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demure2 · 2 years ago

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Blood is Thicker Than Wine _ FOUR

> BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WINE [MASTERLIST]

— 1930s au

— yandere neighbor!chanyeol x reader || ft. best friend!sehun

— genre: angst, suggestive

— warnings: language, alcohol use, cigarette/substance use, mental illness, watching from afar, anxiety, gun, blood, older fella chanyeol

— word count: 3.5k

— note: hey guys, sorry i got caught up in schtuff. final smut chapter after dis one and then i will FINALLY BE ABLE TO START NEW WRITING. smut chapter IS coming soon. um YAY…!! open to suggestions and criticisms always :)

“Would you stop doing that, Chanyeol?” Your voice can’t help but come out small and innocently, not sure if he even hears you. You’re inundated by the pressure of his gaze beating down on you, the embarrassing urge to cry tugging relentlessly on your soft features.

“Baby, doing what?” His face softens. The gash across Chanyeol’s nose bridge looks more salient than ever, the dried blood glistening in the sodium light. His boastful posture deflates.

He inches dangerously close to you, until you can feel his emanating body heat. Blood on his lips threaten to spill over from teeth marks branded deep into his skin, eyes blown out and impatiently waiting for your response. A simple-minded man, he’s always been unsure of how to confront feelings meaningfully. If he could make himself think harder of anything better than easing it all with a smoke, he’d do it, but he can’t.

The yearning is sudden and impulsive on his fingertips, creeping down into his jacket. He’s ready to balance a cigarette between his forefinger and middle, but his pocket is vacant no matter how many times he runs the pads of his fingers over the patch of surface. Fuck.

“Stop telling me stupid things. Responsible for the death of Park Yoora? Sehun’s a mailboy and author, working part time as a mechanic. He’s never maimed anyone, never hurt a soul, let alone someone from your bloodline, Chanyeol,” it comes out harshly from your throat, crudely. “I have no reason to believe you and your lies anymore.” As if watching Chanyeol’s face falter and fall dramatically was too much to bear, you lazily shut your hooded eye, which have no problem sticking together easily due to the air’s stagnant moisture. The words are oddly visceral in his ears, cold and unforgiving all at once.

The townsfolk would agree that they’re used to, maybe unsettlingly too used to, Chanyeol’s eyes being void of much emotion. That’s the kind of man he is, after all, no one else can ignite unexpected life in them besides you.

And so, the gleam of betrayal in his eyes tonight is suddenly immediate, catching you off-guard nonetheless. His fitfully soft gaze hardens and his eyebrows scrunch angrily, watching your irises amplify with fear beneath him. “What’s so unbelievable about that, [Y/N]? Believe me, your little boyfriend’s maimed whether you want it or not, and he’s maimed my sister. Her husband couldn’t pay off a car loan and she was dead, just like that. Accept it, like I have.

You don’t have to be best friends with a murderer, you can come keep me company, bring me pastries or bake me an apple pie every weekend — I’ll take care of you. He's not your best friend. Don’t want him to be,” Chanyeol’s voice breaks, the weight of his acidic jealousy and grief awfully agonizing. He pauses to watch your stoic face carefully, searching for regret, but he won’t find any more than his own. “There’s bathtubs of our moonshine in front of you, aren’t there? Then what’s so hard to believe about that? Can’t you just believe me?” His firm tone becomes desperate, tender and divulging of his feelings.

“When it’s Sehun doing dirt, you don’t bat a pretty eyelash, you don’t think he could ever do it. When I tell you, you’re quick to deem me incredulous. You just don’t know everything like you think you do, bunny,” Chanyeol’s complexion toughens up just enough for him to not break down, an almost-sneer. The words come out in fragments, bits and pieces, his eyes still eager for validation in yours. The distance between your bodies makes you anxious.

You attempt to save your case, beginning to look crazed going back and forth. “Your lies are in poor taste. Let’s not forget that you’re villainizing Sehun, when you’re just as worse, Chanyeol — you’re jealous, aren’t you? You can’t bear the thought of me hanging out with him, because your filthy mind is convinced he’s fucking my brains out over the hood of one of his flivvers,” you hiss, voice tight and indignant. Chanyeol’s jaw clenches, teeth gritting together in his guise of red-eared anger.

“My ‘little boyfriend,’ Chanyeol? You think I’m a damned slut? He’s still my best friend, and I won’t let your apparent matters get in between us. And you said you'd take care of me? With what, with the criminal cash you’ve laundered? Why do you even do this filthy work? Where did you fuck up, Chanyeol? Tell me! What went wrong with you?”

The confrontation reminds Chanyeol of his roots. He bares his teeth, putting his hands up defensively. “No. Don’t talk down to me. I’ll take care of us. I will.”

“No, really, Chanyeol. Why else would you be working for bootleggers? You fucked up, and then you try to make it all better by making me think my best friend is just as bad.”

“I wouldn’t say that I fucked up. Would you rather have not known that he was doing those things? Would you have rather lived in euphoric bliss all your life, hanging out with a murderer? You should be thanking me, [Y/N]. Are you upset, baby? Maybe I did make you hate your little boyfriend and you’re afraid to admit it.” You flinch as he gets in your face, mere inches away. But the smell of ash is unusually absent from his breath, and on nights like these, where you’ve wandered too far away from home, it’s more unsettling than comforting.

Chanyeol feels his words pile on top of each other in front of you, unable to withstand his anger. Despite this, sweet relief merely washes over his anger for a second, like a crisp breeze. He hopes you can sense it, too. More or less, he’d tasted victory. He knows you’re sort of unsure now, insecure of your accords with Sehun and who you thought he was.

Men like Chanyeol are stupid, so he takes the chance to finally close the distance between you, taking you into his arms and murmuring into your hair. “You don’t like him anymore, do you?” Chanyeol is hopeful and gentle with his words, softly in your ear. “You don’t love him more than you love me,” he repeats. “You love me.” The feeling deep inside you that Chanyeol was right is acidic in your mouth, and it eats at you tenaciously.

You push him off of you and wipe your mouth, as if being that close to him was depraving, although you’d been pressed up to him before.

Over and over again, countless times before, but never close enough.

