrows as you wonder just how he knows that bit of information, possibly spoiling the entire show for you.

“How do you know?” You ask, shoving a few puffs into your mouth and chewing.

“It’s best that you eat one chip at a time to prevent choking,” he advises. Over time, you’ve come to ignore him in moments like this.

“How do you know that the father is the killer?” you repeat, elongating your question.

“His body language,” he simply responds. “He’s so calm and controlling of the situation that it’s so obvious.”

“But, it could be anyone of them,” you point out. “Everyone of the suspects has a motive to kill.”

“You’re right, but according to my research, it’s the father,” he spoils, causing you to slap the arm of the chair. You groan.

“Ugh, that’s cheating!” you exclaim, throwing your head back. “Now you spoiled the entire show for me.”

“Isn’t the entire objective of the show is to find out who the killer is?” he asks, confused as to why you’re upset. He thought he was doing you a favor by telling you who it was in order to decrease your levels of stress that he gathered from you. “It’s apparent to me that your stress levels have risen since starting this show. I need to decrease them for your safety.”

“Sometimes,” you start, “sometimes stress isn’t bad. There are some things that people are stressed about that aren't going to harm them. Like, television shows, crossword puzzles, and murder mysteries. And, it’s fun to try and guess instead of looking up the answer.”

“Is that so?” Logan’s eyebrows knit together, taking in the information. “I will surely have to update some more to better understand that.”

Recently, he’s been constantly updating for all sorts of absurd reasons. He always retorts that it’s all for your safety and to better understand how to fit your needs, but they’ve become about the most mundane things in life. One of them being the stupid joke, ‘why did the chicken cross the road?’ and how exactly is it meant to be funny. It’s adorable, closely resembling a child learning about the world for the first time and how it functions. You hate to say it, but you’ve come to enjoy his company.

The next time he watches anything with you, he makes sure not to do research in his database, simply going based on what he’s come to learn from your fondness of mysteries and films.

“It’s going to be…” you twist your lip upward, squinting at the screen as you try to point out the possible murderer. “The pregnant girl.”

“How so?” Logan hums, skeptical of your choice.

“No one suspects the pregnant girl,” you say. “Kind of makes it badass actually.”

“Badass?” He questions your choice of words. “Murder is badass.”

“No, but being the underdog is,” you try to explain yourself. “The unexpected. No one will see it coming as the cops will believe it’s everyone else, but her.”

“That’s…” Logan thinks about your explanation, a blue glint in his eyes. “That’s smart actually.”

“I know right!” you beam. “I’m a genius.”

You’re right. Logan has been updating quite periodically, and every time he does so, it’s quicker than the last. Now a regular update from him only lasts for about an hour or two. He feels more connected to you. He feels more human this way. It started off innocently, trying to better his understanding about the human body and its health, learning that it ranges and differs in each person. Until it comes to other things that he noticed. What you do in your spare time, how you’re an idol and just what that is. Every single abstract thing he deems important and fascinating, he upgrades his database so that he can reference it when he needs to.

He knows everything about you and what information the internet is willing to offer. He knows the name of your parents, where they’re from and the lineage that follows. He learns that you’re opinionated, very much so, and you have a disdain to creations like him. He can’t quite wrap his mind around it still, seeing how you seem so friendly, but you’ve noticed how you refer to him as an it, naming an object that isn’t alive.

He comes to learn that you hate the concept of his very being because you feel as though he’s your competition to life itself. But of the two months that he’s been living here, he’s been trying to be equal to you to better keep you safe, to better understand you. There’s no way that he could compare to you when he wants to be your equal.

This fast-paced gain of knowledge makes him all too aware that he shouldn’t feel this way. That he shouldn’t be trying to grasp onto something that he’s not and that he’ll never be, but he was tasked to you. What better way is there to serve as your bodyguard if he can’t understand you in his entirety?

There’s a loud and hefty knock coming from your front door. Perched at the desk inside your bedroom, he watches as you jump up from your bed and dash out into the hall. Raising his eyebrows in question to who could have you so excited, he’s on his feet as he’s right behind you in a matter of seconds, ready to answer the door for you.

“It’s okay, I know just who it is,” you dismiss him, but he butts in and pulls your hand away.

“I am still tasked for your protection,” he says. “That means answering the door and checking the vicinity for you.”

You no longer argue with Logan, letting him check through the peephole and scanning the two individuals through it— Scott Summers and Henry “Hank” McCoy. His mental files pull up that these two were your former bodyguards as you remember a conversation that you had previously, insinuating that he was only a temporary fix and not tasked to you forever. If he had a heart, he would proudly say it’d drop.

After he continues his check, he concludes that it is safe for them to come in. Opening the door for you and being the first thing they see when they enter. You frown as the door swings open, seeing how Hank and Scott were expecting to see you first instead of their replacement.

“Oh,” comes from the lips of Scott as he comes unsure on how to greet Logan, so the robot does it for him. He holds out his hand, waiting for the gesture to be reciprocated. “Logan Howlett. Nice to meet the two of you.”

They stare at Logan with amazement, hearing how the cadence in his voice differs tremendously to how he was at first. They’re speechless and unmoving at first until Hank’s the one to break before Scott, taking Logan’s hand to be met with a strong grip. He nods politely, a tight-lipped smile forming on his lips. “I’m Henry McCoy. Everyone calls me Hank, though. This is—”

“I can introduce myself,” Scott nudges Hank, sending a playful glare. “Scott Summers.”

Scott feels the same pain that Hank experienced, taking Logan’s hand for a firm shake. Still, he smiles through it, already wary of the bot as something seems off about it. “I see you’ve kept our girl safe.”

“Your girl?” Logan inquires with the raise of a brow, eyes glancing between the two of them, having learnt the concept of jealousy.

“Yes,” Scott smiles. “Our girl.”

Tired of the exchange, you remove Logan’s hand, it immediately loosening at your touch as you pull Scott and Hank in for a hug. “I’ve missed you guys so much.”

They both pull you in for a hug, but neither of them miss the way Logan watches them intently, noticing how his nostrils flare and his eyes flash blue.

—

“I’m starting to understand why you were so hesitant on getting it now,” Hank gestures to Logan, who appears not to be paying too much mind to the two. His eyes glued to the television as he clicks between the shows. Hank’s left eye twitches, gently shaking his head as he watches from a distance. Scott shares the same concerns as well as he keeps some distance from Logan, residing on the opposite end of the couch. Unbeknownst to them that he hears it all.

“Getting what?” you ask oblivious to what he’s referring to, sitting around the dining area with him. Looking at you in confusion, Hank notices a shift within your behavior. Where you were once angry and stiff at the prospect of a Cyberguard, you’re now seemingly comfortable with it inside your house.

“Logan,” Hank answers. “The cyberguard.”

“Oh,” you purse your lips, it dawning upon you. “Yeah, well, I took your advice and gave it a chance. I spoke to other people that had a cyberguard and they all said that if I gave it a chance, they could be very useful. And he is.”

“But,” Hank squirms, trying to word what he’s about to say perfectly. “Doesn’t it alarm you? How attached to hip he is to you?”

“He’s been like that the moment he finished updating the first time,” you shrug.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I mean, don’t you find him too human? The way he acted when he first came— how he’s watching television right now?”

“He’s just doing what he’s been programmed to do,” you take it so nonchalantly, dismissing Hank’s concerns. “And like I told you, everyone I spoke to said that was normal behavior. They evolve to better suit your needs.”

“I don’t know, (Y/N)...”

“Listen,” you exhale. “I still want you guys as my full-time bodyguards, but I have four more months left because the messages and the threats still haven’t cooled down. So I have to play it cool and go about my days as if it’s regular. He’s not a harm to anyone and if he becomes one, you and Scott will be the first people to know about it.”

You and Scott will be the first people to know about it.

“Okay, fine,” Hank breathes, your apartment starting to feel uncomfortable. His voice picks up as he pushes out the chair. “Y’know what? We gotta go.”

“Huh?” you question the sudden movement. “Wait— what? Hank, nooooo.”

“Something just came up and we need to be there,” Hank motions to Scott to follow him, which doesn’t go questioned as he gets to his feet as well. Your chair legs scratch against the tile floor as you look from between the two, going after them as they hurry to the door.

“Don’t be serious, Hank,” you pout. “Scott, please! We barely had any time together.”

“I think two hours was enough time,” Hank remarks, catching you off guard. Mouth going dry, you stop in your trail as your body stills. They make their way out as Scott throws an apologetic smile your way. “See you later, (Y/N).”

Storming to his vehicle, Hank doesn’t wait for Scott to catch up to him, simply unlocking his doors and jumping in. When Scott catches up, he only looks at Hank before waiting for him to speak.

“There’s something wrong with that bot,” Hank states the obvious.

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Scott snorts. “What did (Y/N) say?”

“She referred to it as if it was a person,” Hank looks at Scott. “She never usually gives in so easily.”

“Well,” Scott shifts in the seat, reaching for the seatbelt. “We did tell her to try to.”

“Yeah, but even so,” Hank shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with it. Staring us down as if we were stealing his girl. Questioning us— ‘your girl?’ That’s (Y/N)’s living nightmare and she didn’t seem to suspect a thing.”

“You’re right,” Scott mumbles. “We definitely have to report our suspicions. That thing isn’t safe for her.”

“You’re telling me,” Hank exasperates, finally starting the car engine, putting the car in reverse. Pulling out of the spot, Hank looks towards your apartment, immediately noticing the window. There Logan is, glaring right at the two of them.

“And there goes the fucker,” he curses. “Watching us.”

—

When he’s finally outside of his eyesight, he shuts back the curtains and trudges back to your slumped body on the couch. For them to have the nerve of showing up to only put you in an upset state. Logan has never seen you like this before, it elicits a certain reaction that feels carnal and violent. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his faux skin before he feels something piercing it. It’s only a sliver before he retracts and goes back into a calming state, but he felt it— whatever it was.

“You’re not okay,” he states. “Would you like for me to start the shower for you so that you can relax?”

He remembers you mentioning that the shower was your only time where you got to properly relax and think. The heat of the water calms you down to the point you’d stay until the water gets cold and your skin resembles a prune. He wishes he could experience that feeling with you. He’d need it in a moment like this where he feels something flaring up within his chest.

Pushing yourself to sit up, you nod. “Yeah, maybe that’ll do some good.”

He does what he suggested, heading straight to the bathroom in order to start the water. Pushing in the plug and sprinkling in the bath salts for you before turning on the pipe. He sets it close to red, waiting until he recognizes the scent of lavender and patchouli and sees the steam starting to form. He teeters and plays with the temperature before the water is at a reasonable height before switching off the pipe, and announcing that it’s ready.

It takes you a moment to get up from the couch, shuffling your way towards the bathroom. You don’t acknowledge his kindness, never thanking him before you shut the bathroom door and twist the lock despite the many times he’s advised you not to. He ignores it, turning on his heel as he heads straight for the door. In his database, he pulls up Henry McCoy and Scott Summers.

When you get out of the shower, it’s too quiet. However, your mind is fogged with hurt to even care. If anything, Logan’s silence is a blessing right now. It’s what you need. Reaching for your towel and you unplug the drag, hearing the gurgling sound of water traveling down the pipe. A shower was exactly what you needed, though you still feel emotions bubbling on your chest as your sadness turns into anger. You feel foolish for being mad at Hank’s concern, but you knew the moment he stood up that it was bullshit as to why he was leaving.

You had cooperated with everyone. You did what they told you to do for the couple of months that you’ve been placed on house arrest. You constantly checked in with Anna Marie and the rest of those who got hurt, knowing that they’re in better and healthier conditions now that the months have passed. You stayed silent on social media and rarely checked in, but now that you are complacent, just like it was expected of you, Hank had the audacity to be mad at you.

Logan’s behavior was questionable, you couldn’t doubt it, but you believed it to be the way he was programmed. To be locked inside for so long to the point you barely left the house, and when you did, it was to go on your patio. He had been skeptical of your neighbors, eyeing them down and collecting information in a manner of minutes. He needed to know who could be a possible threat to you, and maybe, just maybe, saying “our girl” had flashed some red flags in his hard drive.

The bath wasn’t enough, you conclude, pulling on a baggy t-shirt and shorts before diving onto your bed. Sleep would have to be the final blow.

—

The claws that stretched from his knuckles were covered in blood and the flesh he cut into. Two lifeless bodies before him laid there as he bent down to rip out a clean piece of fabric. He’s done research on Cyberguard, learning that there is something wrong with him. In his files, none of it mentions the metal claws coming out of his hands. But, that’s the only flaw he has come to accept.

He’s been gone for too long, and while the sky is dark, there’s still a possibility that you’re still awake. He’s grateful to know where you’ve stashed your spare key. However, with one look at him, he’s dirty and you’d know that he’s been out. Having never left your side, he doesn’t want to take a chance seeing you speculate his whereabouts.

Cleaning the blades that protrude his skin, he finds one thing about his robotic state useful. He has no fingerprints. Inside of Hank’s apartment, it becomes Logan’s personal closet as he rids himself of his clothes and replaces them with something new and similar to what he previously had on. He wipes down his boots, however, not stopping until it shines and fixes his hair. When everything about him seems like nothing is out of the ordinary, he’s finally ready to leave.

However, through the windows, he starts to see the flashing of red and blue. He’s seen too many films and documentaries to know that it’s not a good sign. He’s grateful that he never planned to leave the way he came in, quickly searching for another escape route. Sliding the patio door open, he shuts it back quickly before making the long jump, not caring how it may affect the inside of him. He was made to withstand many things, so this fall shouldn’t be a heavy detriment. He grunts when he makes the landing, dashing out of the light as he quickly conjures up another route back to you.

By the time he locks the door, taking a step into your apartment, you’re fast asleep. You’ve left the television on and by the way that there’s no dishes in the sink, you fell asleep on an empty stomach. He huffs at your lack of care for yourself. Luckily, there are leftovers to which he can feed you when you awake. He switches off the television before making a beeline straight to your bedroom door. It’s shut and when he twists the handle, it’s completely dark inside. He inches closer towards you, where he can check on your heart rate, when he notices that it’s at a pace to when you’re waking up. Your voice sounds before he can completely register.

“Logan,” you squeak, voice scratchy as you take a seat in the bed. You reach to turn on your bedside lamp, revealing your disheveled and exhausted state. The t-shirt you’re wearing has been cut around the neck, to the point where it can fall and reveal your breasts. “What have I told you about watching me like a creep?”

You giggle, indicating that you haven’t detected a thing, still completely unaware. Great.

However, his eyes roam you, taking notice of your pert nipples and how they poke through your shirt. Your bonnet is sliding off your head, and your eyes are still burdened with sleep that he now completely understands the sexual appeal. He feels something whirr inside him before he’s taking a seat next to you without a word.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he breathes. “I’ve watched your movies, seen porn and watched men and women have— same sex and the opposite gender.”

He can feel your heart rate pick up as you become more awake, processing his words. “Logan, what—”

“I want to try out what I’ve learned,” he cuts you off. Your eyes widen as it comes to dawn on you that maybe Hank was right. That maybe you have become blinded and completely oblivious to the way Logan acts. You start to question your colleagues and everyone else who's told you about their experiences, always hinting at more, but you never caught on to what they were saying. They said that Cyberguard could always do more, that you could work them to your own benefit. Was this what they meant by that?

Before you can utter out another word, Logan’s invading more of your space and you can feel the heat of him on you. “Don’t tell me no. Please don’t tell me no.”

Your breath hitches because you should be scared. You should tell me no and part of you does, but you’ve also grown curious. His eyes shine blue at that moment, and you gulp. Your body speaks for you, reaching to cling onto the fabric of his shirt. Something about it feels foreign to your touch, but you don’t question it. You question none of it, only staring into his harsh brown eyes and nodding. “Okay,” you whisper.

It’s all that he needs to hear for confirmation, pulling you tight within his hold as he wastes no time in putting you on his lap. Staring into your eyes before they traverse down your body, how no matter what, you always manage to shine. He tugs at your shirt, pulling further down to reveal your breasts. Your dark nipples pebbled and sensitive as they scrape against the fabric and your breath hitches in need. Your hips buck into him, hands wrapping around his neck dig your fingers into his skin. It feels soft, the texture closely imitating the real thing.

“Logan,” you gasp, feeling how his pelvis meets you at your core, eliciting a string of your juices at the friction. Seeing the desire in your eyes, the visceral want and need inside them. It’s all he’s ever wanted. It makes him feel equal— equal to you. His hand reaches to caress your face, feeling the hairs against your skin before squeezing down gently and making your lips pucker out a bit.

“Tell me that you need me,” he whispers, voice growing huskier as his hold gets tighter. “Tell me how much you want me.”