Sehun still occupied your mind without a doubt — how could he not, having known you for 4 years? You’d deeply cared for him since you first met in highschool — you, a junior, and him, a second year college student. Brought together by your close-rooted excursions home from school, he’d been your older brother figure. You remember it clearly, he’d bring along his two college friends with him to walk you home some days — Junmyeon and Yixing. They both had a crush on you that winter, red noses and all.

JUNMYEON’S ETHYL & GARAGE WORK’s formation was starting to make a lot of sense. Especially regarding their choice of hired hands.

By your senior year, Sehun had already been close to dropping out twice, but for some reason, stayed. Your momma liked Sehun all the same, wishful thinking that he’d end up somewhere.

You start hesitantly, worry etched into your expression. “I didn’t know he was like this. I didn’t know both of you were involved in this, Chanyeol, and if I did, I wouldn’t have decided to know you. I’m compliant. I am sorry, but I cannot love crooked men like you.” Again, the words reverberate twice as cruel in Chanyeol’s large ears, echoing over and over. He can’t find a solution.

Still feeling the phantom trace of both of your hands pressed up to his chest, pushing him away, Chanyeol doesn’t like the feeling of defeat. “Talk about compliance? With what, laws or rumors? Was it so compliant of you to loiter and trespass into my house at midnight? Are you so compliant when Sehun asks you to use your pretty skirt to sneak a few cigarette packs out from the store? Who cares about what we do for cash, I know sure as hell that you of all people fucking don’t, [Y/N].”

You’re stunned, defensive and cold, so the words blurt out of your mouth before you have the chance to fully apprehend them, swiftly and fleeting. "I have a right to care, do I not?”

But they’re nothing of swiftly and fleeting to Chanyeol, repeating over and over in his mind in your gentle voice. You almost clasp your hands over your mouth, feeling your teeth gnawing on the inside of your cheek. Gravity had pulled your senses together too late, long after the words had left your mouth. Chanyeol releases his heel, ready to turn around just seconds before.

The lull in his voice isn’t deceptive for once, something of a catharsis. “You’ve never cared. Aren't you scared of me, [Y/N]? You don’t think I notice? You don’t think I’m self aware? Of course I’m jealous, I know that I’m fucking sick, I’m in love with someone who I’ve watched for weeks." He says this in a tone matter-of-factly, but shameful in its meaning. He can’t help but feel allured to the thought of protecting your sugary elation from his potent, black tar of a psyche, despite eagerly desiring its corruption. “I just can’t help it, anymore. Men like me are stupid,” he says, and you notice that he says that a lot. “I always want what I can’t have," Chanyeol exhales, catching his breath. "You’ll never get it, [Y/N].”

Unsure of what to say, you look up at Chanyeol with demure eyes, tears threatening to fall at the motion of a blink. The cellar air is still cold yet saturated against your skin, harsh and unforgiving. You're just as destroyed, turning away from him.

You don’t think he does, but of course Chanyeol takes notice of you eyeing the stairway carefully, the center of each step slightly depressed in crescents after years of crude weight. You take one more look behind you at him, eyebrows still furrowed and focused on you. Then, holding your skirt down, you run as fast as possible. “I’ve gotta go.”

Chanyeol stays still, watching your form retreat up the stairs.

Making it back to the intermediate EMPLOYEES ONLY desk room, your eyes meet Jongin's. He's breathing heavily, his body already backed up against the door, barricading it with muscular leverage. Jongin smiles gently at the sight of you, sweat from the parching tension condensing at his cupid's bow. His eyes curve upward as he smiles. "Why don't you stay with Chanyeol, instead."

The sound of steady footfall echoes in the stairwell behind you, creaking the wood underneath. Desperately, you run up to Jongin. "Let me out, I have to leave." You whisper thinly, pushing Jongin's hair back to reveal his pink flushed ears. He pauses for a moment, allowing the stairwell noises to reverberate louder. Quickly, voice hitching in his throat, he quietly urges. "Relax. He’s gon' go mad if he sees you this close to me, sweet stuff. Let's back up, ‘kay?”

Discomfort vaguely reflected in your expression, you back away slowly, turning your gaze to the stairwell. You watch intently as Chanyeol's torso slowly emerges from the stairs, holding onto the left railing.

Your eyes grace each other instantaneously, doubtful and ashamed. He approaches you first, although timidly, head down. Then lowly, pulling you toward him so only you can hear, he murmurs a pitiful "I'm so sorry."

Chanyeol looks up to press his lips together into a quick smile, glancing at Jongin — slang for thanks! Jongin nods, subsiding his body from the door. "Sehun's in the back again tonight. Still working on that flaming ‘32 Buick."

When you two meet the night air outside, his smile collapses again, everything inside of him falling in on each other. “Let’s bring you to him, now. He can drive you home tonight,” Chanyeol asserts coldly, angry at himself. He didn't mean to tell you all of that, especially before he’d told you that he’d loved you. He didn’t mean to tell you all of that for weeks, but stupid men like me aren’t good at thinking before we speak. His hands are rough and calloused, the functional arm brushing against your shoulder before quickly retracting.

You make your way around the back together to the rows of vehicle hoists in the large outdoor garage, moments of stillness and night peeking through the open air on the sides. Feeling pissed, you make sure to walk in front of Chanyeol, so he can see the perfect ellipse your hips sway in when you walk. You know he likes it.

You see it all at once; a vibrant and lousy red car with stained white wheels, and beneath it, a quietly focused but normally lousy boy. Black hair pasted to his forehead with sweat, and eyes thin at practice.

“Sehun!” you call eagerly, desperate for his familiarity. His narrowed eyes snap to you in an instant, then darts to the taller man next you.

You run towards him, even against the emanating smell of gas and motor oil from his work station. Then, you fall to your knees on the rough asphalt, meeting him eye level as he sits there in baggy denim, one knee up and the other leg stretched out like a cat.

“He took you here, doll?” His voice is shaky and concerned for the both of you, glaring at Chanyeol from a distance. Sehun’s face is covered in sweaty dew from exposure to the close heat, hands diligently buried in the car’s hind suspension beam and axle.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you work with him?”

Sehun’s gaze hardens intensely, his dark brown irises piercing the scene behind you. You turn around quickly, realizing Chanyeol was now close to the car as well, having walked to where you two were.

Sehun draws back his hands from the machinery and hoists himself up to the other side, out from sitting underneath the raised car. He dusts off his knees, standing up to reach Chanyeol’s height, separated only by the flaming red Buick between them — and you, sitting at Chanyeol’s feet. They stare at each other menacingly in the dim garage light momentarily. Their mannerisms are similar in this way; backs straight like soldiers for war, eyebrows furrowed and heaving chests. What could you do?

Chanyeol breaks the silence. Snarkily, he’s unphased, unmoving and still. “Just wanted to show your sweetheart what you were up to. Car fixing, wine selling, killing innocent families for patriarchs’ loans. She actually really missed you, Sehun. I’m so jealous, really.”

“Still caught up on big sissy? That happened months ago, don’t be so brash in front of [Y/N], now. Does she know that you taint the liquor you sell, Chanyeol?”

“She knows what my tongue feels like,” Chanyeol cocks his head to the side, sticking out his tongue to bite down on it. A taunting demonstration in Sehun’s face, the mockery is jarring. He’s taken aback momentarily, but that doesn’t stop him from putting his arms down onto the Buick’s hood, triumphantly. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“That someone I’m forced to work with keeps fucking with things I care about.” Sehun fucks up on the job, and he gets away kindly with a lengthy talk from Junmyeon about not killing innocent people for fear. Sehun fucks up off the job, and he’s got no one left to clean up for him. These things are still foreign to Sehun, still young and unsure of trivial matters. Like if the way his dick curves to the right will make him die sooner, or if he’ll ever grow any facial hair.

Your eyes dart between the two men and their exchange, though its difficult to see Sehun from your position, so you stand up.

Sehun throws his denim jacket to the garage’s floor, nothing underneath except skin slick with grease. The buttons make contact with the cement, clicking and clunking. Their eyes are locked, not parting for a second.

“You wanna go? Fist to fist like men?” Sehun clenches his fists with bruising grasps. Chanyeol laughs, “not really.”

He’d lose anyway, with one functional arm, the other in a sling to his side.

Sehun seethes, seconds away from lunging at Chanyeol anyway. “What’s got you so pent up? The girl here has your panties in a twist?”

“Every man’s own right to go and have his own wife.”

Then, Sehun frowns upon reaching an epiphany. “So pitiful of you. You dragged [Y/N] along so she would hate me.” Chanyeol smiles shamelessly, not completely a lie. “Some of it.”

Sehun begins to make his way around the hood of the car, nothing in between you now to shield against his vexation. The denim jeans he wears are dirty and caked with dirt at the knees, and the baggy fabric folds between his legs at every motion.

“Why don’t we put this in the past, Chanyeol? You always let all your emotions get the best of you, except anger. You always let the anger bottle up! Even now I know you’re not angry at me, even though I can’t bring Yoora back for you,” Sehun contends, strangely assertive behavior for him. “Let’s start over, Park Chanyeol. I’ll hang out with [Y/N], and you can go back to that Mélis doll. We’ll work together from now on, I’m not bargaining with you, now.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Chanyeol raise his hand up from his hip, slipping into his coat.

You almost would have missed it if it weren’t for the proud blood splatter on the cement, the vehemently loud noise over in the span of a blink.

Sehun jerks his body away from Chanyeol’s at once, your heart thundering in your chest. You watch stock-still and he wretches an agonizing groan, clutching his lower abdomen and collapsing onto the bloodied cement. Sehun calls out your name faintly, but you try not to look. His stomach makes an obscene sticky squelch.

Your scream makes Chanyeol wince with an eye closed, though the gloating smile tugging at his lips is harder to hide. “He’ll be fine, ready to work in a week. Just in the hip. Jongin and Baekhyun heard it, it’s nothing,” nonchalantly, he returns the hand to his side.

You rush to Sehun’s side before you have the chance to puke all over the pavement, holding his face in your hands. His eyes are hazy, but eyebrows still furrowed in a fit of silent rage, teeth hissing. “Hurts so bad, [Y/N]. You need to run,” he pants in your ear, tucking his head in between your neck and your collarbone. He’s lightheaded because of the blood loss, blooming through his denim jeans. His eyes plead, and he manages a small “love ya.”

“You’re gonna be okay, Sehun, I’m here.”

The silence makes you twist your head to find the older man, quickly. “You did this to him! You sick creep, he’s bleeding out, he’s hurt, he’s in pain. He’s going to die!” But Chanyeol is already leaning on a concrete pillar haphazardly, without a care in the world, “let him.”

You take off your slip-on coat quickly, then your tight, long sleeved blouse. The tourniquet you make resembles a bloodied kitchen rag, but it will make-do until Jongin and Baekhyun flood the scene. The slip-on coat makes it back on your form before they arrive.

When the men reach Sehun’s side, they work hastily and efficiently, before hefting his weight onto their backs.

You slip next to Chanyeol, still gazing at Sehun’s disheveled form. He’s still conscious, but in shock and daze held up. “You still want him to take you home tonight?”

“What is wrong with you?”

Chanyeol had gotten into the illegal trade while youthful, following his discharge from the militia. A jarhead, blunt and unsure, he’d reluctantly majored in business. When it all came crashing down in the midst of the roaring 20s, he’d decided that he’d work in law enforcement customs — an easy job that brunt men could understand, watching the crime rate reach an all time high. During these times, he observed Mr. Kim Junmyeon, a sophisticated industrialist, audaciously bringing in wooden crates of illegally distilled liquor crossing between Montreal to Manhattan. He wasn’t worried, because he knew it would work out in the end — and he was good at networking, even with the authorities.

Really, he admired Junmyeon’s work and dedication to the craft, lacking his own ambition. He'd let Junmyeon slip through easily, beginning to lack integrity. Junmyeon knew this, so he’d go back and forth with new bottles every two weekends, sparing Chanyeol a few for his kind gesture. Now, they hand out laundered money together at the pubs like candy, and crash autos like they’re nothing more than just carnival bumper cars. Sell wine like water, corrupt what you need to in order to get what you want.

Out of all, though, they don't meddle in each other’s businesses.