“I need you, Logan,” you give him exactly what he wants, hips rising as your heat only grows. “Need you and want you so badly… It hurts.”

You don’t know what you’re saying, not sure if you’re telling him that he’s hurting you or that if the ache in your sweet cunt needs to be alleviated to the point it hurts. The ladder feels more true as you clench around nothing, a coil in your stomach starting to form in a want that you’ve never experienced before. Staring back into his pupils that shimmer of blue is still there. “Tell me you love me.”

“I—” you choke, not sure if you’re able to muster up those words, remembering that he’s not real. You splutter as his hand wraps around your neck, squeezing to the point you can barely breathe. “I—”

In a matter of seconds, you’re on your back, the wind knocked out of you before you can even process the change of positions. There’s something maniacal about the way Logan looks at you now, the fine lines on his forehead fixed in fury as he searches through eyes, staring down into your pupils for the truth. “Don’t worry,” he assures you. “I’ll make sure you learn to.”

His lips crash down into yours, feeling the wetness of your tongue as he sucks you in. His weight against you keeps you still, trapping you in your dared to move. Your arms still draped around his neck, cling to him as mewl and whine at the pressure of his weight. Bucking your hips ever so slightly, feeling your arousal cling to your panties and seep down to the crotch of your shorts.

Is this right? A sense of rationality seeping through you, residing deep in your bones as something nags at your chest. Your sense of morality, what you’ve been using your career to fight for. This goes against it. However, the more you fought, the more people got hurt. Flashes of Anna Marie plaguing your memory as your rapport against Logan weakens in a matter of seconds. You sought for a change for it to only falter and nearly end lives. So is it wrong to give in once more?

Logan starts to thrust his hips into you, grunts and groans that he replicates from what he’s seen, his motion sensors feeling his appendage rub against your pussy and eliciting something within him— lust. “You’ll be mine by the end of all this. You won’t be needing them.”

You have no clue as to what he’s talking about, focusing on yourself and the need you have for Logan right now. His kiss is rough against your skin, your saliva softening the contact as he hums against you. He nips and bites at you ever-so-often, nearly drawing blood until his sensors go off. He feels like an animal, needing you in a way that’s entirely inhumane. The adrenaline of killing your former pets still coursing through his veins, proud to be your only one as of now. As of forever.

“Let me have you whatever way I want,” he commands. “Give me permission to.”

There’s no doubt in your mind, quickly to oblige him without a second thought. “Of course. Yes, Logan.”

Your shirt tears, a loud rip sounding through the silence of your bedroom. It’s a true show of his brute strength in your eyes, but for him, it’s not even an inch to what he’s truly capable of. The next he rids you of are your shorts, leaving your flimsy panties for last as he can see the wet patch right at the crotch of it. A thumb presses down on it, just as he’s seen through many videos. However, he’s not gentle when he pushes down on your clit, seeing bubbles starting to form through the cotton.

You mewl in slight discomfort, squirming underneath him that he slaps your inner thigh and demanding that you stay still. One hand holds you down to make sure of it as he glides his thumb up and down, feeling your wetness. “Mmmm…” he drags, feeling satisfaction at how he’s making you feel.

He slips your panties to the side, it being the one thing he doesn’t want to damage through this intercourse. His thumb pushing right at your entrance to feel how your body tenses at the invasion. “Relax,” he whispers. “You know I would never bring you into real harm.”

The reminder settles you down as he spreads your legs wider for him, his thumb protruding your walls and getting a taste of what it feels like. The both of you moan in delight, his thick digit pushing until the hilt. However, it doesn’t fill you up like you want and need, ultimately needing more of him. He’s dead set on tormenting you, fucking you languidly and slowly with his thumb. He basks in the squelch of your pussy, how your arousal bubbles and drips out of you and down in the crevices of your ass.

“Logan,” you whine. “More.”

“Do you think you deserve it?” he retorts, pulling out his thumb to glide against your folds and back up to your clit. “Do you think you deserve more?”

“Yes, I do,” you nod meekly. “Know I do.”

“Is that so?” he hums, and you can only nod some more. He chuckles, thinking about Hank and Scott once more. How you were so eager to invite other men into your home. Not considering him and how he’d feel to other men around you. Did you really care so little about your own safety? But, he’ll still give you what you want— what you need. Maybe it’ll be the best medicine to heal you.

Pressing his thumb against your lip, he pushes down as they stay closed. “Open,” he commands. “Taste how wet you are for me.”

Just the obedient girl you’re proving yourself to be, you open up your mouth. Immediately, your tongue swirls around his thumb, cleaning off your arousal. Eye contact remains with him, eyes seeming to sparkle as you hum and moan around his digit. A violent groan builds up from the pit of the chest as he can only imagine the other men you’ve been with. It’s enough for him to yank you by the waist into him and flip you around, treating you as if you’re a ragdoll.

Your back is to him now, pressed against his chest. You can still feel his clothes on, realizing just how vulnerable you are as he moves you against his clothed state. His arms wrap around your neck, bulging out to cut off the flow of air. Veins protrude and it becomes dizzying as he whispers in your ear. “You’re a nasty little slut, I hope you know that.”

Everything about this is exhausting. The quick and swift changes in emotions, how he goes from being needy and wanting to manhandling you as if you’re nothing. From wanting you to tell him that you love him to degrading you. You can’t wrap your mind around it as his grip tightens around you and your vision becomes fuzzy. He fluctuates with his hold, knowing just when you’re about to lose consciousness and not. He’s coming to find it to be a fun game, toying with your safety.

“Only I should be the cause of your pain and pleasure,” he seethes into your ear. “Do you hear me?”

When you don’t respond, you feel a sting against your pussy. You yelp out at the pain as he repeats himself, “do you hear me?”

It’s menacing and guttural to the point where you’re tearing up. You nod as you croak out, “yes.”

“You’re going to take what I give you, okay?” He waits for your approval. “Just like you promised from before. No going back on your word because you’re a good girl.”

He affirms this before he’s rolling his hips, making you feel the bulge against your ass. One arm around your neck as your hands cling to it as the next pulls your hips into him. He continues at this until your breathing is erratic and he’s done his tormenting.

Then he shuffled around to tug down his jeans, ridding himself of both the garment and undergarment, but not before kicking off his boots. They fall to the ground with a clunk as his jeans pool at his feet and he can hear them rubbing together before they’re successfully off. You can feel it against your back, how it’s large and inhuman. Eyes that bulge as you arch your back.

“Logan, you’re so big,” you gasp. “Don’t know if—”

He hushes you with another smack, this one softer than the previous. Shhh follows after as he calms you. “You promised, didn’t you?”

You can only hum out a response as the bicep around your neck tightens.

“You’re a strong girl. It’ll fit.”

Arms reaching underneath your legs, holding underneath the joints of your knees to lift them up to your chest. He pulls you up, making you rise until he can slot his dick in between your folds and your underwear. With both of his arms occupied, he can only have faith within the band of fabric to keep his length in place. Strings of your juices drip down to the sheets of your bed, small droplets being absorbed as you coat his cock in your essence. A sweet nectar that many people want to taste, but he’ll be sure to prevent it from happening.

He bounces you on his lap, letting go of your legs and pressing himself further against you. There’s many things that he wishes himself to do. Like the ability to get hard, to be able for you to feel just how you make him feel. For precum to leak from the tip of his cock and not the illusion of a hole just for the accuracy of his design. He wants you to feel him twitch inside you before he cums, shooting ropes of white as your pussy milks him. However, he can only align his cock with your entrance and make you feel good. But, how is he supposed to feel equal to you if he can’t replicate a real man?

He takes his time entering you, his head testing the waters before he’s entering inch by inch. He can press into your stomach, feeling where his head stops as he can’t fully sheath himself inside you. Just as you had claimed. He was too big. Still, he upholds the power as his arm goes to wrap snug around your legs, lifting them up to push into your breasts as the next blocks you from smooth breathing.

He’s no gentleman as he’s painted himself to be, laying on his back and pulling down with him. Drilling into your cunt with a vice grip around your body that you constantly are on the very fine line between passing out and consciousness. Still, your mind stays warped within the pleasure, focusing on how it’s making you feel and wanting him more. Your room is filled with the sound of yours and his moans intermingling with the slaps of your wet pussy and his dangerous thrusts as the stench of your cunt seeps through the conditioned air. Your cunt squelches, queefing every so often as it gets wetter. Tears staining your face as you call out his name and begging for more.

You cry out in pleasure, feeling how his cock beats down at your walls, kissing at your cervix. Constantly hitting that one spot inside of you that he has you seeing stars. You’re starting to choke out your moans, trying to make a coherent sentence out to him. “Lo-Lo— ‘m g’nna…”

You don’t have to finish what you’re about to say for him to know. Your body convulses and pulsates as he continues, keeping the same vigorous pain as he’ll have your pussy bruised and battered by the end of it. “C’mon,” he groans into your ear. “Cum like the good little bitch that you are.”

With a few more thrusts, a translucent mess splashes from you, splattering at great lengths from your sheet covers and down to the ground. Your body vibrates and spasms as Logan’s hold on you eases and he lets your body calm down. You’re breathing heavily as your throat’s gone dry and the dark and splotchy vision clears up. You exhale sharply as you come to terms with everything. Your naked body and Logan’s cock inside of you. He’s planting chaste kisses against your neck and jawline, holding you close to him.

“Now you’ve got everything you need.”

—

The next morning, you wake up clean, except for your sheets. You can still feel dampness from your release as well as the arms that hold you close to them. You let out a yawn, squinting as the sun dares to peek through the blinds as you see your phone lighting up and over one hundred messages flashing over it. Some from Charles, others from Erik and the rest from Ororo. Glancing at Logan, he remains in slip mode, the light where a heart would be lighting up yellow.

Plenty of the notifications are from incessant missed calls that rang from five in the morning until now before an urgent message reading, Call as soon as you wake up, from both Charles and Erik. The next set of messages you check from Ororo, having called you back to back as well before these rows of messages.

From Ororo: From what I’m guessing, you’re asleep and your phone is on silent. When you get this CALL ME. From Ororo: You’re still not up and it’s important that you know what happened. I’m sorry. From Ororo: [link attached]

You click on the link, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, absentmindedly clicking the link. The video you’re brought to is on medium volume, but it seems like it’s at full volume the moment it starts playing, just as Logan’s light turns to green.

This just in! Two men found dead inside of their shared apartment home. Neighbors have reported loud and worrisome sounds at the dead of night, saying it sounded like a very brutal fight before screams of pain sounded through walls. When police arrived, the two bodies were found in such a gruesome state.

They were seen to have three deep gashes in their skin, closely resembling an animal attack before being impaled in the chest. It’s speculated to be an animal attack, but authorities are speculating as the escape route seemed to be through the balcony door and having jumped five stories down. They’re battling between who or what could’ve done such a monstrous thing.

The two victims that were identified were Henry McCoy and Scott Summers—

Your phone is snatched from your hands as you choke out a sob, having caught a glimpse of their faces on screen. While Logan would typically tend to your tears and heartache, the news outlet blinds him from doing so as he turns off the video and sets your phone down on the opposite side of you and out of reach.

“You shouldn’t burden yourself with such things in the early morning.”

( author's note. ) my back mfing hurts from writing this pretty much all day. i hope you guys love it because i really enjoyed writing this.

#logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #logan howlett smut #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #hugh jackman x reader #hugh jackman smut #deadpool and wolverine #james howlett x reader #james howlett smut #x-men #hugh jackman #logan howlett #wolverine #x men x reader #tw: dark content #tw: (n)sfw #‧₊˚ ⋅ wiki collections.

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hannie-dul-set · 1 year ago

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모기 / MOGI — [c.bg].

SYNOPSIS. in which all of your life, you and beomgyu have been stuck together like glue whether you liked it or not. and as much as you want to change that, life seems to have different plans.

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x female! reader. GENRE. childhood friends to not quite friends (derogatory) to not quite friends (endearment), romance, humor, very light-barely there angst, pining idiots, college! au with flashes to high school, featuring an ensemble of 01z idols. WARNINGS. swearing, many many (fake) death threats, so much secondhand embarrassment, mentions of sex, mentions of blood and gore, the worldly problems of a teenager, mc has anger issues, gossip. WORD COUNT. 14k.

TAGLIST. @matcha-binz @bgomtori @lotties-posts @bearbeom @bbinwrld @beomies-world @baekberrie @20-cms @jenodreamer

NOTE. it is here! alternatively titled: all the reasons you don't like choi beomgyu (but maybe you do). this is just a v quick v fun read (i hope HAHHAHA). parts in past tense and within parenthesis are set in the past! hope you enjoy mosquito gyu and please let me know what you think! begging for crumbs of feedback plspls.

YOU DON’T LIKE CHOI BEOMGYU. He’s been a thorn in your side for as long as you can remember— a far too nimble mosquito for you to catch and swat away, constantly buzzing around your ears like a mild annoyance. Mild, but annoying all the same.

The problem is, you can’t get rid of him. Not when both your families have been friends before either of you were even born. Not when you’ve been half-living in his house for the better part of your life and he’s been half-living in yours. Not when you’ve always been magically assigned to the same class for twelve god damned years and somehow, you’re now even set out to go to the same university.

It’s like the world just wants to stick the both of you together.

“Hey, fuckface.”

“What do you want, dipshit?”

Unfortunately for the world, you don’t want the same thing.

“Remember when I hauled your ass to the emergency room after you broke your leg at the skatepark in 9th grade?”

Beomgyu lets out a grunt upon hearing your question at the same time as he drops down to the ground with a thunk on the playground seesaw. “Right. That happened.” It’s late at night, the streetlights are dimming, and it’s a week before high school graduation. Not the most appropriate time to be playing around the kid-sized rides tucked in the corner of your apartment complex, but things have been penting up, and there currently seems to be no better way to deal with your physical and emotional exhaustion than by being sprung up to the air, down, and back up again.

“You also said— whoa!” You glue your feet firmly to the chalky ground before dangling your legs up once more. “You also said you’d do anything I ask after saving your ass. I’m here to collect your debt.”

The next instance, you aren’t see’d or saw’d back up. Beomgyu stays grounded, looking at with an expression you can only describe as oozing of suspicion. It is weird, you have to admit, bringing up a spur of a moment promise he made three years ago, possibly under the influence of anesthetics. You’d be suspicious of yourself, too. “Alright,” he relents after a long moment of thought. Beomgyu leans forward, resting his arms over the seesaw handle and burying his chin into his sleeves. “Spit it out. What do you want? I’ll buy it for you.”

You press your lips together. “It’s not something you can buy.”

Now, that definitely doesn’t help your case. Your crypticness is causing his brows to furrow, and Beomgyu is deep in thought wondering what the hell kind of favor your fucked up head is thinking of (especially after the shrimp incident). You can save him from misery and just spit it out right then and there, but it’s not easy for you to pull out of your mouth either. Once this night is over, your throat will be littered with sores and cuts and it’ll all be self inflicted.

“Wait.” Beomgyu suddenly jolts up and sits straight, causing the seesaw to wobble a little. His ears are peeking out the mess of his hair. It’s already way past the school policy length— a privilege of a graduating student, he says. And despite the shadowed sky cloaking the playground lot, you can clearly see the tinge of red painting the thin skin. What is he thinking? you narrow your eyes at him. The blush has spread all over his neck. "You—you—you’re not trying to ask—”

“Beomgyu,” you cut him off, sparing him from an aneurysm. “We’re starting college next month, right?”

His expression tells you he’s completely missed the mark. “Yeah...?” he sounds out, confusion riddled in his tongue. You bite down yours— an early repentance before finally throwing it out in the air.

“Can you do me a favor?” you squeak out. “Can you pretend like you don’t know me?”

Quiet washes over. You preemptively wince, expecting the impending torrent of swear words from your friend, but he doesn’t say anything. He says nothing for a long while, filling the quiet with tension-filled agony before finally saying, “I don’t understand.”

You swallow down a lump in your throat.

“What are you saying?”

There are uneasy creaks on the hinges of the seesaw set, as if it’s unsure whether to go up or down. The scent of iron seeps into your palms with how tightly you’re holding the handle. “Please pretend like we aren’t friends when we enter university,” you inhale sharply. “Better yet, act like you don’t know me at all, okay? Treat me like I was a ghost and I’ll do the same with you.”

You don’t have the guts to look Beomgyu in the eye. You train your eyes to the graveled ground and hold in your breath, listening as the creaks of the rusty hinges slowly come to a still. He’s not saying anything. He isn’t saying anything and you’re starting to grow scared.

The seesaw finally stops rocking, and you finally hear Beomgyu’s response—

“Fine.”

—all while your ass gets dropped to the ground with an even louder thunk when Beomgyu gets off the damned thing. You let out a yelp as your body gets jerked back by the sudden recoil.