#by demure2 #chanyeol angst #sehun angst #yandere exo #exo yandere au #yandere chanyeol #exo au #exo x reader #chanyeol x reader #chanyeol au #sehun au #yandere au #yandere!chanyeol #yandere!exo

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demure2 · 2 years ago

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was trying to keep it 4 parts but fuck it. bittw Smut needs its own part

#hahaa

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demure2 · 2 years ago

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wow holeh moleh havent updated this in so long.

basically, i’m now living 1000 miles away from my parents. i’m staying with my aunt, uncle, and okder cousin for the time being. on august 4th, my dad tood me that we were moving again. O.K., sure, but i wasnt expecting to in less than a week! by august 6th, all my stuff was packed up. by august 9th, i was already at the airport haha

took a mini hiatus to get settled into the school here and stuff. but i kept thinking about my writing. i can NOT leave the exo writers community i mean its like four people. we gotta stay STRONG

i want to get BITTW over with kinda since it was experimental and i made up a plot as i started writing lol but i feel burnt out. i wrote some ideas i had in my notes app, and i was thinking about writing something from that to break away at my writers block first. but you know what? taking a break from writing a series is for pussies. My ass gonna finish this

so yeah. i know im kinda saying this a few people, but i just want to thank you guys again for all of the notes on my crappy writing. will actually post again soon. hope you guys are having/had a great day!

#hahaa

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demure2 · 2 years ago

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wow guys im so sorry about the delay for BITTW, been working on some stuff since school is starting again and i want to do a passion project. final part will be released SOON and then i can move onto some cooler things. i realize in total BITTW could have been a one shot since its actually quite short i just wanted to cut up the parts in case it got boring

#hahaa

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demure2 · 2 years ago

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i lied on that due date But im workign hard i promise

you guys are about to witness me write smut for the first ever time in BITTW. its official guys i apologize in advance. also im Writing it really quickly for some reason, i feel like i can get it out by tonight or tomorrow

#hahaa

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demure2 · 2 years ago

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#hahaa

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demure2 · 2 years ago

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just realized in all of my update lines ive been writing june instead of july….

#hahaa

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demure2 · 2 years ago

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Blood is Thicker Than Wine _ THREE

> BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WINE [MASTERLIST]

— 1930s au

— yandere neighbor!chanyeol x reader || ft. best friend!sehun

— genre: angst, suggestive

— warnings: language, alcohol use, cigarette/substance use, mental illness, anxiety, blood, older fella chanyeol, slightly drunk chanyeol, jongin makes an appearance, protective sehun, jealousy

— word count: 3.7k

— note: I'M SUUPER SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT! i just want to say thank you guys SO MUCH for the support, especially that one fic rec blog. you know who you are ;) made my whole week. i also got carried away and made this part have some suggestive parts, makes me feel like i have to include a smut in the finale now LOL, lmk. lastly, i know chanyeol doesnt prefer wine LOL but i thought that making him drink anything else would ruin the mood hehe. i hope you guys enjoy, always open to suggestions/criticisms! :)

You shake your head in disbelief, pushing yourself off your knees. Raising your right hand, in one quick motion, your palm meets his cheek.

“Fuck!”

Chanyeol stumbles backward, pressing a cold left hand up to where you had collided. Pain spreads through you in unforgiving motions of heat, where your palm had met his cheek. “Baby,” he breathes, eyebrows furrowed together toward the ground, unable to face you. His hair is slicked back, but a few stray tendrils are glued to his forehead, damp with sweat. “No, no, no, baby. Don’t do this to me now,” he says cautiously, voice small. His chin tilts toward his heart, head leaning dejectedly against the palm of his hand.

“You just met me!” You seethe through your teeth, still gasping for air from his kiss.

“You just met me. I’ve known you, baby. Sehun started to brag about you, weeks ago. It just made me so curious,” he pants, still holding his cheek. “Then I kept seein’ you throughout town. I was lookin’ for you, baby — I couldn’t help but like you.” You make out his expression in the dark, only to find it to be unreadable. He’s not mad at you nor especially irritated, eyes narrow and appraisive of your next action. He draws out a sigh, but his eyes are met with empty validation from yours, vacant of what he was searching for. “Brag about me, weeks ago? You don’t know Sehun.”

You turn roughly to where the door is to leave, but your step is restrained. You struggle to find your senses, anything alluding to what was happening, though it’s immediate on your wrist: Chanyeol’s slender, icy fingers are tightly wrapped around your ulna, forcibly turning your body to face his. You feel his ragged nails pierce your veins.

He roughly spits his words like venom. “You’re the one who doesn’t know him.”

“Let me fucking go!” You lift a leg to kick him, letting your skirt ride up your waist. But the fabric bunches right above your hip, where Chanyeol’s hand has already found your skin.

He closes the distance between your bodies, pressing your head to his chest. He’s fantasized this in his head before, reveling at the supple touch of your chest pressing up against his, your breasts spilling out of your top. His hand right above your ass, your hips and core pressed up to his body. Your breath against his skin feels so sultry and seductive to him, but he’s quick to amuse the situation before he thought he might lose his will. “I’m so sorry, baby. I don’t mean to make you upset, I’ve got you now.” His voice is shamelessly low, meant for only you. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he purrs, voice getting caught in his throat.

Still pressing your forms together, Chanyeol sweetly hums. Your bodies are bound together with sweat, his almost dormant right arm still glued to his side. Desperately, you yank on his ear with your free hand. But it’s too late, as he pushes the back of your head closer onto him, gentle and cautious not to hurt you with his rough hands. “You know you don’t have to pretend like you hate me anymore, baby. Won’t you talk to me? I’m startin’ to get annoyed - you came here to say sorry.” A frown tugs at his expression, whispering in your ear now.

“I defended you Chanyeol, but you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants for even a night,” you speak small and innocently, yet laced with malice. You mumble your words, but they’re suddenly so direct, fragmenting the air like arrows of poison. “Let’s not forget my end of the deal, Chanyeol. I came here for Sehun, to find out what he was hiding from me. I never should have agreed to this —“

“Can’t you keep your mouth shut for five seconds about Sehun?” Chanyeol is practically pleading now, eyes closed in fractious stoicism, still and unmoving. “Can’t something be about you and me?”

His eyes glint, liable by the slight heartache panging inside of his chest. But he’s soothed by the fact he knows deep down you’re lying, and how easily he could have you. He exhales and blows the hair out of his face, abruptly feeling annoyed and upset with himself. He’d finally had you after weeks of watching, and now you’re mad at him?