“Hey!” you yell out, stumbling to get off the seesaw in a panic because he’s starting to walk. “Choi Beomgyu— wait up!”

“What?” he snaps his head back, and you flinch. He doesn’t look great. He doesn’t look happy at all. Guilt overhauls your entire being with a single, ringing punch and your tongue is weighed down by sand and soot and it’s difficult to swallow without the threat of choking. “I thought you wanted me to pretend like I don’t know you?”

You frown. “I did, but I didn’t mean it to be—”

Words fail when he turns his back to you once again. You can’t say anything. You can’t bring it in you to justify yourself. You can’t even find the shame to call him back. So all you can do is watch as Beomgyu slowly disappears into the evening, leaving behind more things in the playground than just you.

It’s fine, you inhale sharply. You can give him some space tonight and just talk it out on the way to school tomorrow. And it’s not like you didn’t expect him to be mad at you. It just hurt a lot more than you thought it would.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” you yell at his disappearing figure.

It stings, sure. But still. It’s something you feel like you need to do, because you don’t like Choi Beomgyu, and all the things he’s cost you.

#1: YOU DON’T LIKE HIM FOR WASTING SO MUCH OF YOUR TIME. You’re pretty sure at least three years of your lifespan has wilted away into nothingness because of how long it takes for him to answer the door. It takes two rounds of incessant knocking and a yell of his name. Even then, his mom is more likely to answer than the fucker himself.

He’s been like that ever since. Though you can’t exactly pinpoint when that ever since begins— you can’t remember how you met him because his stupid face has always been present in all of your earliest memories.

(Knock, knock, knock!

“Choi Beomgyu!”

Knock, knock, knock!

“Open the door!”

Classes ended early today, and your teachers at the academy are having a seminar so you don’t have to go there today. This was a rare opportunity in your life as a middle schooler— where every day runs from waking up, to eating, to studying, to eating, to studying again, studying some more, and wanting to quit studying. Today you had free time, and you’re going to spend it wisely.

At least that was the plan. But then Beomgyu called your landline while you were watching TV, saying that he had “something super, duper, insanely cool to show you and you’ll regret it if you don’t come over.”

It’s probably something lame.

You hurried over to the unit right across yours.

But like usual, it took a good five minutes until you heard Beomgyu’s hurried footsteps padding louder and closer and closer. He didn’t give you an opportunity to be annoyed by him— he quickly tugged you into his home and shut the door lock with a kick, running into and out of the living room like it was a racing track, and before you knew it, you were in his room and he was all giddy and excited and it served as a sign that he was up to no good.

“You’re being suspicious,” you leered at him as he dug through his school bag, already taking the liberty to plop down on his bed. “What’s that?”

There was a proud grin on his face when he pulled it out and showed it off to you. You weren’t as impressed. In fact, you were terrified.

Specifically because of the 18+ label on the CD container he’s holding.

“Why do you have that?!” you screeched. “Holy crap. You idiot. Are you trying to get us into trouble?!”

“We won’t get in trouble as long as you stop freaking out like a little wuss,” he reasoned, already slotting the forbidden CD into his conveniently placed laptop right at the foot of the bed.

Your houses shared an internet line, and most websites have been blocked as per both your parents’ request so it “doesn’t get in the way of your studying,” they say. You thought it was crap. Beomgyu thought it was crap. So you’d been trying to find ways to subvert that restriction by whatever means you can get your hands on (i.e. going to PC rooms and getting dragged back home by your parents).

But that didn’t mean you were fine with watching a movie you legally weren’t allowed to watch.

This was absurd.

“Yeonjun hyung lent it to me. Hey, stop overreacting. You said you wanted to watch this and wouldn’t quit whining about it the past two weeks. I’m doing you a favor!”

“We’re not allowed to watch this! If our parents find out, they’re gonna—” You made the mistake of letting your eyes wander to the laptop screen. It’s all blood and guts and gore from the very beginning. You were taken. “Whoa. Move over.”

Beomgyu was grinning at his success. The equally bloody CD container found itself tucked underneath his bed, and before you knew it you were both hiding under the blankets, sharing a pair of earphones because there’s too much screaming and squelching from the off-brand slasher film your friend smuggled from a sketchy high schooler. Maybe that was just the right amount of screaming. You wouldn’t know. You’ve never watched anything like this before.)

To be frank, you don’t remember much about the film. You do remember nearly pissing yourself in fear and screaming along to the cries of agony whenever someone was killed on screen. Beomgyu was unfazed though— that freak. How was he not pissing himself when a severed limb flew into the frame?

But he wasn’t as calm when his brother came home early, and your constant screams of terror elicited understandable concern. (“Shut up! You’re going to get us caught,” he hissed, trying to smack his palm over your mouth but you’re already burying your face into his comforter and blindly shoving him off).

Long story short, you both got caught and got grounded for a week.

So much for having free time.

“Congrats on finishing your last exam!”

You grunt, shoving past Heeseung as you exit the classroom, a stack of scratch papers pressed to your chest. He trails behind you with an evident bounce in his step. You’d be just as excited had you not been brutally murdered by midterms week. It’s only your third month of university and you’re already ready to drop out. Why is this normalized? This is structural, systemic violence.

“Jieun and the rest are planning a night out tomorrow,” he mentions. “You coming?”

“No. I’m going to sleep for forty-eight hours and die.”

He tells you you’re no fun and you flip him off. Three months have passed and you feel like you’ve aged thirty years, but Heeseung is still fucking energetic and you’re sure it’s because the girl from computer science he’d been flirting with for the past two weeks finally agreed to go on a date with him. The stupid grin on his face as he’s typing on his phone is annoying you to no end. “What?” he asks, looking up from his phone, still all smiley and irksome.

“You’re insufferable,” you deadpan. His expression morphs into confusion, then realization, then pity, then circles back into being incredibly annoying again.

“If you beg, I can set you up with one of my friends.”

“Eat ass.”

You smack the top of his head with the stack of papers. He is unfazed. “I know a few guys! C’mon! Instead of being bitter, why don’t I help you out? I don’t do this for everyone, you know. I’m only offering because you’re my friend.”

Well, the past three months haven’t been entirely bad. Your freshman batch was fairly easy to get along with— Heeseung specifically, whom you hit off with during the orientation. You’ve also been doing pretty well with all of your classes despite the back-breaking workload. And now that midterms are over, your uni has this policy to cancel classes for a whole week after every major exam (for the students’ “mental health” they say), so now you have the chance to finally fucking rest.

“Beomgyu!”

You flinch upon hearing Heeseung yell out his name. You can’t get used to it.

The space next to you becomes empty as Heeseung excuses himself for a moment to join Beomgyu and the little group he’s appeared with. You take the opportunity to shove the scratch papers you have into your bag, taking a few glimpses here and there— regretting doing that when Beomgyu happens to meet your gaze at one point, and you quickly avert your eyes to the posters on bulletin boards stuck on the hallway wall. E-Sports Fest 2023. Sign up for your respective departments now!

“Later,” Heeseung waves them off and runs back to you. “Hey. We’re fucked. Beomgyu’s playing in like half of the games next, next week. The ICT fuckers have practically won already. This is too much of a skill gap. This isn’t fair.”

You give him a look. “Okay?”

Heeseung pouts. “At least pretend like you’re interested. Jeongin said yes, but I still have to get Chenle onboard so we can at least get second place, but he says he doesn’t wanna waste our short break so— hey, are you listening?”

No, you’re not. Because you met eyes with Choi Beomgyu once more before he left with his friends, and even if it’s been three months since you’ve last talked to him, there’s still a weird feeling in your gut every time you happen to cross paths.

It’s been easy for him to keep his promise. The both of you have different majors, and though you two share a few mutual friends, Heeseung doesn’t know shit about your history, and nobody seems to suspect anything.

Still. You can’t completely avoid him. Not when you two are literally still neighbors.

The both of you moved out since your campus is a two hour commute from your homes, but you also moved into the same apartment building in the city as per your parents’ request. (“Now, I’m more at ease knowing you’re still living next to her, Beomgyu,” your mother remarked the day his dad drove you both to your new building). Your mom didn’t know how not at ease you are with him still floating around you with a seeming permanence, especially after what happened in the playground that night.

“Anyway, I have to go,” Heeseung tells you, probably off to meet the compsci girl he refuses to tell you the name and identity of. You fear she may be one of your friends. “How about you?”

“Off to have lunch with Sungchan and Minjeong,” you hum. “Have fun. Don’t come crying to me when you eventually get your heart broken.”

“You’re just bitter. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a date to save you from your misery.”

“Go to hell.”

“See you.”

The both of you part ways, and you meet up with the aforementioned two at the campus cafeteria because fast food is outside of your budget after splurging all your allowance on caffeine and energy drinks this week. Your two friends seem to have also been hard fucked by midterms. Lunch was filled with quiet complaints and you immediately took the first bus home after eating.

“You stopped by?” you speak into your phone, wedging the device between your cheek and shoulder as you punch in the code to your unit’s door. “You should’ve told me. I could’ve come home earlier.”

“It’s alright. I just left you some side dishes for the week. They’re in the fridge. Who knows what kind of junk you’re putting into your body without me on the watch.”

“I am eating perfectly well!” you exclaim, shutting your door with a click. You love your mom and her food but she’s as protective as ever. “I just got home. I’ll send photo evidence of me enjoying your kimchi, madam.”

You hear her laugh a little at the end of the line, and you hum out a smile. “I’m hanging up. You must be tired so get some rest.”

“Yeah, alright.” Upon entering the living room, you can see the familiar, reusable blue shopping bag on the open kitchen counter, its unreasonably gigantic size taking up too much of the space. You narrow your eyes and walk towards it. When you take a peek inside, there are still full containers and tupperwares. The rolled omelets look particularly good. “I thought you put them in the fridge,” you say. Without waiting for your mother’s response, you’ve already produced a pair of chopsticks and have pried a box open, stuffing a roll inside your mouth.

“Oh, those are for Beomgyu.”

The eggs suddenly taste like sand.

“He mentioned on call last time that he was missing some of my home cooked dishes. Why haven’t you been sharing with him? Greedy child. Anyway, drop them off at his place later when he gets back. He wasn’t around when I visited earlier. Okay?”

First of all, why does your mother keep calling Choi Beomgyu behind your back? Second of all, the guilt of eating what is supposed to be Beomgyu’s food shot your appetite back down into oblivion, so you quickly close the container and stuff it back into the bag in a zip. “Okay. I’ll do that.” You throw the chopsticks into the sink. He isn’t gonna notice that one omelet is missing, right?” “Bye.”

“Come back home during your break.”

Then again. Why do you have to waste this perfectly good food on a guy like him?

The line ends. You fall to the floor with an anguished cry. “Ugh,” you groan, forehead hitting the counter body a few too many times that a bruise could form. “The bastard might snitch on me if I don’t do it. Fuck. Fine.”

You feel like a reanimated corpse when you force yourself back on your feet, a series of grunts as you begrudgingly lug the large bag of side dishes that won’t even end up in your stomach. This is fine, you exhale. You can do this. You’re gonna knock on the door, throw the bag to his face, and say goodbye without talking. This is fine. This is easy.

But with Beomgyu, it’s never easy. The simplicity of the act ends after you’ve left your unit. What came after was the short, dreadful walk across the hallway because shit— in the past three months you’ve moved here, you have never actually gone up to his door.

Knock, knock, knock.

No answer.

Knock, knock, knock.

Still no answer. This bastard never fucking grows.

“Choi Beomgyu!” Your light knocks quickly transition to a heavy banging. “Choi Beomgyu, open up—”

There’s a click and a creak. Your knuckles don’t land on the familiar hardwood— they land on his chest because the momentum made you keep knocking even after he’d opened the door. “Oh,” he flatly starts. A brow raised and arms crossed, he leans against the door frame and looks at you like you’re an unwelcome guest. “What do we have here?”

He’s insufferable. He’s totally insufferable.

“Who are you again?”

“Cut the crap, Beomgyu,” you grunt, absolutely not in the mood for this. You know that it’s a pretty shitty thing for you to ask him to pretend to be strangers. You really do, so you didn’t hold it against him for being mad at you at first. He’s been doing his end, sure, but you don’t remember him acting like a big fucking bitch to you in private as a part of the deal.

You thought his anger would subside after three days. It’s been three months and at this point you’re convinced that this relationship is now irreparable, and neither of you are making the effort to resuscitate it. “You’re the one who came to my door. Why are you swearing at me?” he huffs. You grit your teeth, shoving the bag to him and his act of arrogance falters from surprise. You don’t miss how his eyes widen and how his scrunched up brows suddenly disappear under the messy bangs he’s decided to grow out.

“Here. I’ll take back the containers next week. Make sure you’ve washed them by then. Goodbye.”

That, in fact, wasn’t a good bye because you stomp back into your unit without giving him a second look.

Dammit, dammit, dammit it all. The door is cold against your back when you retreat inside. You hate him. You really do. This would’ve been easier if your lives weren’t so irrevocably tangled— messed up in all sorts of knots and ties that even a fucking boyscout can’t tear it apart.

You left your phone on the counter when you left and you can see it buzzing and lighting up. There’s a few messages. Hi, dear. How have you been? It’s from his mother. There is no escape to this. Absolutely none.

#2: YOU DON’T LIKE HIM FOR FORCING YOU TO SWALLOW SO MUCH OF YOUR PRIDE. Somehow, he’s always there at the lowest points of your life— moments where you wouldn’t even want any of your family to see you, but he’s there. He always is, and you’d always wish to evaporate along with the rain.

Maybe he has a signal whenever you’re on the verge of doing something stupid. Or losing face. Or being absolutely dumped. Or all of the above at the same time. Maybe he’s there on purpose so he can have one more thing on his belt of things to hold against you.

(“I like you.”

The words squeezed out of your throat like a choke, more than anything. Maybe it was because of the fact that you sounded so pathetic that Jiwoong couldn’t even reject you properly. Maybe if he were to be frank, he was afraid that you’d end up crying.

“Um, there’s...there’s somewhere I have to be for a moment. You don’t mind waiting for a bit, right?”

But it wasn’t you that ended up in tears. It was the sky. You weren’t sure how long you’d been waiting, frozen still in an abandoned corner behind the school where your pink-stained note had asked him to come— him, your desk partner for the semester that you’d been unfortunately struck by— but it was long enough for the afternoon sky to be inked by gray clouds. Long enough for it to start pouring in on your behalf.

You sniffled. Ah, shit. This is stupid. You said you weren’t going to cry but fuck, your eyes suddenly started to sting, and you’re looking up at the clouds because gravity might help in preventing them from falling, but all it did was pool saltwater in your tearducts and now they’ve overflown, mixing into the raindrops cascading down your face.

“Until when are you going to keep standing there like an idiot?”

Instead of the gray, pouring sky, your vision is cloaked by a jarring electric blue. It was the same obnoxious color as the umbrella Beomgyu brings around. Then again— that was just his voice, too. Your cheeks started burning. That was enough to bring you back to your senses. “Did—did you see—”

“Let’s go home.”

It was one thing to be caught crying by your friend-slash-neighbor-slash-annoyance. It was another thing to be caught getting rejected by him. That was double the shame and embarrassment soiled. But Beomgyu hasn’t made a mention of it throughout your walk back to the building, much to your relief and suspicion. This man would make fun of you to the ends of high hell just for keeping a plushie to bed until you were thirteen— you weren’t sure when he started developing the emotional intelligence to stay in the comfort of silence throughout your walk home.

Of course, you didn’t expect him to hold his tongue for too long. It was an empty road, and the rain was still pouring. Beomgyu held up his umbrella above your head, and started with a low voice, “Want me to beat him up?”

Your steps lagged, faltering a little in mild surprise. “You?” An invisible force started tugging on the corners of your lips. “With your lanky ass and noodle arms? Keep dreaming, loser.”

“Hey—” You had to hold back a snort when you saw his face, an evident look of unbridled offense taking over, and he stopped in his tracks just to passionately defend himself. “You take that back. I’m strong. I’m pretty sure I can lift you up with just one arm. I can beat the shit out of Jiwoong if I wanted to.”

“Sure,” you snickered. “That is if you want to end up in the hospital. You’re all skin and bones, Beomgyu. You’re weak as hell. Remember the last time we arm wrestled? I’m pretty sure it ended up with me as the winner, and you as the— eep!”

You yelped, eyes widening. Suddenly, the ground wasn’t touching your feet anymore, you could feel the rain on your skin, and the bright, blue umbrella was now on the ground. You can see nothing but the fabric of Beomgyu’s dark and drenched uniform blazer and glimpses of the upside down pavement. Your face started to heat up. You could feel his firm grip around your waist and legs.

“That was in sixth grade, doofus. Keep up,” he snorted.