So Chanyeol begs more, latching on to you closer. “I know, baby, I know. No more yelling. But you have to stay with me, okay? I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, but men like me are stupid, you know? I just want you all to myself.” Chanyeol’s grip tightens around your waist, not releasing you for even a second.

You stifle your welling tears, still pressed up to his torso. “Why do you want me, Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol smiles against your skin. “Because I’ve known you, baby.” The response makes you shudder. You wonder if he notices you shake against him.

He continues promptly, without hesitation. “I want you because I adore everything about you. It just gets me so mad, baby, ‘M sorry I don’t like your little boyfriend. Can’t help it, he’s just not a gentleman to you. You don’t know everything about him,” Chanyeol continues precariously, suddenly pouting. You can feel his heartbeat increase, the vibrations echoing against you. He feels deceptive, like a liar. That he was maybe just as bad as — or worse than — Sehun. You didn’t know everything about him, either. “You just don’t know half of it, baby.”

“I’m sorry I startled you, mister. Just wanted to go to the bathroom,” you shyly admit, voice small and unsure. “And to see if you were really asleep on that couch. Aren’t you uncomfortable?”

He lightly hums again, drawing shapes on your back with his index finger. It’s kind of awkward, rocking back and forth while standing in the dark, so you don’t say anything. “It’s okay. You can leave in the morning, baby, it’s still late now. Just be back for me by evening.”

⇒

“How does Chanyeol know you, Sehun?”

Sehun swallows thickly, blinking. “I don’t know him, [Y/N],” he says while meeting your eyes. Slowly, he’s controlled, emotionless.

“Then how does he know your name?”

Sehun sits upright, suddenly confrontational. “What do you mean he knows my name?” You let him stare at you like that, eyebrows furrowed blankly, biting his lip. His eyebrows aren’t tense or anything, which is usually the first sign he gets before he gets a full blown headache, but he feels uneasy.

You’d left Chanyeol’s house early this morning, slyly slipping through the front gate before the sun had risen, blue and before orange had streaked the horizon. You’d slept poorly that night, reluctantly having gone back to Chanyeol’s desolate guest room. As for Chanyeol, he’d unassumingly gone back to restlessly sleeping on the velvet sofa, worried you’d leave before morning once again. His eyes flutter open once; but by then, it’s six in the morning, and the sound of the tall iron gate closing has already concluded.

“Did you boys know each other back then or something? He go to Heartland High?” You lean forward, a real possibility considering Chanyeol was only two years older than Sehun, and you, 4 years younger than Sehun.

“You don’t mean you’re talking to that bluenose that tried to blow my brains out with a rod — right? That’s why you wanted to walk home alone last night? That freak?” Sehun scoffs as he reclines back leisurely into the restaurant seat, though you know he’s setting you up for your own hypocrisy. “A senseless deduction, Sehun. M’ not talkin’ to anyone,” you hiss in response. The trinkets on your bracelet collide with the maple of the table as you speak, mocking your words while engraving them into the memory of the wood. You smirk, feeling in control. “He’s just a good kisser to me.”

“God, you kissed him?” Sehun sets down his glass, swirling the tart lemonade inside. He sits back up, eyes flashing a frame of desperation. “You serious, [Y/N]?”

“No, Sehun, I’m kidding,” you reply disinterestedly, knowing he’ll catch onto your guise.

Sehun loses his temper, pushing the table with both hands to heft his body weight completely up. “Half-paralyzed arm war-vet without a dame, town freak with a mansion. Can’t you see it, doll? Cash in the ditch America is in right now? He’s a rogue criminal, [Y/N].” And he smells faintly like wine, too. But you wouldn’t tell Sehun that.

A rogue criminal, huh?

“And I’m supposed to believe that you kissed him? What the fuck? I’m supposed to be protecting you. What will your mother think when she finds out that her young woman is whoring around? What do you see in that guy, even? You stopped callin’ him a freak ‘cause you think he’s a quick fuck instead?” Sehun interrogates you, looking down at your unbothered figure, still sitting dignified. He continues, enraged. “If you wanted to be fucked so badly, why didn’t you just tell me?”

You reply with a smug grin, refusing to look at him. “I’m not interested in having a bug constantly on top of my case, Sehun. I’m not whoring around, and if I was, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. It’s summer, give me a break. You reek today by the way, like gasoline.”

It makes him sick to his stomach to think about, Chanyeol pushing your face down into the bed as he fulfilled his own sick desires. A hypothetical situation that even you haven’t thought about.

He’s recently been contemplating the timeline before you would find out yourself about his friends at the car shop, too. He can only hide it for so long, after all.

He grits his teeth, jeeringly. “Don’t change the subject, doll. Can’t believe you’re so needy that you’ve resorted to giving that creep handys for a fistful of fifty cents,” he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Thought you were better.”

Before Sehun is finished talking, you reach into your coat pocket with empty fingers. You toss the change onto a gingham napkin cloth, and abruptly heft your own body weight up. You vaguely smile. “Fistful of fifty cents.”

Sehun looks up at you with wide eyes and protest, but keeps his mouth shut and hands at his temples, silently following your figure until it slips soundly out of the shop. The bells at the door jingle to ridicule him.

You catch sight of the time on the restaurant clock before you leave: 5:40 PM on the analog. You still had time to walk to the bakery and back to the Park estate.

⇒

And so you twist the doorknob in a full motion with your free hand, unwavering certainty of it being unlocked. He didn’t get visitors, anyway.

You stumble into his doormat, but your face winces at the tart aroma of wine aerating around the manor. You accidentally drop the paper bag in your left hand in the process, cringing at its loud crinkling sounds.

It was not illegal to consume alcohol. It was illegal to sell it. 1928’s alcohol prohibition.

He’s sitting at the dining table, back faced to the door, silhouette broad. The tablecloth is absent of food or lit candles though, like it's seen brighter days. The chandelier is bleakly dusty above, and it swings haphazardly in an eclipse. The only thing left to console him was a glass - and a bottle - of Beringer Red Wine. It’s acerbic on his tongue and goes down his throat like acid, like tough love.

You sneak along the dining room, still careful to not adjacent your body to his gaze, despite knowing he’d heard the bag dropping earlier. Chanyeol mutters cautiously, something along the lines of “what are you doing here, now?” when his head snaps up to relish your presence.