“What the hell? Put me down!” you let out a grunt and tried to wiggle yourself free, but he’s unyielding— continuing the walk back home while carrying you like a sack of potatoes. “If you don’t put me down, I am going to bite you.”

“Nuh-uh.” The bastard gave your body a rough shake as a warning, and you screamed. “Not until you take back what you said earlier.” You balled your hands into a fist and hit his back. “Wow, you’re so ungrateful. I’m giving you a free ride home yet you decide to assault me. Your mother will be so disappointed when she hears this.”

“Your mother will shave your head if she finds out your haircut received a warning this morning.”

“Oooo—kay. Down you go. Ride over.” The moment Beomgyu settled you back on the ground, you gave him the nastiest glare you could muster. He gave you a grin. “Your hair is a mess.”

“Whose fault is it?” you sneer.

“Jiwoong’s,” he answered, matting down the top of your head with his hands. You winced when his fingers got caught between the wet, tangled strands. Beomgyu’s lips pursed as he tried to unravel them, brows furrowed in concentration. “I’m uninviting him to our game night tomorrow. He can eat shit.”

“He’s gonna talk shit if you do that,” you replied.

“Who cares.” He was finished tinkering with your hair. It was still pouring. “Done. Let’s go home.” You didn’t know if he made it better or worse.

“Okay,” you replied, feeling the top of your head. “But your umbrella ran away. Idiot.”

“Does it matter?” his lips quirked. “We’re already drenched, anyway.”)

The ice in your service water has already melted. You are going to kill a man named Lee Heeseung.

Why isn’t this motherfucker answering your calls? You let out a mental swear. It’s the second Saturday of your one-week break after midterms, and Heeseung organized a blind date for you and his friend today. The problem is, that said friend is nowhere to be seen. The customers next to your table have already changed thrice already. You’re not pathetic. You’re not gonna wait for him.

Right when you muster the willpower to get up, Heeseung finally answers your call. He’s quick to overtake your possible threats by immediately rambling, “Okay. Before you get mad—”

“You’re dead to me.”

“I’m sorry!” he screams-slash-pleads. “Eunseok canceled at the last minute because of this thing with his— nevermind. That’s not important. I’m gonna kick his ass the next time I see him, but please tell me you haven’t left the cafe yet.”

You bite your bottom lip. You want to lie. You want to tell him that you’ve already left thirty minutes ago and are now in your apartment with cozy pajamas and a cucumber face mask. “I’m around the area,” you reply. “Why?”

“Oh, good. Great.”

This is brow raising. The bell above the door entrance rings, catching your attention and you look up. “Why?”

“You’re still going on a date,” he tells you. “I promise you, your time definitely won’t be wasted—”

Heeseung’s voice disappears into the background. Entering the cafe is the person you want to see the least. He’s wearing the hooded sweater you got him for Christmas last year, and around his neck are the headphones you got him for his birthday.

“—so I called another friend. Don’t think of him as just a second option, okay?! I think he’s more your type anyway, and—”

He’s looking around. He still hasn’t noticed you. He’s standing in the middle of the shop and he pulls out his phone.

“—and he’s headed there right— oh! He says he’s there already!”

Beomgyu has spotted you and you want to kill yourself. Your head drops down and you bite down a scream of agony and despair. “You’ve heard of Choi Beomgyu, right? From BSEMC? I’ve mentioned him a few times. Haha. Anyway. I hope you enjoy your da—”

“Heeseung told me his friend got stood up and needed a backup.” He’s now in front of you. He’s looking down at you from behind the opposite chair. “I didn’t expect that that friend would be you.”

You’re going to kill yourself after you kill Heeseung. Better yet, why not murder Beomgyu as well so you can all rot in bloody fucking hell?

“Hello?”

“Shut up,” you grunt, trying your best to subtly hide the burning embarrassment on your face without making it obvious that your pride is now in perfectly tattered shambles. Of all people, why him? Why? For the love of god, why? “Just leave. I doubt you even want to be here. Let’s just spare each other the headache, alright?”

Beomgyu stifles a scoff. You watch as his knuckles flex while clutching the back of the chair. “I canceled a game for this.” He pulls it back and plops down on the seat like a petulant child. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your face contorts into an unabashed grimace. You take your bag and stand up. “Okay. Then, I’m leaving.”

“You could’ve left an hour ago.”

Pause. He looks up at you, arms crossed and confident. Your upper lip twitches. You sit back down. Heeseung has already died twice in your head.

“I guess even someone as heartless as you is desperate for a little romance,” he hums, leaning back against his seat and completely at ease— a stark contrast to your end of the table: hot and bothered for all the wrong, not very sexy reasons. You’re trying to feign calmness, but the sweat dripping down your forehead from the heat of shame is ratting you out. This is the worst. This is the absolute worst.

You’re only able to breathe again when Beomgyu gets up to order something. Maybe you should order something too because your throat is as dry as bone. He returns not long after with a tray in hand. He settles it down on the table, revealing two glasses of iced tea and a plate of matcha tiramisu.

“Quit sulking,” he says. “You’re ugly when you sulk.”

With one hand, you flip him off. With the other, you use to grab one of the forks and dig into the dessert. Beomgyu mirrors your actions (minus the middle finger part), and grimaces after a spoonful lands in his mouth. “How are you eating this?” You hover a hand over your lips, pressing down a laugh. “It tastes like grass. Are you a cow? Is that it?”

Offended, you pull the plate closer to you. “Then why did you buy matcha if you’re just gonna insult it?”

“Because you like it.” Beomgyu reaches an arm over to get another bite, gags, then continues to try again. “Your tastebuds are really fucking weird. You should get them checked. I think they’re broken.”

You settle with an eye roll before taking a sip from the iced tea. This is odd. This feels like you’ve been transported back into time prior to your three-month long cold war. Choi Beomgyu is sitting in front of you and tapping on his phone laid on the table, and you’re sitting in front of him enjoying a nice piece of dessert he bought. There’s an odd cacophony inside your stomach— like butterflies and glass shards fluttering and cracking in a single enclosed space.

“I heard you’ll be playing for the E-Sports Fest next week,” you mention, trying to dig a deeper hole into this crack that managed to resurface. Beomgyu gives you a weird, insinuating look in response. “Shut your face. I just keep hearing your name being mentioned. Heeseung is obsessed with you, I think.”

“Why are you asking?” he snorts, passing you a napkin. “You want to cheer for me?”

“Ew. Why would I?” you reply, blindly wiping at the corner of your mouth. “We’re not even from the same department.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows knit together, trained on the lower half of your face. “Tch. Then why even bring it up, you—”

Time stops. For some reason, Beomgyu has reached his arm over the table and is now touching your face, thumb pressed against the side of your lip with a napkin, the opposite side of where you were trying to wipe off.

Your eyes meet. It gets warm.

“Sorry,” he coughs out, retracting his hand to wipe the green-dusted cream off his fingers. Now, you know all of Choi Beomgyu’s tells like the back of your hand— and he’s not hiding those blushing ears from anyone. You’ve caught him. You knew his son of a bitch act was gonna crumble at some point (no, you didn’t. You thought he was gonna stay mad at you forever so now your heart is racing in glee). “If you’re done, let’s go. Come pick up your mom’s containers from my place.”

“Oh,” you breathe out. “Right.”

“I washed them.”

“Congratulations.”

He sneers. “Get up. I’m leaving you.”

The one thing you regret about making the deal with Beomgyu is missing out the opportunity of taking advantage of him and the car his parents’ gifted for graduation. Seriously. Had you known he’d be driving a private vehicle to and from campus everyday, you might have never asked for that favor in the first place. Those three months worth of bus fares could’ve been spent on your daily doses of coffee instead.

“Seatbelt,” he reminds while pulling out of the driveway. You’re mildly impressed and your face isn’t hiding it, and neither is the bashful tint on the tips of his ears. “Quit staring, you weirdo.”

“You can be kind of cool after all.” You give him a thumbs up. He grunts, and now you’re on the road back to your apartment.

It’s a quiet drive— the hum of the engine filling the early evening silence. You steal a few glances here and there, sneaking a few peeks at a new side of your friend(?) that you’ve never witnessed before. Since when was he so good at driving? He’s got only one hand on the steering wheel. It’s weird, you think. You’ve known everything about him for as long as you can remember, and finding out something new for the first time in a while— and not being the first one to find out about it— is making odd twists and turns inside your gut.

When you reach the apartment building, it’s still quiet. And when you ride up the elevator all the way to your floor, walking up the space between both of your doors, silence still permeates the walls and it makes you wonder— has it ever been this quiet between you two?

“I’ll go get the stuff. Stay here.”

You’re left behind with your messy thoughts in the hallway and before things can get even more tangled up, Beomgyu shows up again with the bright blue shopping bag you dropped off last week. “Tell the madam that her seasoned spinach is perfect as usual.” He returns the bag, a faint smile on his face.

“Go tell her that yourself,” you huff, retrieving it from him. “I’m pretty sure she calls you more often than she calls me.” The tupperwares and containers look clean. You should give him a treat for doing a good job.

“Your mother is constantly worried about her young, impressionable daughter taking her first steps of independence, but doesn’t want to be called overbearing by her only child, so she asks me about you instead.” Beomgyu’s tone is nagging. You shoot him a glare and he simply steps closer to jab a finger into your forehead. “You have no idea how hard it is to make up bullshit about what you’ve been up to. You owe me a lot, dipshit.”

You wince, smacking his hand away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. His eyes leer away for a moment, and he lets out a huff of air through his nose. “Why? Do I know you?”

Oh god. Here he goes again.

“Why do you keep—” You stop, squeezing your eyes and taking in a deep inhale because for a moment there, you were just about to yell again. “Okay,” you restart. You should do something about your temper. “Okay. I apologize for troubling you, and I’ll tell her to quit bothering you, so—”

It was going well. It was going so well. Only if you had missed the very subtle, very irritating roll of his eyes upon your remark.

“—so you should quit being an absolute dickhead too, asshole!”

Then maybe you could’ve lived in happy ignorance, and all your progress today wouldn’t have to restart.

“Oh, so I’m the asshole?” he scoffs, incredulous. “You’re the one who told me to distance myself. You’re the one who asked. I’m just doing what you told me to do. Why am I in the wrong?” Your throat tightens, a familiar choke the moment you try to swallow.

“I never asked you to stop being friends with me, Beomgyu! I just—”

Asked you to keep our friendship hidden because I’m selfish. Because I’m insecure. Because I hate you just as much as you mean the world to me.

But you can’t tell him any of these things, can’t you?

His disappointment is clear from the look on his face. Beomgyu lets his fingers rake through his hair with a sigh. “Just go home. Thanks for the food.”

There’s something twisting inside your stomach, churning at an uncomfortable pace. It’s gnawing and grating. You’re only able to pinpoint it when Beomgyu turns back to his apartment, prompted by the resounding click of his door lock.

Ah, you realize amid the silence of the now empty hallway. It’s guilt.

#3: YOU DON’T LIKE HOW MUCH OF YOUR IDENTITY HE’S STRIPPED AWAY. You know it’s not on purpose. You know he doesn’t know. But it’s something that’s plagued you until your last few weeks of high school— the time for last chances, and final opportunities. It’s for this reason that you can’t stand him the most.

(“Hey!”

It was an unfamiliar voice that called out your name from behind you in the hallway, so you ignored it assuming that maybe they were calling someone else. It gets repeated, and you stop in front of your locker to retrieve your shoes, paying no mind to it. You’re going home alone today because Beomgyu’s out with his guy friends. “We’re having dinner together at my house later! Don’t forget!” was the last thing he yelled at you before running off. An unconscious smile crawls onto your face at the thought of it.

You felt a tap on your shoulder and heard the same voice that’d been repeating your name. You spin around, and are a little surprised to see the group standing behind you. “Hi!”

It was Haena, one of your classmates, and she was joined with two more of the girls from your class, and one that you didn’t quite recognize.

“Oh, sorry,” you bowed a little. “I didn’t know I was the one you were calling. I wasn’t trying to ignore you, sorry.” Your surprise stemmed from the fact that you weren’t really close with Haena or her friends. Not that you were on bad terms. You greeted each other from time to time, but your friend circle really just consisted of Choi Beomgyu, your deskmate Chaeryeong, and Ryunjin from the broadcasting club.

“It’s alright,” she smiled. “Do you…maybe have any plans today?”

You pulled out your shoes from the locker and closed it tightly. “No, not really.”

“Great! There’s a new cafe that opened near the school. Wanna join us?”

Well. This was unexpected. You didn’t have any other plans besides the joint family dinner you had with the Choi’s, so going on a cafe detour wouldn’t hurt. Beomgyu was also out with his other friends right now. Who says you couldn’t do the same? “Sure,” you replied. “I’ll join.”

It was a cute, cat-themed cafe with the only disappointment being that there were no actual cats— just the cat-shaped whipped cream on your strawberry drink, and the cat-shaped tiramisu on your plate. Cats weren’t usually green or pink, but you digress.

The girls were friendly. Conversation ranged from the universities you’ll all be attending, the classes you’re all about to finish, sprinkled with topics on shopping and clothes and the names of the rest of your classmates here and there. You’d started to zone out after a good while, stirring the contents of your half-empty drink as you stared at the glass windows, tinted orange by the sunset sky.

Haena cleared her throat. “So,” she started. You turned your attention back to your companions, and your eyes widened a little when you were met with all their eyes on you. Haena pronounced your name. “I’ve always been curious about something.”

You blinked. “About what?”

She leaned closer, a smile playing on her lips. “Are you and Beomgyu dating?”

You nearly choked on the sweet, strawberry drink. “What? No!”

“Really?” Seohyun nudged herself closer next to you on the seat.

“Everyone thinks you’re dating him,” said Bora. “You’re always together.”

“Ah, that’s ridiculous! I’m really not dating him!” Your face has started to warm up. Gosh, what was this? What kind of situation was this? A few of them weren’t convinced, you could tell. You pressed your lips together before breathing out, “We’ve known each other since we were like toddlers. There’s no way in hell I’d be dating him. I don’t know where you're getting all these assumptions from.”

There was a glint in Haena’s eyes that you didn’t fail to notice.

“So, you don’t have any feelings for him?” This was getting weird.

“No. No, I don’t.” And even if you did, what the hell would they be interrogating you about it?

Haena visibly brightened. “Really? Then can you set me up with him?”

You were dumbfounded.

“I’m— I’m sorry?”

Things started to click. Senior high school was almost over, and your classmates whom you’ve barely even shared a conversation with for the past three years, were taking their last chance to start something with their crushes, or some shit, under the guise of half-hearted friendliness. You’ve understood now— and you’re nothing less than offended.

“Actually, I’ve liked Beomgyu for a while now,” Haena bashfully admitted. Seohyun inserted that her friend has had a crush on him since the beginning of the year. “I thought there was something going on between the two of you so I never acted on it. But I’m so happy to hear that you two are just friends!”

You shouldn’t be annoyed. But you were. You were very annoyed.

“You’ll help me right?”

Needless to say, you went home that day with your cat tiramisu in a paper box as takeout. The next morning, the three girls greeted your classroom entrance with unabashed glares. You paid no mind and headed over to your seat at the back, where an out of place box of chocolate milk was gingerly resting on the table.

You were mildly suspicious that Choi Beomgyu was the one who put that there, so you held it in your hands with caution, examining the box closer when you took a seat.

The alleged perpetrator suddenly showed up from behind you. Your head felt heavier. Beomgyu was resting his arms on the top of your head, leaning down all of his weight onto you. “Oh wow,” he started. “Looks like someone has a secret admirer.”

You elbowed him and he let out a sharp yelp. You could see Haena giving you dirty looks from afar. “Go back to your seat,” you scolded him. “Class is starting soon.” Beomgyu listens to you well, but not after messing up your hair even further and greeting Seungmin who had just walked in.

“Are we still going after class?”

Choi Beomgyu was always surrounded by people. This was something you noticed a few months into your second year of middle school. He was like a lamp, flocked by so many buzzing insects in the night— just like right now, his face barely visible from inside the crowd at the middle of the classroom where his seat was. Even your seating assignments placed him at the center. That’s just where he’s meant to be.

“Hey, did you and Haena get into a fight?”

You looked up to see Chaeryeong barely arriving in time before the bell, pulling her seat back and plopping down right next to you.

“Don’t mind it.” You sunk your face into your arms on the desk, elbow grazing the still unopened chocolate milk on the line dividing yours and your friend’s desk. “Hey,” you let your face peek out a little from your makeshift cocoon. “From an outsider’s perspective...do Beomgyu and I give the impression that we’re, um, dating?”

She snorted. “Haven’t your parents arranged your marriage, already?”

“This is a serious question!”

Honestly, this has never crossed your mind. Not until Haena mentioned it yesterday. It took a while for things to click inside your brain, but if this misunderstanding was really not singular, then that would really explain why you have never received any confession, any valentine’s day chocolate, or love letter, or anything for the past three years of highschool. It was all Beomgyu’s fault. He’s been unknowingly sabotaging your love life and if you end up sad and dying alone, it’s all on him.

Well, I guess it’s not completely ruined. Your cheeks pressed against your arms, looking at the milk carton on your desk.

When you got up to your desk the next morning, there was another milk carton on your table.

“Hey.”

You looked up to see Seungmin hovering in front of your table. “What?”

“Not even a good morning? Beomgyu was right. You do have an attitude.” You rolled your eyes and stuffed the drink into your bag, and Seungmin decided to keep talking. “Anyway, where is he? You two usually arrive at the same time.”

“He slept through his alarm,” you replied. Then you furrowed your brows. “Why are you asking me? Couldn’t you just text him?”

“Well, it would be quicker to just ask you. Anyway, thanks.”

With that, he left. The bell rang, and your teacher arrived. You decide to save the drink until lunch time and when you got back to the classroom from the cafeteria, there was another snack on your table. For the next following days, you would find snacks suddenly spawning on your table. It was starting to get curious.

“Whoa. Holy crap. Someone might actually have a crush on you.”

It was now Friday, the end of the week, and you have accumulated a total of four milk boxes, three melon breads, and one pack of cookies all throughout. You and Beomgyu were staring down at the latest addition: a grape juice box and a packet of chocopie. He started muttering, “Does your admirer know that you snore when you—”

You gave him a kick. Beomgyu matched it with a harsh pull on your bag. He quickly ran away before you could retaliate, the rest of his body having already left, and his head peeking from the door to give you one last message.

“I’m going first! We have a raid in a while. What time is dinner later?”

“I’ll message you.”

“Alright,” he hummed. “See you. Text me if something comes up.”

This must be why people think you were dating. You were tired of it. When you were younger, people paid no mind to how much time and space you two were spending together— now that you’ve gotten a little older, maybe some things couldn’t be perceived as platonic forever.

But you don’t have any feelings for him, and neither does he for you. The only feeling you have for him is a penetrating sense of irritation. You mulled it over as you left the school building, clutching your bag straps as you walked. However, you paused upon seeing a familiar face standing at the edge of the entrance stairs. He looked like he was waiting for someone.

“Oh! Um,” he suddenly exclaimed upon noticing your approaching presence. A cough stifled out from his throat, followed by a nervous smile. “Hi.”

It was Lim Jimin, one of your classmates and one of the boys that were usually rallying up every afternoon after class to the internet cafe with Beomgyu and Seungmin like a bunch of nerds. “Hey?” you greet back. “Didn’t you guys have a raid or something today? I think they already left.”

“No, I uh, I stayed behind,” he mumbled. “Can we talk for a bit?”

The chocolate milk carton he was holding had not gone unnoticed by you. Your narrowed eyes flitted over to his fidgeting fingers. His nerves were spilling right out. “Have you been the one leaving food on my desk?”

He flinched. “Yeah— well—” A smile curled on your lips. “Damn, this is a little embarrassing. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you hummed. “I enjoyed them. Thanks.”

There was a tinge of pink on his cheeks, a sheepish hand on the back of his neck and it looked as if he was running through a million thoughts in his head at once. “I’ve...I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he finally started after a moment’s silence. “Can you do me a favor?”

Your heart jumped. Holy shit. This is happening, this is actually happening.

“Y—yeah?”

Your breath hitched inside your throat. Oh my god. You might actually end your curse of lovelessness today. Oh my fucking god.

“Can you convince Beomgyu to help me get to Platinum in League?”

What?

“I—I know this sounds dumb, and it’s kinda pathetic that I had to bribe you with snacks just to get to this— but he’s been refusing to help any of us because he leaves after like three games!” Jimin exclaimed, and, upon noticing the flat look on your face, quickly gathered himself back together. “Ahem. I thought…maybe you could convince him since you’re like, his girlfriend and all.”

Your brain was a loading screen. You blinked but saw nothing but red. Beomgyu goes home after three games because you guys eat dinner at six in the evening. Jimin was giving you food as a bribe. You were not getting a confession.

All at once, the blood rose to your face,

“W-wait— is that a yes? Are you gonna ask him—”

Your shame couldn’t keep you standing there like an idiot for any longer. Every hurried step you took was a testament of your misery, and you left behind in your wake a fucking wave of turmoil and embarrassment. Fuck, your cheeks were burning. Fuck, why did Beomgyu have to entertain that idea and muddled your brain.

“Oh, you’re home?” your mother greeted the moment you kicked open your apartment door and started stomping to your room. “Where’s Beomgyu? Why didn’t you come home toge—”

“Ugh!” you groaned. “Enough about him, please!”

Did you only exist as an extension of him? As a part of him? As Choi Beomgyu’s friend, girlfriend, whatever, as the girl who’s always been around him for the past seventeen years to the point where that was all you’re known for?

You were fucking sick of it.

Your mom was scolding you for yelling at her, but you were far into your emotions to stay behind and say sorry. Your bag was left on the living room floor, and you were once again stomping out of your apartment unit, only to bump your face into Choi Beomgyu. “Whoa,” he remarked, quickly grabbing onto your shoulders. “Where are you going?”

“Out.” You shoved yourself off him.

“Someone’s cranky,” he mused, trailing behind you as you continued bulldozing down the hallway, down the stairs, out the building and on the dim and chalky path towards the playground. Beomgyu kept chattering. “What’s up? Why are you mad? Did you leave something behind in the classroom? Okay, you aren’t talking to me. That’s fine. I was gonna ask you what flowers you wanted for our graduation ceremony, but I guess I’ll just pick and choose whatever I—”

Smack!

You’ve spun around. You’ve got his face smacked in between your palms, promptly shutting him up. His eyes flew open, mouth firmly and tightly closed. “Can you stop talking for a second?” you guttered out.

Beomgyu stared at you, eyes still wide, then nodded once, still sandwiched between your palms. You bit down your bottom lip. Your ribcage was starting to squeeze in on itself. “Sorry,” you mumbled, arms falling back to your sides and you resumed your march towards the playground.

He stayed silent for the rest of the time, following you on the see-saws and the both of you exchanged ups and downs for a few moments— quiet moments— until you were the one to break it.

“Hey, fuckface,” you called out,

“What do you want, dipshit?” he replied.

“Remember when I hauled your ass to the emergency room after you broke your leg at the skatepark in 9th grade?”)

YOUR MORNING STARTED OFF NICELY. It’s the first day back to uni after your one week break. You woke up before your alarm and had the time to make a really stir-fried rice meal for breakfast (your first breakfast in a week, mind you). Your clothes are fresh from the dryer, mascara unclumpy, and you arrive at the bus stop at the same time as your bus to campus arrives, right on the dot.

Today is going great. That is until Heeseung shows up at the library after sending you a text that he’s on the way, and ruins everything with one, single statement.

“Did you sleep with Beomgyu the other night?”

The orange juice you’re drinking nearly dribbles out of your mouth.

“What the fuck?”

Your voice is louder than you thought. Heeseung shushes you and sits and pulls out the seat next to yours, ready to explain. “The guys from the coding club blew up the GC last night. A few of them saw you come out of his car and enter his apartment building together last Saturday. I think there were pictures.” Your mouth is agape. You’re speechless. “I didn’t tell them anything! Some of the guys were just around the neighborhood and happened to see you.”

Oh, no. Oh, no no no no no no.

“But, I guess...the blind date went well?”

God, fuck no.

Your worst nightmare has finally come crashing into reality.

“We live in the same building, get your mind out of the gutter!” you hiss, pulling him by the collar. Heeseung is very visibly terrified. You never wanted him to find out about your living situation in the first place because you know that he’d force you to hang out with them whenever he’s crashing at Beomgyu’s. You’re starting to regret hitting up a conversation with him during the orientation. These men are the banes of your existence. “Who is it? Who the fuck is spreading that stupid fucking rumor?”

“Please let go of me,” he squeaks out. You grunt, releasing the fabric of his shirt. He takes in a breath and fixes his clothes. “I’m not a snitch. Sorry.”

Heeseung is avoiding your eyes. He’s twiddling with the top button of his button up, nervously pressing together his lips. You run through the members of their “coding club” (it’s just a cover so they can play games in a cushy campus office). It doesn’t take long for you to come up with a name.

“Yang Jeongin.” Your friend’s panic tells you that you’re on the nail.

“He only sent the photo!” he quickly exclaims. “He never said that you two were hooking up or anything! Please, spare him, please—”

So much for a perfect morning. It’s not even nine and you’re already fucking drained.

You let out a groan, massaging your temples and balancing yourself with your elbows on the study table. Heeseung is spewing out a million apologies and you’re not taking shit. “You’re not gonna go to our clubroom and destroy our computers, right?”

“Thanks for the idea.”

“You’re a demon,” he grumbles. “What’s the big deal, anyway? You yourself said you and Beomgyu didn’t fuck. But you two went home together and you haven’t complained about him yet. That means your date went really, really—”

“Can you please just quit it?!”

That’s it. You’ve had enough. You shoot up from your seat, quickly gathering your things before you actually start throwing punches. “I’m sick and tired of hearing his name!” Heeseung gulps. He quickly scoots away to evade your haphazardly swinging bag. “Why the fuck do you all keep mentioning that piece of shit? It’s like everyone’s obsessed with him, it’s like everyone wants a chance to ride on his di—”

The words get cut off. Because when you turned around to make your leave, Choi Beomgyu was right there, behind you, and you bump into him and his blank face of terror.

“Oh.”

Yang Jeongin is also there, looking mildly scared of you.

But you’re more horrified than anyone in this hall.

Hiccup!

Your face flushes, searing hot and visibly enflamed.

“I, uh—” hiccup! “I’m about to leave anyway so you guys can—” hiccup! “—shit, fuck, fucking hell—”

You quickly swerve away, head down, but an arm swooshes over to barricade your exit path. There’s a water bottle in front of your heated face. Your line of sight follows towards the owner of the arm. Beomgyu is looking at you straight in the eye.

“Drink some water first.”

Hiccup!

Fuck, this is so embarrassing.

“Whoa. She’s so fast.”

The three boys watch your speedily retreating figure, pausing once or twice because of a hiccup, but your pace is still abnormally fast as you escape from the premises. There is no trace of you, save for the orange juice container you’d been drinking since earlier.

“There’s this tension between the two of you, you know.” Beomgyu turns his head to Heeseung who made the observation, a single eyebrow raised. “Do you two really live in the same building, or is she just making up an excuse? Seriously. Tell me how it went with you two. I was the one who set you up. I think I have the right to know.”

Beomgyu holds back a snort. He leans closer to Heeseung, a subtle smile playing on his lips. “You wanna know?”

Heeseung’s eyes sparkle. “Dude, I’m dying of curiosi—”

Smack!

“That’s none of your business.”

Beomgyu swipes the juice box from the table and promptly leaves the library despite the protests of his two friends. Out in the hallway, he doubts he could catch up to you after running away like a white collar convict, but who knows? He might get lucky— just like last Saturday.

“Hey, dude, wait up!”

An arm is hooked around his neck, and he gets pulled down with a grunt. He might be unable to catch up to you, but his friends definitely can with him. Now all his chances are gone, slipping out of his fingers like the juice container that he drops when caught between Heeseung and Jeongin shoving each other around, and it’s now completely lost upon the arrival of the people from his major.

“Hey, classes are canceled.”

“What are we having for lunch?”

“Are we having a practice run later for the festival?”

“Wait, I have to update my story— hey, look at the camera!”

They talk, but it’s all white noise. He gets carried off by static for the rest of the day. He hopes to bump into you when he gets home, but Beomgyu doesn’t even know what time you usually get home.

All the years you’ve spent mastering the perfect bitch face have finally come to fruition when you visited the programming club during lunch to make sure none of the bullshit they’re speculated escapes their clubroom doors. They all apologized— apparently Beomgyu also told them to quit their gossiping.

However not even fear can stop an inherently stupid man. Because the next day, Minjeong suddenly tells you, “hey, I didn’t know you and Choi Beomgyu were a thing!”

Now, which rat managed to slip through the door crack?

“No, we’re not,” you scrunch your nose. “Where did you get that from?”

From a friend of a friend of a friend, she says. Sungchan asked you the same thing earlier. So did some guy from one class whom you don’t even know the name of. Your head is hurting. Crap that blind date was a stupid fucking idea. Seriously, why does no one know how to mind their own business? What is it about Choi Beomgyu that people just can’t keep his name out of their mouths? He’s not even a celebrity. He’s just a freshman with a pretty face and the social skills of an annoyingly loud butterfly.

“I’m going home,” you tell her.

“Why? I thought we were having barbecue with the rest of the guys!”

Not when you’re sure you’re gonna be barraged by another slew of questions about your dumb childhood friend. You bid Minjeong goodbye and exit the campus, hopping on the bus back to your apartment with a dead set agenda in mind. You’re going to fix this. You’r gonna bring things back to normal once and for all. So when you arrive at your floor, you don’t make a left like you usually do— you turn to your right and make three hard knocks on the sturdy door.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Choi Beomgyu.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“Beomgyu, are you ho—”

It gets opened sooner than you’re used to.

“Listen. We need to talk,” you quickly start, ignoring the surprise on his face upon seeing you, ignoring the way he almost shuts the door again right into your face. You hold back a scoff, but a sneer manages to sneak out. “Things have gotten messy since last Saturday. You should’ve kept your clubmates in check. What’s the point of acting like we’re strangers when people I don’t know keep asking me if I’m your fucking girlfriend, and Lee Heeseung keeps badgering me about what’s going on between us, and— oh my fucking god. Heeseung is right there.”

Beomgyu’s body is shielding you from the view of his living room. It’s not doing a good job because Heeseung waves at you from inside. Jeongin is there too. You can’t do this anymore. You’re cursed. You’re cursed with a plague called Choi Beomgyu and his ten million friends.

Your shaking eyes flit over back to Beomgyu. He looks panicked. Your heart is threatening to jump out of your throat and shrivel up like a pathetic dried grape.

“Fuck.”

At this point, running away feels like muscle memory to you now.

“Wait, I— hold on. I’ll be back,” you hear him say right before the door clicks and there’s another pair of pattering footsteps down the hallway right behind yours. The rhythm is familiar— a lag by one step, catching up, then slowing down as if he doesn’t want to overtake you all while you bulldoze through the hallway until you reach the flight of stairs, down three floors, and you’re met with the cold wind of the outside.

It’s only now that you realize your lungs are shaking.

“Hey—”

You smack away his attempt to settle a hand on your shoulder, but you’re far too embarrassed to look up and look him in the eye. Your face is burning. It’s been burnt so many times within the span of two weeks and it’s a miracle it hasn’t been charred. “Go away. Go back upstairs,” you sniffle. All you can see is the cement ground and the worn out slippers on his feet.

He stifles out something sort of a sigh. “No.” There’s a tug on the hem of your shirt. You wobble forward. Beomgyu holds onto your arms. You finally snap your head up and see his face. “You said we needed to talk. Let’s talk.”

It’s a little pathetic how you’re so near to breaking into tears. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to.”

“Is that really what you should be saying after completely screwing yourself over?”

“Shut up.” All the strength you had in your legs has been stripped away. Beomgyu is tugging your limp body to your complex’s gazebo with ease. “How could I have known your friends would be there?” you drawl out, allowing yourself to be dragged under its overhead roof.

He settles you down onto the stairs. “Isn’t Heeseung your friend too?”

“Not anymore.” You plop down on the wood, shoulders slacked, legs outstretched. Beomgyu is standing before you with his arms crossed. “From now on, he is nothing to me.”

There’s a frown on his face. “You should’ve called before deciding to blow up like that. I did my best. You’re the one that ruined your whole stranger agenda.”

“Fuck off, I’m still trying to cope.”

You kick out your foot like a child throwing a tantrum, and Beomgyu definitely doesn’t look impressed. He walks up, signaling you to scoot over, and squeezes right next to you on the narrow stair step of the gazebo.

Shoulders pressed together, he leans slightly forward, elbows on his lap, and all you can see is the side of his face as you incline backwards so you don’t suffocate from the sudden tightness of air. “Am I like, too lame for you, or something,” he suddenly says. You blink once, failing to comprehend his words the first time. When he cocks his head back, you see the look in his eyes— earnest and raw.

You can’t help but crack out a snort.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” you sputter out. Your plaster your hands over your face, trying to suppress your misplaced chimes. “I just didn’t think you could make that kind of face. Wow, you can be serious too, huh?”

“You’re laughing,” he deadpans. “I’m trying to be serious here and you’re laughing.”