Suddenly, he stands up, unable to believe his eyes. “Mélis? Is that you?” The air is hazy and suffocating in the manor, only slightly illuminated by the evening moon streaming through the window. He pushes in his chair and steps toward you, extending his left arm, but you swat his hand away before it touches your face. “You have to leave now, Mél. I’m seeing someone.”

You thought about taking advantage of the situation, whining your voice and pretending to be her. Your thighs squeeze together at the thought of his potentially regretful reaction, wishing it were directed toward you, instead. Does he miss her? Were you a distraction? Does he want her back? Chanyeolie, you miss me, don’t you? Of course I miss you baby, just let me get rid of the current girl I’m seeing!

It didn’t sit well with you. “I - I’m not Mélis,” rubbing your sweaty hands on your skirt. You laugh nervously, “do you usually go for girls that look like me?”

His eyes widen as he absorbs your figure. “You’re right, you’re not Mélis,” he trails off, slowly. “M’ so sorry baby, was drinking a little. Wasn’t sure when you would come,” his gaze falters as it becomes more and more deplorable in itself. “Or if you would, at all.”

Light and acquiescently, the rain starts to patter outside. It forms hundreds upon thousands of tiny domes on the window pane, growing until they roll off. You don’t respond, so he changes the subject himself, shaking his head. “Would you get me a slice?” glancing down at the paper bag in your grip, designed with a large composition of illustrated baked goods and pastries. “Baby should eat with me too, since it’s baby’s gift after all.”

You had brought him a cinnamon sugar apple pie from the local bakery next door, set with a decorative lattice overlapping the filling on top. You’re gently elated when you see his dimples manifest, and his lips pressed into a thin line of sweet delight. His eyes rest shut as the syrup melts against his tongue. Some dribbles at the curve of his lip and trickles down his lip like spit. You can’t help but watch as he laps it up mindlessly, like a canine. “Does your right hand ever hurt, Chanyeol? Stuck to your side?”

“Can barely feel the elbow and arm up. Fingers are fine, so it’s gettin’ better. Doc said so. Just need time to train the muscle again.”

“Oh,” you smile. “That makes sense.”

“You know you can come by anytime, [Y/N],” he breaks the tension. “I’m sorry about earlier. It’s just that you move nice and quiet, and you make it smell like it did when I had a woman here. And I do like a flaky apple pie.” You smile softly, unsure of why you decided to get the pie for him in the first place. This doesn’t mask your mental recoil while thinking about his woman.

“Would you tell me more about her, Chanyeol? About Mélis?”

Chanyeol grumbles, “not interested. Was a real pain in the neck back then, met ‘er at the bar and she never left me. I think she taught me how to be crazy about someone. Now I won’t leave you alone,” he faintly chuckles. “Infatuated with you badly, baby,” he rambles on, still devouring the slice and still holding the sticky metal fork in his fist. Chanyeol wants you desperately, more than he can let on. His mind flashes to countless times before, pants strained against himself and jaw clenching at the thought.

Chanyeol changes the subject once again, afraid he might get carried away. “I want to take you somewhere important to me today, baby.”

“Where are we going?” You blindly inquire, unsure.

“To where I work. I think we could really, really, help each other out baby,” Chanyeol breathes. “You won’t tell anyone anything, right baby? Our secret?”

You nod, immediately. “Yes, our secret, mister.”

You’re following Chanyeol outside to his garage in the next five minutes, a separate unit outside of his main property. A neat white shelter. “Mercedes-Benz 380 W22 Cabriolet,” Chanyeol exhales proudly. “It’s just ten minutes away, can you handle that? Baby get car sick?”

You try to keep your smirk to a minimum. “No-no, no. I enjoy car rides, Sehun takes me around in his, all the time.”

“Alright.” If you wanted to play, he wouldn’t entertain you.

The interior of the black car is sleek, but the unreleased 1933 model lacks a console between the two front seats, allowing little room between your figures.

Knowing this, Chanyeol glances down at the lavish sight beneath him. Your short skirt, adorned with an ornate belt, barely spreads out over your thighs pressed against the leather seat. What a shame that you’re so careful, keeping a space of at least 10 inches apart from his leg — your body was practically facing the car door. He’s mesmerized nonetheless, breath hitching when he trails his eyes up to your face, already staring at him. “Pervert.”

He smirks, running a hand through his black hair. Truthfully, you relish in his attention.

The car ride is mostly silent, but you occasionally turn your head over to watch him drive. He drives casually without much care, one arm on the steering wheel. His right arm is stuck at his side, but his fingers are on his lap, lightly tapping. He hoped you wouldn’t notice, distracting himself from the hardness swelling in his pants. He doesn’t think you can see though, in the evening light. He keeps his eyes on the road, for once.

The shapes of the town decline in size and pervasiveness as the ride continues. It still appears suburban, even as flashy neon club-lights gradually replace the monotonous street lights you’re used to. You realize that you’re on the edge of town, at the border between residential housing and the big-city metropolis.

Then, in big and unfaltering letters, you see the sign; JUNMYEON’S ETHYL. & GARAGE WORK. The premise of the shop is surprisingly polished, appearing spacious from the outside. Surrounding the shop are unassuming plazas and smaller outlets, palm-tree-graced boutiques, and saloons. The silence crashes naturally, with the noise of busy mechanics at work outside. “You do autowork, Chanyeol?”

His voice catches in his throat momentarily. Modestly, he offers an “I guess.” He turns around to look at the car’s blindspot, holding onto his seat’s head-cushion. He pulls into the corner of the parking lot, pressing the foot brake to shift the car into park.

“Just stay by me, baby.”

You nod as you both exit the car, meeting each other at the pavement in front. Chanyeol smoothly pushes the glass door open, and you’re met with cool, fresh air. The tiled flooring is brighter and cleaner inside, and you can see rows of vehicle hoists in the garage behind. He holds you close to him, walking through the empty shop, despite being well illuminated. “So clean for a car shop,” you mutter. “How do you work with that arm?”

“I don’t work on cars much anymore. That’s your boy toy’s job.” You stop walking to look up at Chanyeol. “This is the same car shop Sehun works in?” You grit your teeth, continuing. “And he’s not my boy toy.”

He replies nonchalantly, walking again. “That wasn’t obvious?” You reach the back of the empty shop, stopping in front of the branded EMPLOYEES ONLY door.