“I said I was sorry! Okay, let’s try again, let’s try again.” You clear your throat, sitting up straight and patting your palms on your lap, but something keeps tugging on the corners of your mouth and it’s hard to sit still. “No, you are not ‘too lame’ for me, Beomgyu. Where did that even come from?”

His expression bitters, unconvinced. “Then are you ashamed of me?”

“No.”

“Did I do anything abhorrently wrong?”

“What? No—”

“Am I not cool enough to be considered your friend?”

“Beomgyu, what are you talking about?” It was funny the first time, but now you’re just concerned. “Would I have stuck around your ass for almost twenty years if I thought any of that? Things haven’t been the best between us lately, but I still think we’re friends, Beomgyu, I—”

There’s a crack in your voice. Your face flushes. He’s looking at you so intently that you instinctively drop your head down before prying out the words that’s been lingering in your throat for months overdue.

“I…I hope we still are,” you mutter. “I really do.”

“Then why did you want to act like we’re not?”

There it is.

“I didn’t want to keep it up for a long time!” you reason. “I just— I just wanted to keep my distance until I’ve adjusted to uni and until I’ve made a few friends of my own because for most of my life, I’ve only been known as the girl who’s always around you and nothing else.”

It takes a gnaw at your pride to be finally saying this out loud. It’s a bitter taste on your tongue— ugly and unpalatable and you’re glad that you won’t ever have to swallow it ever again.

When you look up, you see Beomgyu make another new face you never expected from him.

“I doubt you noticed how people would only approach me because of you, but I really don’t blame you for anything. It was an unreasonable request and you had every right to be mad. I might have taken it back had we stayed around on the playground for a little longer.” You take a pause. “But then you started acting like a dick to me so I decided to be a dick to you too.”

You expect him to bite back but he doesn’t and it worries you. Shit, maybe you’ve unhauled too much. Maybe this wasn’t the right time be all vulnerable and crap but Beomgyu isn’t telling you you’re a big fucking idiot, so maybe it’s fine.

Instead, he stays quiet for a little longer, your words simmering in the air.

“I wasn’t just angry. I was hurt,” he finally says. “Like you said, you’ve been with me for all my life and you suddenly tell me to reverse all of that. How the fuck did you expect me to act like you’re nobody when we both know that at this point I can’t live without you.”

Oh.

“Shit.”

Beomgyu’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t mean— I didn’t want to say—” He’s covering the bottom half of his face with his fist. He’s turning his head away as much as he can but you can still see enough to notice. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to say that. Forget about it.”

You lean closer. “Beomgyu, are you crying?”

“No. Fuck off.”

His right shoulder is serving as his shield as you try to dig your nose further, completely turning away from you, but you don’t miss it. You can’t miss it. “Oh my god, you’re crying.” Beomgyu leers back at you ever the slightest. There’s red tinting his eyes. You expect him to scurry off back into the building after that— but, no. Instead, pulls you by the forearm, and lets his head fall onto your shoulder, his forehead pressed firmly down.

“Eat shit and die,” he mutters in between sniffles. After your initial surprise, you lift up the arm he isn’t grabbing onto to give him a few pats on the back, circles over his shoulder blades, and you stay like that for a while, for maybe too long because the sky is now darker than when you first went outside.

“Beomgyu,” you start.

“What do you want?” he muffles, as if he isn’t still draped over you like an oversized rag.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was selfish and inconsiderate.”

You hear him sniffle again. Heeseung wouldn’t believe you if you tell him Choi Beomgyu is actually a big baby. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize the way other people were treating you,” he says. “I can’t help being such a cool guy that you get overshadowed, you know. So I’m not sorry for that— ow! Ow, what the heck!”

You pry him off by the hair. You’re sure a few strands got plucked off, but a realization you didn’t expect to glean from this was the fact that his stupid shaggy hair is actually really soft. “I think this is enough. We should head back.”

In spite of his complaining, Beomgyu trails behind you when you stand up and dust yourself before making your way back inside. It’s still quiet, save for the hisses and grunts and swears whenever Beomgyu would step on your shoes, whenever he’d bump into you and feign innocence, whenever he’d get on your nerves immediately after just reconciling with you.

It’s annoying. It’s annoying and it’s better than everything that’s been these past three months.

“Are you twelve?” you shoot him a glare, ready to punch in your door code before you get the urge to punch him instead.

“Come inside,” he tells you, nosing at his side of the apartment. “Let’s watch a movie.”

You raise a brow and cross your arms. “All of a sudden?”

“Yeah.” He mimics your pose. “Got a problem with that?”

You roll your eyes, but somehow you’re now a few steps away from your front door, and are now a few steps closer to his. “I do have a problem with it. Your fucking friends are in there.”

“I’ll deal with them.”

“Wow,” you snort. “So reliable.”

Still, you follow. Beomgyu twists his door knob and you’re suddenly nervous for the possible bullshit Heeseung would barrage you about your relationship with Beomgyu, but that doesn’t happen. The moment Beomgyu cracks open the door, his voice bounces around the inside of his apartment’s walls. “Anyone who doesn’t leave after the count of five will be banned from my apartment forever. Five. Four—”

Holy crap. You’re more surprised to see it actually work because Heeseung and Jeongin who’d been laying on the floor and tinkering with their playstation controllers have suddenly catapulted from the ground. “Wait, what about her?!” Heeseung protests as he’s being shoved by Jeongin out the door.

“She’s exempted,” Beomgyu responds. “Three. Two—”

“Whatever’s going on between you two, I take credit! You better spill the beans tomorrow. I can’t stand—”

“One.”

With that, the door is shut.

Quiet washes over. Beomgyu turns to face you. “Good?” he asks. You give him a pat on the head.

“Good.” He’s like a puppy, you think, and retract your arm before spinning around to look around his living space. “What are we watching?”

It’s your first time inside, and the first thing you notice is how freaking dark it is inside his apartment. The windows are covered by blackout curtains, the television’s blue light and the light bulb from the kitchen island being the only light sources inside. You take the liberty to plop down on the floor in front of the sofa, further welcoming yourself to turn off the game the two were playing to scroll through Netflix.

“Remember the movie we got in trouble for watching?” Beomgyu rouses. He’s in the kitchen and cracking open the cupboards. “It was in eighth grade, I think.”

“The one that our parents thought was porn?” you question. Anyone would have thought it was porn with the word Bodies and the 18+ label on the CD case. “I don’t really recall the plot.”

“Me neither. All I can remember were your pissbaby screams.”

“I was fourteen!”

He throws you a bag of chips and settles down right next to you. “Yeah, and so was I. Gimme the remote, scaredy cat.”

This guy is a perpetual test on your patience, but you continue to let him test you anyway. Before long, the television is shrouded by the familiar graphic imagery that scared you shitless early into your teenhood, and Beomgyu’s warmth is seeping into your side. His face is outlined by the bright red douses onscreen, melting into the contours of his face. “What are you looking at?” he asks, eyes absentmindedly still on the screen, hand mechanically digging into the bag of chips resting on your lap. “Don’t tell me you’re still scared? Wow, what a baby.”

“Coming from you? Your eyes are still red, Beomgyu. Your big baby tears have stained my shirt.” You swat his hand away. A creak rips out from the speakers. “Maybe you’re the one acting all tough.” Suspenseful music builds up. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your friends and fans that the great Choi Beomgyu is actually— eek!”

There’s a jumpscare. And Beomgyu is laughing his ass off as you unbury your face from his shoulders, ungripping the wrinkled fabric of his shirt with a sharp glare and flushed cheeks. “Not a single word from your whore mouth,” you warn. He’s grinning like crazy as he looks down at you.

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Neither have you,” you sneer, trying to play off how you flinched at the sudden loud noise from the screen, but he’s probably noticed. How could he not notice every jitter from your bones when your legs are practically tangled together, when he keeps reaching out an arm over you to steal from the chip bag you keep nestled on your side away from him.

The next moments are filled with nothing but the noise of guts ripping, limps splattering, and blood-curdling screams.

“Can we watch something else?!”

“No way. Quit being lame and suck it up.”

Yet— in spite of the jumps and squirms and suppressed squeaks from your person— you haven’t felt this comfortable in months.

YOU DON’T LIKE CHOI BEOMGYU. You don’t like how much of your time he’s wasted. You don’t like how much of your pride he’s forced you to swallow. You don’t like how much of your identity he’s inadvertently stripped away.

You don’t like him for all those things, but here you are— dressed in his department’s colors, carrying a sign with his stupid face printed on, and waiting for the past thirty god damned minutes because he was supposed to be here ages ago for the stupid fucking E-Sports Fest that you’re not even remotely interested in.

If you don’t show up in five, I’m going home, you angrily mash on your phone. You’re risking it all here. If Heeseung sees you in this traitor outfit, he’s going to give you the silent treatment for a week. The bastard still owes you two more weeks of lunch to repent. You can’t lose the upper hand. You can’t lose your leverage.

Your phone buzzes. Had to piss. Be there in a bit, his reply says.

“I don’t need to be informed about your bladder activities, you freak,” you grumble to yourself. Your bright orange ensemble has been catching unwanted attention. That or his face on your sign. Any minute longer, you’re going to bury yourself alive.

“Excuse me.”

You feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn around and see an unfamiliar face. He’s wearing the same shirt color as you. “Are— are you friends with Choi Beomgyu?” he asks. The bastard has collected another fanboy. You feel a throb in the side of your head.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fucking friends with Choi Beomgyu. What about it? What do you want?”

“Whoa, there.”

The said bastard swoops in and swings an arm over your shoulder and presses you to his side. “Sorry about that,” he tells the guy. Your sneer deepens. Beomgyu gives you a subtle pinch on the arm. “My friend is just grumpy because we lost a game to the engineering department earlier. Anyway, how can I help you?”

Orange number two wanted to ask for a picture with him because he was so cool in the Sudden Attack match earlier. Beomgyu excuses himself for a moment and they take a quick photo. “Tangerines are supposed to look pretty, you know,” your stupid friend announces once he gets back to you. You start making your way to the venue for his next match. It’s in a closed classroom. There’s a projector screen outside to livestream it. “Quit scowling. You’re scaring the kids.”

“That’s the plan,” you tell him. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“If you keep acting like that, I might get the wrong idea,” he says. You look at him. There’s a subtle smile on his face and you don’t like it. “It’s like you only want me for yourse— ow! Joking! Joke— it was a joke! Jeez.”

“Go win, or whatever.” You shove him off seeing that you’ve arrived. It’s already pretty crowded. You’re scanning the area for a good spot to squeeze into.

“I better be hearing your cheers from inside the classroom.”

“Don’t bet on it,” you send him off with a smile. “If you lose, I’m unfriending you.”

“Not the first time you’d be doing it.”

“Fuck off. Good luck.”

He nods with a salute and an expression that mirrors yours before disappearing off into the classroom, and you’re left with two dozen bodies uncomfortably wedged in the hallway just to watch him play a game you don’t even know the god damned rules for.

You don’t like Beomgyu. His face is something you’re sick of seeing after nearly twenty years of being stuck with him.

You don’t like him. Not even when he seems to always pick you despite having a million other options. Not even when he single-mindedly bulldozes straight into you despite having a whole army cheering for him on the sides after he’s won another game for his department, waiting for your praise and the usual swears you spit on his face with a bright smile.

“Congrats, fuckface,” you say, receiving him in your arms as he engulfs you in a tight hug. You give him a few pats on the back for good measure.

“You’re treating me to dinner, dipshit,” he grins, pulling away, but keeping a hold of your shoulders.

“Spoiled brat,” you sneer.

You don’t like him. He keeps buzzing around you like an immortal mosquito that just doesn’t die even after being swatted away tens of thousands of times.

“Only to you,” he hums, looping an arm around your neck and starting dragging you along forward. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

You don’t like Choi Beomgyu.

“Where do you wanna eat?”

You don’t. You really don’t.

#choi beomgyu x reader #beomgyu x reader #txt x reader #tomorrow x together x reader #choi beomgyu x you #beomgyu x you #txt x you #tomorrow x together x you #choi beomgyu scenarios #beomgyu scenarios #choi beomgyu fanfic #beomgyu fanfic #choi beomgyu fluff #beomgyu fluff #txt fluff #tomorrow x together fluff

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contemplatingoutlander · 4 months ago

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The far-right weaponization of the term "DEI" or "DEI hire/applicant/student" against women, members of marginalized racial/ethnic groups, and the LGBTQ+ community has gotten way out of hand. In many ways, "DEI" has become an acceptable pejorative alternative on the right to overtly racist, sexist, and homophobic terms. It is now being hurled with full-force by some Republicans towards Kamala Harris. According to Newsweek:

Republicans are labeling Kamala Harris a "DEI hire" following her endorsement by Joe Biden as the Democratic nominee for president. [...] Republican Tennessee Rep. Tim Burchett blasted Harris in a social media post on Monday, calling her a "DEI vice president." "The media propped up this president, lied to the American people for three years, and then dumped him for our DEI vice president," Burchett said on X. He referred to Harris as a "a DEI hire" again in a brief interview on the same day with CNN in which he referenced Biden's 2020 comments about picking a vice president, claiming that [Biden] said "he was going to hire a Black female for vice president." [color emphasis added]

The problem with Burchett's assertion is that Biden NEVER actually said that "he was going to hire a Black female for vice president." According to Newsweek.

In a 2020 debate, Biden stated he would "pick a woman to be vice president," without specifying her race. In a later interview with ABC News, Biden said he "didn't feel pressure to select a Black woman." In another 2020 interview with MSNBC, Biden mentioned that among his potential running mates were four Black women. [color emphasis added]

Burchett and other GOP who are accusing Harris of being a "DEI hire" are using "DEI" in a derogatory way that assumes any woman, member of a racial/ethnic marginalized group, or member of the LGBTQ+ community must be underqualified if they hold a leadership position. They seem to have overlooked the fact that Harris was highly qualified to become VP. According to Newsweek:

Before becoming vice president, Harris served as a U.S. senator for four years and as California's attorney general for six years. She had previously served as San Francisco's district attorney and earned her law degree from the University of California, Hastings College of the Law. [color emphasis added]

In fact, it appears that Harris was way more qualified to be selected as Biden's VP than JD Vance was to be selected as Trump's VP. But then again, Vance is a White heterosexual male. No one ever seems to question White heterosexual male credentials. I wonder why? 🤔

#dei #republican weaponization of dei #kamala harris #tim burchett #biden never said he was going to choose a black woman for vp #gop racism #newsweek #debunk of gop talking point

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corrodedbisexual · 5 months ago

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Our spot

Steddie | M | ~3.8k | AO3 link

Written for @steddie-week Day 1: secret relationship

Featuring: Post-Stranger Things 1, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, Getting Together, Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Possessive Eddie Munson, Insecure Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington is Whipped, Strangers to Lovers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Minor Steve Harrington/Original Character(s), POV Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is Steve Harrington's Bisexual Awakening, Non-Explicit Sex, Underage Smoking, Consensual Underage Sex, Derogatory Language

Steve Harrington keeps hooking up with Eddie Munson at Skull Rock. He's not sure if it really means anything to Eddie… until he brings a girl there, and the truth unexpectedly surfaces.

It’s not on purpose, really, that time Steve gets caught making out with a girl at Skull Rock by Eddie Munson.

Steve didn’t expect him to be there. Wasn’t Eddie supposed to be rehearsing with his band tonight? It’s kinda tricky, keeping up with someone’s schedule without directly talking to them.

And that’s the way it just is, with him and Eddie. They don’t talk. In fact, Eddie doesn’t even look at him in the school corridors. One time, just out of curiosity, Steve deliberately bumped into his shoulder as he walked by, and all he got was “Watch where you’re going, Harrington”; Eddie didn’t even bother to turn around.

Sometimes, they don’t exchange a single word for so long Steve starts to question whether he dreamed up all those previous encounters. But then, finally, he’d be opening his locker, and a note would fall out. A number, accompanied by ‘PM’ and a winking face.

Always just the time; the place never changes. Skull Rock, the spot that feels like a pocket of an alternate reality, with a completely different Eddie Munson from what Steve gets on a daily basis. Big dark eyes fully focused on him, cheeky grins, wandering hands and salacious comments that never fail to make him blush.

To be honest, Steve’s not sure why he keeps accepting these random invitations. At first, it might have been purely for the thrill of something new, something exciting and forbidden. But lately, he’s been feeling an itch under his skin that only their occasional meet-ups would be able to scratch. It’s annoyance, Steve tells himself; it’s starting to genuinely bother him, the way Eddie is able to pretend like Steve is just another meaningless part of the school’s ambiance.

He’s determined not to think about it too much, not wanting to face what a bit of honest self-reflection might uncover. Because what good would that do? Without too many words, Eddie’s made the rules here perfectly clear. Whenever they part ways, Steve moves on with his life, like Eddie Munson doesn’t exist. Kissing girls and going on casual dates, never engaging with anyone seriously, because subconsciously, he knows it’s all a way to fill the time until another note is dropped into his locker.