“Then what’s so crazy that he’s hiding? You made me agree to go with you to show me nothing? That fucking sucks, I was starting to actually think you were cute, but it turns out you were just a perv all along —”

You’re interrupted as the door swings wide open, revealing a man courtly dressed in dark blue attire. His hair is neat and roughly the same length as Chanyeol’s, but partially sticking to his forehead with sweat. He’s seen more sun than Chanyeol, his white dress shirt underneath sticking out and revealing his toned chest underneath. He stares at you with discernment for a moment, before looking back at the older man next to you.

“Who’s this? Finally got laid and decided to bring her in?” He clicks his tongue with the roof of his mouth, something in annoyance.

“She’s Sehun’s plaything,” Chanyeol replies, mentally recoiling. “Thought it might teach him not to fuck with my business anymore, plus I’ve really grown to like her. Bunny puffs her chest out a lot, but she lets me take care of her. She’s a good girl.”

Blue-suit looks unamused, leaning against the door frame. “She’s real pretty, Yeol. What’s she know ‘bout white-collar crime?”

Your eyes widen, mouth agape. “White-collar crime?” Thoughts race through your head; money laundering, extortion, were they pimps? This is a car shop. Your world begins collapsing in on itself, naming off the possibilities. And Sehun’s involved?

Your train of thought is interrupted by the other, finally talking directly to you. “You know your eyelashes flutter when you think hard, sweet stuff?” Chanyeol smiles, laughing wholeheartedly for once, patting the other on his back. “Easy on her. This is [Y/N], Jongin. I’m gon’ show her round back, take her to my world,” Chanyeol pauses. “Then I’ll take her out front.” Jongin grins back, nodding.

Satisfied, Chanyeol finally shows you some personal attention. Whispering in your ear, lowly. “Let’s go, baby.”

Jongin steps aside, allowing you both into the back. An intermediate room, presumably where Jongin was working behind a desk, and then beyond it, a large spiraling stairwell downward, surely miles into hell.

Taking your hand, Chanyeol descends quickly and without apprehension.

Beneath, a warmly lit but spacious wine cellar. The scent is pungent, an intense stench that burns your nostrils through raw.

It reeks of moonshine.

“So, what do you think?” Chanyeol feels proud, his stance wide and ready to conquer anything. Endless vats and vats of fermenting liquid alcohol are carefully arranged, dispersed throughout the entire floor. Fluid cables are tangled and thrown mindlessly over wooden support beams. You’re looking at a bootleg alcohol operation, a prolific one at that, right in the middle of America’s grand Alcohol Prohibition.

You won’t even challenge his audacity. “You told me to stay away from Sehun because he was hiding the fact that he works for a giant bootleg alcohol operation, that you also coincidentally work for.”

Chanyeol smiles derisively, relaxing his posture. “You’ve got it wrong, baby. Wait until you find out about the wreck your boy is,” he snarls devilishly. “Didn’t he tell his sweetheart? Haven’t you heard? Couldn't control his anger, responsible for killing Park Yoora?”

Part mailboy, part car mechanic, part killler, impartially in love with you. Sehun was full of tricks.

#by demure2 #chanyeol angst #sehun angst #yandere exo #exo yandere au #yandere chanyeol #exo au #exo x reader #chanyeol x reader #chanyeol au #sehun au #yandere au #yandere!chanyeol #yandere!exo

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demure2 · 2 years ago

Text

Blood is Thicker Than Wine _ TWO

> BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WINE [MASTERLIST]

— 1930s au

— yandere neighbor!chanyeol x reader || ft. best friend!sehun

— genre: angst, suggestive

— warnings: language, alcohol use, cigarette/substance use, mental illness, forced kiss, anxiety, blood, older fella neighborhood freak chanyeol

— word count: 3.0k

— note: another warning on this part for a forceful kiss at the end of this chapter. i think like another 1 or 2 parts with this and then im out. i hope anyone who reads this enjoys :3

The guilt accumulating in your gut eats away at your stomach like a corrosive, a caustic, acidic agent. You wanted to apologize for all that had happened last night, since you knew Sehun wouldn’t. Bad terms tasted bitter to you - and what could go wrong? This would be the only time you would ever substantiate it. Just once. Break the rules once. A breath of fresh air.

Mr. Park would have felt so good to know you were thinking about him this much. He almost feels filthy thinking about you, desire palpable in his hands. He needs to see you again, desperately.

Undeniably handsome. Broad and toned, sculpted shoulders with carefully allocated muscle. Tall, with large ears and moon craters for dimples. Though his eyes appear melancholic these days, his timid smile compliments them well. His black hair is well kept, sometimes slicked back and sometimes left down in the front. Recently he’s been staying up later to look out for the newspaper boy and the girl accompanying him, which has contoured his eyebags considerably. He’s so touch-deprived. Not many girls are in his line-of-work.

But he hates that newspaper boy, Sehun. He left cowardly like a rabbit, with unfinished business behind.

His breath hitches, knowing that he could take care of you better than Sehun ever could. Annoyance pulls at his eyebrows, furrowing them tightly. It makes him frustrated, feeling like a teenager again, blood rushing at the thought at how many times Sehun might have touched you the wrong way.

In war-injury fashion, a traumatic incident had caused his right arm to lose partial functionality, in a position stuck at his torso. His fingers still retain some ambit of movement, but his stiff arm has taken away many other enjoyable things from his life, like sleeping on his side.

That’s how you find him this Thursday night. He’s struggling to position himself in a way that doesn’t put pressure on his arm, shifting mundanely on his elbows deep in the grass of his front lawn. No one likes dandelion weeds, not in this town. Mr. Park was no anomaly.

Your lips part to greet him, but you just watch in silence instead. His eyes are distant and deep in thought, customarily maintaining his lawn.

Yellow and blooming, they serve a symbol of constant ubiquity. And no matter how much weed-killer he drowns them in, they always come back for him. He ends up preferring to emerge at night, when the nightshade colors the ochre dandelions a cold gray, and the chartreuse grass an austerish blue. You shift your attention to the wilted flowers on the trellis instead. They look like daffodils, though they’ve lost their hue. They don’t look up at the sun anymore, only toward the shadows, diverging further toward the ground.