Read on AO3 | Divider credit

#it's july 1st here so i'm kicking this off wooooo #steddieweek2024 #steddie #steddie fic #fanfic #misha-bawlins fanfic

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 2 years ago

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title: at his side (in his bed)

pairing: mand’alor!din djarin x female reader x paz vizsla

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 2586

chapters: 1/1

summary:

They call you the whore of Mandalore.

Nothing more than the woman at side of the ruler of New Mandalore, Din Djarin, a pretty little prize that he likes to share with with his General Commander, Paz Vizsla.

Mandalorians have always been good at keeping their secrets.

AO3

author’s note: this is just filthy. if you enjoy, please consider leaving a comment as they really make my day 💕

content warnings/additional tags: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), explicit language, writer considers din his first name, alternate universe - Mand’alor din djarin, use of Mando’a, threesome (MFM), degradation kink, pet names (sweet AND derogatory), explicit breeding kink, spitroasting, unprotected p in v, oral sex (m&f receiving), come play, semi-public sex, dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, fingering, no plot just smut. let me know if any are missing!

Your mind has drifted as the political proceedings occurring around you continue to drone on with no end in sight. You’re not even sure why you’ve been brought here. It’s not like you’re being paid any attention.

As if conjured by your thoughts, a gloved hand grips your thigh beneath the heavy stone table. Fingers curl into the gauzy fabric of your gown. You have to bite your lip to prevent your face from giving any sort of indication that something salacious is occurring beneath the keen gazes of the gathered leaders.

“We will not agree to those terms. The mines are plentiful. We have no use for the imports offered by Dulvarra,” the deep modulated voice of the man beside you comments easily.

Din Djarin. Mand’alor. The ruler of New Mandalore.

You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He sits reclined in the high back stone chair, an elbow propped on the armrest. His visor remains trained on the Nemoidian representative while his hand creeps further up your thigh.

His fingers brush against your center, causing you to inhale sharply. This is one of the Mand’alor’s favorite games. He enjoys watching you squirm, trying to keep your thoughts straight and your whimpers caged as he works you beneath a table or in a crowded room. His helmet picks up your quiet sounds, amplifies them for his ears alone, and he revels in the opportunity to make you fall apart at the seams.

He lifts your leg, placing it across his knee, the cold bite of beskar against your skin forcing you to stifle a gasp. The gowns he has you wear are sheer, the bodice adorned with the crystals mined from the planet that was once thought uninhabitable in its destruction. They gleam around your neck and waist, pulling the layers of delicate fabric together to cover your body only just enough to not be obscene.

His hand explores beneath the fabric that covers your core, a gloved finger running through your slick folds. You swallow harshly, slumping against your seat, curling your fingers into the stone armrest. He circles your clit once, twice, before dipping lower and pressing to your soaked entrance. All the while, he appears stoic and unbothered, aided by his anonymity and power.

The Nemoidian’s eyes flick to you. It’s brief, and for a moment you think it goes unnoticed.

You should have known better.

Din’s hand leaves you to grasp the hilt of the Darksaber from his utility belt. A broad body shifts into a defensive stance near the door.

Paz Vizsla. Al’verde. General Commander of New Mandalore.

You wrap your hand around Din’s vambrace. His visor turns to regard you. You try to convey with your eyes what you are not permitted to with words.

The room is silent during the exchange, but bursts with noise when the Mand’alor turns his head to Paz and gives him a curt nod.

The whore of Mandalore, the voices murmur.

You have learned to ignore them. The speculation circulates around the mysterious leader of the once forgotten planet rather than it does you, a human he rescued from a slave trade ship. A pretty prize for the new ruler.

Nothing more.

Paz approaches the table, standing at rest behind your seat. He holds a hand out to you.

With a lingering glance at the Mand’alor, you take the General’s offered hand, leather warm against your skin. He holds an elbow to you for you to grasp as he leads you from the table, the weight of a dozen curious eyes on your back.

The man at your side is silent, muscles tense for a fight that will never come here in the empty halls of the new palace of Mandalore.

“How are you this evening, General?” You ask, fingers curling against the canvas of his flight suit.

“Well enough,” he grunts. He has always been a man of few words, your Paz.

“You know, I’m not sure I need an escort just to return to my quarters,” you comment.

Paz turns his head, the dark visor of his helmet free of expression as he says, “Do not play dumb. It is unbecoming.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I am not in the mood,” Paz growls. You smirk.

“A shame,” you murmur, letting go of his elbow to walk ahead of him, adding an extra sway to your hips.

He catches up to you in a few steps, his arm circling your waist as he pulls you back against his broad body, his grip on you as solid as the beskar pressing against your exposed skin.

“Do not test me, veriduur,” he says. Whore. “Do you need to be reminded of your place?”

“My place,” you hiss, “is beneath the Mand’alor. Perhaps you should be reminded of yours, t’adyc.” Second. A reminder and a threat.

Paz turns you roughly and crouches, the press of his pauldron into your stomach the only warning you receive he lifts you in the air. You struggle against him, an exercise in futility, as he carries you down the hall, the echo of his steps and the smack of your palms on his armor the only noise to be heard.

The doors to your quarters open with a whoosh of air and Paz enters, taking immediate course for the large bed in the center of the room. The breath leaves your lungs as he tosses you onto the mattress, immediately tugging you by your ankle until your legs hang off the side of the bed, his wide hips keeping them pressed apart.

“Not so mouthy on your back,” he comments as he removes his utility belt and codpiece. “I suppose that’s why the Mand’alor likes you so much.”

“He seems to like my mouth just fine,” you reply with a raised brow. “I could show you, Al’verde.”

He works his flight plants over his hips. Though the helmet shields his face, you can imagine the fury twisting the man’s features. You’ve not seen him, not with your eyes, but you are intimately familiar with the feel of his lips between your legs, the drag of his stubbled chin across your skin.

His cock slaps against his thick middle when finally freed. “I would rather teach your cunt a lesson,” he growls, fisting his thick girth.

“Not one it hasn’t learned before, I’m afraid,” you reply, a deep sigh escaping your lips. Paz removes his gloves, scarred and calloused hands immediately ripping at the fabric of your dress to expose your body to him.

“Kriffing brat,” he snaps, slipping his fingers against your wetness, probing at your aching entrance. “Does my vod always let you get your way?”

Your back arches as his fingers slip into your tight heat and you fight to keep your sounds contained, wanting to drive Paz to fury with your insubordination. His fingers drag against your walls as he withdraws and lands a harsh smack against your clit that has you crying out.

“I asked you a question, atin dala.” Stubborn woman. The lilt of his voice is pleased now that he’s broken a sound from you.

“Of course he does,” you tell him, voice breathy. “His little prize. He’d do anything to keep me happy.”

He slides his cock through the obscene wetness coating you, his modulated groan like music to your ears. The fat tip of him pressing to your entrance, forcing your body to accommodate his size with a harsh thrust into your heat.

“Paz!” You shout, back arching from the bed as your fingers seek for desperate purchase against the smooth metal of the armor over his shoulders. He’s kind enough to hold still and let you adjust.

“That’s it, sweet little whore. You scream my name,” he growls as he withdraws slowly, thrusting back inside just as slow. “Who’s fucking your pretty little cunt?”

“Y-you, P-Paz,” you stutter. Your breasts bounce with the power of his hips, the fabric that once covered your nipples loosening and falling free in his ferocity.

“Does the Mand’alor fuck you like this? Hmm?” He asks. He uses a hand to grip the back of one thigh, pressing your legs so wide it almost hurts. “Tell me, does he fuck you better than me?”

To compare the two men would be unfair, the comparison of a sun versus a dark moon. Paz is harsh, hateful words laced with lust spilling from his lips when he’s buried to the hilt inside of you.

Din, despite his hard edges, is soft with you. Gentle touches and sweet words murmured against your skin.

Where Paz can break you apart, Din can put you back together. You crave both in equal measure.

“It is not a competition, vod,” a familiar deep voice says. You turn your head, the familiar figure of the Mand’alor emerging from the shadows. How long has he been there?

“Says you,” Paz grunts. “Words of a loser, isn’t that right?”

Din only chuckles.

You whimper when you hear the clink of armor being removed. Paz gives a particularly hard thrust that has you crying out and you hear the large man chuckle.

Din smooths a thumb across your lips. “Open for me, cyar’ika.” Sweetheart. The endearment makes your heart pound and brain go fuzzy as you obey. “So good for me. For us.”

“Speak for yourself, vod. She’s been nothing but a brat,” Paz says. “Guess she just needed something to keep that mouth occupied.”

The tip of Din’s cock slides against your tongue, the salty taste of him exploding across your taste buds. You moan as he slips deeper.

“Go dark,” Din commands roughly. Paz groans.

“No,” he replies, hips picking up speed, chasing his release.

“It was a command, Al’verde,” Din snaps.

Paz grumbles, his hips going still as you whine around Din’s cock. “You may blame your riduur for having to wait for your release.”

Riduur. Your husband.

It was known by very few that the whore at the Mand’alor’s side was actually his wife. Din keeps the knowledge close to his chest, knowing what an adversary may do with the information and never wanting harm to befall you on his behalf.

“Gone dark,” Paz confirms. He slides his cock nearly free from your body before slamming back inside with such force it shifts you up the bed.

“Di’kut.” Idiot. Din withdraws his cock from your mouth before removing his helmet. His eyes remain fixed on you as he stands from the bed to remove the remaining pieces of his armor.

“Make her cum,” Din says as he returns to your side, gripping a breast in one hand as he leans forward to wrap his lips around one tight nipple, flicking the sensitive nub with his tongue.

“That another command, Mand’alor?” Paz grunts. He maneuvers your body better to his liking, pressing your thighs together and draping your legs against his shoulder.

“Yes,” Din replies. His hand slides down your stomach to swirl his fingers around your clit. You shout, throwing your head back against the mattress in a drawn out moan of both men’s names.

“That’s it, cyare,” Din says. “Be good and let go. Paz won’t fill you up otherwise.”

That thread of control you still had snaps and your release washes through you, your muscles going taut as you clench around Paz. The man growls, a feral sound that makes you pulse and flutter around his length as his own warm release floods your body.

“Very good, mesh’la, get every drop from him,” Din murmurs. You whimper as he stretches to plant a kiss to your lips. His strong nose brushes yours tenderly when he pulls back.

Paz withdraws. You feel the warmth of his body leave yours, the slow trickle of his cum from your entrance making you blush. Din’s fingers slide through the mess, gathering it up and pushing it back in as you gasp.

“Return to your post, Al’verde. Our guests have left,” Din says to Paz, eyes never leaving yours. His fingers continue to work your over sensitive cunt as you whimper and writhe against him.

Paz rights himself in his armor before turning to leave. You hear the telltale clang of metal hitting a wall, followed by a litany of curses from the large man. Helm still dark, he’s collided with a wall.

“Kriffing wall,” he says, giving the offending architecture a curse before locating the door and exiting.

Din moves himself between your legs, the warmth of his hands trailing up your thighs leaving goosebumps across your skin. He grins down at you, boyish in the vulnerability he displays for you.

“You never did answer Paz,” he says casually, even as he settles on his stomach and trails his lips across your inner thigh. “Does he fuck you better than me?”

“No, my love,” you whine as his tongue swirls around your clit. He chuckles darkly.

“That’s what I thought.”

He eats your pussy like a starving man, more enthusiasm than finesse in his eagerness to please you. Because while he may be Mand’alor by battle and blood, you are the one he bows to in this life and the next.

Your hips move against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his thick dark hair. He works his tongue against you until you’re a whining mess, begging for his cock as he just shushes you for your impatience.

Finally, he sits up. His chin is glossy with your juices and his eyes are glassy with lust as he grips your hips and turns you on your belly, yanking your ass in the air.

He doesn’t waste time sliding inside of you, the length of him stretching you in a different way than Paz’s own thick cock did not. You gasp, fingers tightening in the sheets as he pounds against your backside.

“My riduur,” he says reverently. “Ner kar’ta.”

My heart.

“Din,” you moan. “Gedet’ye.” Please.

He groans, fingers curling into your hips in a manner sure to leave the shadows of bruises by morning. His thrusts grow more powerful, hitting a spot inside you that has another orgasm building so quickly your head goes fuzzy with the rush.

“I’m going to fill you to the brim,” he grunts. “Leave no room for failure in making you round with our child. Our future.”

Your cry is muffled against the sheets as you pulse around him with your release, so powerful that you collapse to the bed, only his broad hands on your hips keeping up for his use.

He presses deep inside you, coming with a shout of your name in the dark of the room. His cock pulses inside you, another wave of warm release filling you as you whimper his name.

Din removes himself briefly in order to help you lay on your side before settling in behind you, slipping his softening cock back inside your pussy.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” Din says as he presses his lips to your shoulder.

“I love you,” you repeat to him.

You’re both quiet for a moment. You trace patterns against the tan skin of the arm that he has around your middle.

“Din?” You ask.

“Yes, cyare?”

“What if the baby is Paz’s?” You ask. It’s a valid concern. Din likes sharing and you like to be shared.

“My only concern is how insufferable my vod will be,” he says.

You giggle, the tension easing from your shoulders.

“Rest now, riduur. There is more to be done tomorrow.”

Din Djarin tag list: @huffle-punk @pedr0swh0r3 @yellingloudly @dragon-of-winterfell @mydailyhyperfixations @fake-bleach @justsomeoneovertherainbow @loquaciousferret @milly-louise @kirsteng42 @eternallyvenus @midnightswithdearkatytspb @leeeesahhh @hopelessromantic727 @endlessthxxghts @str84pedro @brilliantopposite187 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @garbo-lesbo @tloubarbie @afterglowsb-tch13 @uncassettodiricordi @adriennemichelle98 @mxtokko @gingersince97 @switchbladedreamz @tonysterco @rvjaa @ladymunson @sexpoisoned @trisaratops-mcgee @dreamingofdaddydin @bearsbeetsbeskar @dindjarinslegs

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#din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x reader x paz vizsla #paz vizsla #paz vizla x reader #mand’alor din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando fanfiction #mando x reader #no use of y/n #ao3 author #din djarin smut #the mandalorian smut #Paz vizsla smut

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 10 months ago

Text

Best and Worst of Both worlds (part 9)

Tw: monty being a fuckin creep, vomiting, the girls are fightingggg, so blood and violence, yves being a dick and elitist, using the word queer in a derogatory manner

DAMN i was expecting the votes to be like to go to the uni cause Yves is hottest choice rn

anyways if u guys read the original series where Monty was from, u would know he's like a sub but his behavior depends on the reader, he's actually a switch

tanks for reading, pls send in anon asks, reblog or comments i love 2 hear yalls thoughts and it keeps me going PLSPLSPLS I AM DESPERATEEE

Part 10

The mall it is. You've been visiting the university too much to escape your home and to take your dreaded exams, despite having air conditioning, you're going to feel miserable there. You barely have friends in the university aside from Yves. A change of scenery would be nice, to note down the things you wanted for yourself.

You tried to decide how you feel about Yves. The urge to run away from him and hide is there, but it's not as strong anymore. Because he already saw it all. The mold, your room, your tears, your puke... you can't possibly embarrass yourself again to that degree, right? The worst should be over.

And, he did say it himself; he is interested in you too. So... it should be safe to proceed with this weird relationship. You think. He's already doing way more than what a lover typically does, let alone someone who you barely went on a first date with.

You shouldn't be afraid of bumping into him. He's not going to bite your head off, you hope.

And speak of the devil, you received a text from him.

"(Name), this is Yves. I hope you slept well. Please reply to me as soon as you wake up."

You bit the inside of your cheek, you held onto your bag tightly as the bus drove over a hump.

It's not like he could see that you read it. You don't know what he is going to say next, once you respond.

But it's rude to just leave him hanging like that. He's probably going to find out you're ignoring him anyways.

Might as well text him back. You told him that you're now awake. He must be a fast typer because you received a message a few seconds later.

"Good afternoon, how are you feeling?"

You replied that you're feeling fine.

"I assume you are currently resting at home?"

You don't know if you should lie. But then he could easily find out the truth by asking your housemates. So you let out a defeated sigh and told him the half-truth. You said no. That was it, you didn't elaborate further.

"Where are you? Did you at least apply sunscreen?"

You replied that you're now getting off the bus. You're going to text him back later. After that, you put your phone into your pocket.

You walked away from the bus stand and looked at the billboards littered all over the area. It takes a six-minute walk to get to the Mall, maybe a bit longer because your usual path is blocked by a construction job. The workers gave the pedestrians an alternative pathway to travel.

As you start walking, you wonder why was the bus stop never built directly in front of its entrance. It's such a nuisance to get there if you don't own a car.

You frown because the sun is beating against your head, you're among a group of people being funneled into this other path and you're starting to overheat. You remembered Yves packed a UV ray-blocking umbrella, so you went ahead and took it out. You opened it and shielded yourself from the rays, sighing in relief as you felt coolness instantly wash over you.

You were minding your own business and fighting your own inner demons until suddenly a large hand clamped itself onto your shoulder. You let out a surprised yelp and a jolt at the unexpected contact, this cannot be Yves's because it's too calloused and careless, mildly hurting you in the process.

"Joe?"

Who?

You turned whipped your head to the back and saw the person who paid for your poisoned meal. He took your umbrella off your hands, making you hiss at the sun.

"It really is you!" His eyes lit up and the corners of his mouth curled up into a wide, happy grin. "How ya' been? I didn't see you yesterday. Where were ya?"

You eyed him up and down, he's in uniform.

"I'm on my break right now." His hand guided your back. "C'mon, let me treat you lunch."

You said that you had food poisoning from the place you ate with him. And you asked what he meant by "Didn't see you yesterday".

His jaw dropped in shock at your words.

"It really sucks to hear that, so that's why you look a lil' too thin today. I guess you're just not used to their cookin'. I was fine and dandy." You and him seem to move along with the crowd aimlessly.

You repeated your question about what he meant by not seeing you yesterday.

"I came by your school 'cause I got you some Chinese. I couldn't find ya' and no one seems to know who the hell was I talkin' about. Why didn't ya' call me? I was waitin' all night for your voice."

Luckily you gave him the fake name of "Joe M." on your first meeting with him. But it's not like he would have gotten any information on you anyway, you're invisible in your university. Unless he happened to come across Yves, which you doubt he will divulge him about you.

You just said 'oh'.

"Hope you're feelin' better though. Hey, I know a great place to get some hearty chicken soup. It's gotta be good for your belly, it sure helped me when I'm sick as a dog." You took notice of his deepening southern accent.

You're starting to feel uncomfortable around this man, he's wrapping his arm around your shoulder like he's your boyfriend.

You said that you were full, you had something to eat earlier.

"Aw shucks. That's fine, I'll just hang out with you till my break's over." He ruffled your hair affectionately, laughing as you tried to smoothen it out.

You don't like him. Who does he think he is? You're barely even acquaintances with him. But you think it's safer to play along until you find an opportunity to escape, there is no way you could fight off a 6'5 man who lifts steel pillars for a living.

"You got any plans this weekend? I wanna take you out to have fun, you must've spent all your time studyin', and that's good! Education is important. But you gotta loosen up a little 'cause life is short!" Montgomery is either oblivious to or disregards your uncomfortable body language.

You said you made plans already. He momentarily looked dejected, but he reverted back to his cheerful self when he thought of something.

"What about next week? I heard there is a festival goin' on by the pier. There's going to be a Ferris wheel, cotton candy, funnel cakes--"

You decided to rip the bandaid off and straight up tell him that you're not interested in pursuing a relationship with him. Since there were witnesses, you wriggled out of his hold and waited to see what he would do to you. Hoping that he would just respectfully leave you alone but expecting to be angrily punched right in front of everyone.

He was stunned, speechless for a moment until there was a strange glimmer in his eyes that was concealed by his shaggy, brown hair.

"...You're playing hard to get."

A horrified, incredulous look crossed your face. Absolutely not! What makes him think of you that way? You took a couple steps backward as he tried to get closer.

"I see how it is, sweetheart. You want me to chase you, don't ya'?" He playfully pinched both of your cheeks. You wince, struggling to pull his hands off.

You genuinely do not understand why he has this impression of you. As anyone would do, you vehemently denied it.

"Aww, look at you. Red-faced and all." He giggled, grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you away from the main foot traffic so he could toy with you in private. "If you weren't into me, you would have left me to die that night. I may not be the richest or the most handsome..." his smile faltered when it came to the topic of his looks. "...but I know you saw something in me! I'm gonna make sure you don't regret saving me!" You're already regretting being born.

You called him crazy, anyone would have helped him! You're no one special, he teasingly rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, beautiful. Anything to help you sleep at night."

You were adamant that you're not interested and you already have a boyfriend! But this doesn't seem to faze him, he just bent down to your level and placed his hands behind his back.

"Oh yeah? Where is he then? Get outta here, you don't have one. At least, not yet." He winked at you.

Yeah. He is impossible to reason with.

You argued that you do. In fact, he is right behind Montgomery!

He's definitely not believing you, but he turns around anyway to see... no one, as expected.

"I don't see him, do you-- huh?" He was momentarily dumbfounded when all there was in front of him was air.

You managed to blend in with the crowd and successfully entered the mall. You ran into the nearest retail store and hid behind one of the shelves. Everyone was too busy shopping to care what someone shaking like a leaf was doing crouching in the baby and maternal department.

Your hand trembled as you pulled your phone out to see Yves sent you another text.

"Take care. Send me a text message as soon as possible. I will give you a call fifteen minutes later if I do not hear from you by then."

It's been 12 minutes since he sent that text. The next reasonable course of action is to seek comfort and safety from Yves. You thought Montgomery was unhinged and delusional, he thinks you're his just because you saved him that night. You cared as much as everyone else, no one wanted to see another person die if they could help it! But he took it as some ultimate love confession for him.

Then you realize that you should have run as soon as you first rejected him. You hit yourself on the head, he must have thought all the attention you gave him trying to explain yourself was a green light for him to go forward!

You called yourself stupid for not catching this earlier. There's not much you could do now except tell Yves you don't feel safe.

You texted Yves your exact location, even down to the aisle and section. Your texts are a series of panic-induced typos begging him to pick you up because you're scared.

"I will be there in 15 minutes. Is it safe for me to call you?"

You disregarded that text and just dialed his number.

"(name)?" It was so good to hear his smooth, calm voice. Your blood pressure momentarily dropped but rose back again after remembering why you called him in the first place.

You frantically explained what had happened, even your first meeting with Montgomery and the takeaway that gave you food poisoning. Spilling everything even though you didn't mean to, but you're just scared and trapped in a store. You felt upset that he had the umbrella, you apologized and-

"Raise your hand above your head for me, please." He cut you off. You did exactly what he asked, now distracted from your ranting.

"Inhale, following my count." He counted up to four.

"Hold." He counted to seven.

"Exhale." You breathed out for eight seconds. He repeated the cycle a few more times until he could tell you calmed down. Montgomery wouldn't find you from where you're hiding.

"Very good." He praised. "You may put your hand down."

You forgot about that, so you quickly retract your arm to your side.

"I will stay on the line with you until I arrive. Do you understand, (name)?" You gulped and said a shaky yes.

"Stay where you are. You're safe there." He continued. Yves sounded so confident in his answers that you can't help but trust him fully.

You wished you had friends. You wouldn't need to solely rely on him if you did.

"What did you think of the breakfast I made for you?" He asked, in a tone and cadence as if he was casually chatting up with his partner about their day. But you can tell he's speeding through the highways by the intense humming of his car engine.

You said that it's nice. You thanked him for taking care of you.

"I'm happy you enjoyed it. I will be making chicken soup for you tonight, did you apply sunscreen before leaving the house?"

You paused for a while, trying to remember what you did. You eventually tell him no.

"It is important for you to protect your skin. Remember to do so next ti--"

The call suddenly dropped. Your heart started beating wildly again, what happened? You pulled your phone away from your ear and looked at the screen.

You let out a visceral scream that caught everyone's attention, your phone battery is dead.

Seeing that you caused a scene, you flee the store out of embarrassment, forgetting about Yves telling you your original spot is the safest place for you to be in. Now with no means of contacting your savior and being out in the open like this, your brain starts to short-circuit. You begin running aimlessly in no particular direction.

All this stress and explosive physical exertion on you right after a bout of illness is making you queasy again.

But you kept going, just... roaming around while periodically looking over your shoulders. Customers and staff alike were staring at you, thinking that you were suffering from some sort of inner turmoil or drug abuse issues. However, they knew better than to intercept.

However, you focused too much on your back, and not too much on the front.

You slammed into a sturdy pillar, lost your balance, and fell back onto your rear.

"Whoa! You alright?" Except that pillar can speak. And it was the last person you want to see right now. Concern riddled his face as he crouched down to help you up. "This is fun and all, but you gotta watch where you're goin-"

At that moment, your stomach decided to empty itself onto Montgomery's chest. He grimaced as you continued to spew and release more vomit from your mouth.

Yves knows where you are. He knew your phone battery died, Yves is just mildly annoyed he didn't catch the fact that one of your room outlets was faulty. It so happened to be the one you used to charge your phone.

Yves pushed the door of the mall's clinic open, glaring daggers at Montgomery as he spotted him waiting on the bench, covered in your puke; noting his filthy fingers wrapping the handle of your bag. He was taken aback by this sudden hostility from an apparent stranger, he looked at Yves confused, what did he ever do to him? Was he offended that he happened to be covered in someone else's throw-up? What a stuck-up bitch!

Yves took his wallet out of his handbag and walked up to the receptionist. He shared a few hushed words with her and spared a couple of unkind glances for Montgomery. The woman behind the counter had both eyebrows raised momentarily before she nodded and picked up a phone. While speaking to someone unknown on the other side of the line, she accepted Yves's credit card.

Soon after, she handed him a clipboard and a pen. He had to sign something before receiving a receipt.

Montgomery looked him up and down with equal animosity, his eyes trailing behind Yves as he took the seat opposite of him.

The dark-haired male elegantly crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. Now a blank expression took over his beautiful face. Montgomery took note of his feminine demeanor including his usage of makeup. He somehow deluded himself that he was better than Yves even though he was hunched over, resting his forearms on his thighs while spreading his legs.

Montgomery tried to look away and ignore this stranger. But he couldn't, because Yves was burning holes through his head with his constant stare.

This really ruffled Montgomery's feathers. He's clearly trying to start something.

"What the hell is your problem?"

All eyes landed on Montgomery. Young or old, they're now invested in this sudden outburst.

"What do you mean?" Replied Yves calmly as he tilted his head to the side to feign ignorance.

"You're lookin' at me like you wanted to fight!" Montgomery finally sat up straight while accusing Yves. Meanwhile, the graceful man placed a hand on his chest to express disbelief.

"I do not understand this explosive reaction from you, I have done nothing wrong." Yves's long eyelashes fluttered as he blinked, already winning the hearts of the public. It ticked Montgomery off so bad. For some reason, this androgynous person is making him angrier than usual. Maybe it's because Yves's old money aura reminded him of every city girl and boy who fucked him over emotionally, socially, financially, or physically.

It was quite unusual, Montgomery would usually just not engage with these citizens. But today, Yves is exceptionally infuriating while doing the least. He even smelled the same as those rich bastards, they all must be using the same cologne.

A mere five minutes had elapsed since they first met, yet Montgomery despised him with every fiber of his being.

Yves knows his own effect on the construction worker.

"Don't play with me! You had that stupid look on your face, what have I done to you, huh!?" He rose from his seat.

A ghost of a smile graced Yves's otherwise serious face. That simpleton took the bait.

"Please calm down. You're causing a scene out of nothing." Yves continued provoking him. Mothers began to leave the room with their children, and other patients quietly changed their seats to be further away from the two men.

"Why you-" Something distracted him from his rage.

Yves turned his head and saw you slowly dragging yourself out of the hallway, carrying a prescription slip in one hand and cradling your stomach in the other. You look pale and exhausted as you limp towards the waiting room.

"Joe!" Montgomery called out for you. "Are you alright? What did ya' doctor say?"

You were spooked, you froze in your tracks. Not noticing that Yves is a few steps away from you.

"Dear." You snapped your neck to the source of the quiet but assuring voice. Yves is now standing tall, his arms open for you to run into.

And so, you did. You buried your face in his chest, refusing to see the other man. Yves had a pleased smile as he picked your prescription script from your hands, he slid it into his handbag. Right after, he wrapped his arms around you.

The room was eerily quiet. Everyone was holding their breaths, wondering what was going to happen.

You felt Yves stroke your hair. But you couldn't see or hear anything. So you lift your head a little to see what was going on, he rested his palm on your shoulder.

Montgomery has his eyes open so wide staring at your boyfriend. His mouth is open but soundless. The veins on his forehead and arm were throbbing while he trembled uncontrollably.

"Do you know him, my love? He seems dangerous. You know you shouldn't mingle around men like him, they're usually raised by dysfunctional families- sometimes, they don't even have one." Yves asked you, soft enough for no one else to hear, but loud enough that his pathetic excuse of a rival absorbed every word. This was the last straw for Montgomery.

Finally, he dropped your bag to the ground before launching himself against Yves. Your boyfriend pushed you out of harm's way as he allowed himself to get tackled by the unstable male.

Yves closed his eyes as he took a devastating punch to the face, he was flung to the side from the force and it left a reddish mark on his once pristine face.

"Fuck you! The fuck you mean that's 'your love', you don't mean shit to them!" Montgomery yelled in Yves's ear, and a struggle ensued between them.

Screams and shouts filled the clinic, and the patients present all ran out of the room. Those who stayed tried to film the tussle. Some doctors and customers poked their heads out of the consultation rooms to see what the commotion was all about.

Whereas you grabbed your bag and went outside, securing your safety behind the tempered glass walls.

"You think you better than me?! I'll teach you a fucking lesson to be humble!" Montgomery swung at him again, but Yves dodged in time and utilized his long, slender legs to trip him. Now that he has gotten what he wanted out of this scenario, Yves allows himself to defend his own body.

He got up fairly quickly and tried to land another punch, but Yves grabbed his wrist on time and used minimal force to twist his arm against his back. Montgomery cried out in pain as his limb was contorted to an unnatural position. Being an opportunist, Yves took his chance to strike his broken rib using the side of his hand.

This made Montgomery's legs buckle on itself. You silently cheered for Yves as he subdued the creep on the cold hard tiles.

He pressed a heel against his chest, right behind on fractured bone. So Montgomery was powerless against him.

Yves reached for his handbag and pulled his phone out. He dialed emergency services and reported Montgomery as being aggressive, being a danger to the general public.

"Bullcrap! Fuck you asshole! I will kill you!" Screeched the man currently being stepped on and humiliated in front of his object of obsession. Unfortunately for him, the operator heard his threat towards Yves, increasing your boyfriend's credibility.

He tried to grab his leg, but Yves only drove his sharp heel deeper into his ribs, knocking the air out of him and making stars appear in his vision.

At the same time, the mall security arrives with their batons.

They took over from there, it took more than ten of them to try and get Montgomery under control. He was like a bull seeing red, only goal was to try and disfigure the pretty boy's face as much as possible.

He was forcefully expelled from the premises while kicking, howling, and straining. You saw the tears of anguish in his eyes as he cussed everyone out for treating him as subhuman, he wished horrible fates on all who witnessed but stood by. He was shouting incoherently about having everything stolen from him by the rich, he had one thing good going on but a billionaire had to come along and take you away from him.

He vowed to take what was rightfully his and punish the bad, especially Yves who he referred to as "That fucking queer freak".

Eventually, though, his yelling became inaudible as he got further and further away. The others returned to their day, dispersing as nothing else interesting was going on.

You walked up to Yves, who is now gently dabbing his bleeding nostrils with a folded piece of tissue. He smiled at you, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

"Well done." He praised. Disposing of the soiled napkin into a trashcan nearby.

You said you didn't contribute to anything good. In fact, you're the one who caused all this.

"Don't think too lowly of yourself." He picked up a hairbrush from his bag and started fixing your hair. You looked at his face.

The patch around his nose and under his left eye is already starting to bruise, swelling to a degree that he can only see out of his right. Red dripped down his chin and onto the floor, splattering into many dots.

You look around and see the broken pot, flipped chair, and scattered magazines.

You shudder, asking Yves if you could go home.

"Not yet, (name). The police should be here soon, they have to take my statement." He invited you into his arms, and you snuggled into him as his blood dripped onto you too.

"I packed you something to eat." He softly pried you off him. Reaching for his handbag once again, he retrieved a square container before handing it to you.

You opened it to see a sandwich. It's intentionally bland to accommodate your current weak stomach. As if on cue, your belly growled. However, Yves stopped you from devouring it.

"Always sanitize your hands before eating." He squeezed a good amount of hand sanitizer on your palms. Yves only handed the meal back to you after he was satisfied with your application.

You sit on a chair as you take bites off it. Yves sat next to you too, this time he was tidying his luscious black hair with the same brush and compact mirror.

You continued munching on as you heard distant sirens growing louder.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere concept #yandere x you #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere male #oc yves #male yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #oc montgomery #tw violence #tw blood #tw queerphobia #tw strong language

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