And so he can’t help but scoff when he reaches to the other side of his front gate to grasp a cigar butt not his, nestled neatly in an enclosed bed of yellow. Unharmed, it hasn’t been there for long. He crushes it briskly between his fingers, figuring it must have belonged to Sehun from last night. Pretty things are temporary, but ugly things are immutable.

You swear you’ll leave him alone with his garden, just tonight. There are no bonds thicker than good blood in this town, not even the horrible, horrible guilt that lulls you under.

“Hey lady!”

“Hi Sehun,” you breathe barely, still exhausted from the night two days earlier. He doesn’t even catch you off guard. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

He beams, “not my fault we live on the same street. What are you doing tonight? Been busy at the car shop all day. How’s the knee?” Sehun smiles apologetically.

“Fine,” you exhale. “You’re always talking about that car shop, but you’ve never shown me.”

“Never thought you’d be interested.” Actually, Sehun knows that you are interested, but he has to be cautious. ‘Goobers’ he’d call them, not just the car parts but also the group of boys he runs home to. Fools living in the basement of the local car shop. They’re raunchy boys; backs slick with car oil and grease, but toned in their own way.

However grimey their unit may be, they get credit because they’ve been friends with him longer than you have. They’ve watched him grow up too, but into one of their own - into another to latch onto. Comparatively useless, but they always find a way to make it work. That’s how things are in this town.

“You gon’ answer me?” Sehun breaks your dejection, walking closer to you.

“I did,” you reply, snarkily.

“My other question. Whatcha doin’ tonight, so late? And what’s with the attitude, little miss mademoiselle mighty?”

“I’m on a walk. I’m not answering your second question.”

“Well, want an escort home?”

“Not yet,” you sigh. You almost want to say his phrase, that stupid ‘don’t bleed anything against me, ‘kay detective?’ but you’re interrupted. “Well, you know why I’m not gonna show you?”

“What, the car shop? Why, ‘cause you hate me?”

Sehun laughs, and turns to fully face you. “How ‘bout ‘cause you’re naturally flirty? Remember junior year at Heartland Senior High?” Your train of thought halts, “how do you even remember that, Sehun?”

He backs off, offended. His eyes squint at you in disbelief, at the edge of astonished laughter. “You got both of my two closest friends to fall in love with you at the same time. All that they would talk about for weeks, [Y/N] this, [Y/N] that. And you wouldn’t believe it,” Sehun puts both of his hands up in submission, like he has nothing left to hide. “I work with them at the shop now, so no chance,” he surrenders. He still has a lot to hide.

You smirk. “Say hi to them for me, then. Why don’t you give Junmyeonie and Yixing-ah a kiss on the cheek for me, too, while you’re at it.”

Sehun chokes out a derisive cough. “You know, I don’t think you’re naturally flirty like you say. I think it’s on purpose. If you met all of them, you’d be trying to look minxy for a group of guys that aren’t worth it, doll. That’s wasteful.” He’s laughing, but silence hangs in the air otherwise.

Returning his gaze, you sink your knees, hugging them. There’s ants on the pavement, backs shining under the orange street lamp. “I don’t try to be minxy or flirty or whatever. That’s weird. All of your friends are weird. They all got their own molls.”

Sehun dryly laughs, “I don’t have a moll. Neither do Baekhyun or Jongin … I guess Yixing’s been talking to a waitress recently. You say ‘molls’ like we’re gangsters or something, but we just run a couple of old flivvers and buckets.”

You should have fallen for him. Maybe you have, maybe you’ve been staring at his face for too long now. In that moment, Sehun shakes his head like he could hear you. But if he could hear you, nothing could have stopped him from shaking his head anyway. The cityline is like his mind, smothered in smog and jumbled regret.

“It’s late, I’ve got to get going. You can introduce me to your boys at a different time.”

Sehun reaches down to grasp your hands. His fingertips are rough and cracked, in desperate need of petroleum. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing defined by the harsh lighting. “O.K. Let’s go,” he spits, difficult to read. “Sorry Sehun, I wanna walk home alone tonight. Need some time to myself. I promise I’ll be nicer tomorrow.” He lets go immediately, feigning hurt features. At the very least, his features soften. He understands.

As soon as you leave Sehun’s line of sight, you twist your heel 180, back to the manor. You have to do this.

At first, the rush is strong and the wind aids you in your endeavor. Then it’s the wind that weighs you down, anchoring you to hesitancy. You pass street after street, searching for his.

You’d heard stories. When delinquents would wander close enough to catch a glimpse, he was usually unchanging and unassuming with solicitors. He was somnolent, tired, and always ready to flicker his eyes elsewhere, nonchalantly. His very own theatre masks. You’d even heard a rumor that Mr. Park was a 128 year old vampire - just 100 something years off, and the wrong kind of monster.

It’s 10 past 9 o’clock on the analog when you reach the two trees in front of the manor, concealing you from his aspect. They say you can’t break routines, but you’re not naive - you understand that seeing him there on his porch, off guard and vulnerable, was an opportunity for a new one.

Hopefully that doesn’t happen.

You can see through the leaves that a lengthy but shallow slash occupies his face, across his nose. He remains unbothered, glancing down at the book in his lap. Iniquity suddenly becomes thick in the air, and your gut tightens again. Your palms are sweaty and glisten with moisture underneath the moonlight. The scene clears as you hear a bark, weak and feeble, coming from his feet - a midnight poodle, and a sleeping maltipoo in his lap. It’s your ticket to leave, now or never.

With ashamed hands, you reach the iron gates.

“Mr. Park.”

His head immediately snaps up from the print, his black wavy locs bouncing at the gesture. He’s as handsome as ever, dressed nicely in comfortable, satin apparel. His gaze hardens and he tilts his head like you’re familiar to him, but you know you haven’t made conversation yet. They’re menacing, and they push you to search him, but you can’t find anything. You reread his posture indefinitely, but you pull away again with empty fists. You almost turn your heel toward the opposite wind again, but he’s so jarring you can’t help but stay.

You’ve broken a rule. It falls to your feet without any clanging or noise, just like that. You had spoken to the town weirdo, Mr. Park.

He finally responds, tangible in the moment. “Sehun told you that my name was Chanyeol. You should call me that. I’m not that much older than you.”

You can’t help but retort, “how do you know his name?”

“Aren’t you dating him? And he hasn’t told you?” Chanyeol scoffs triumphantly, leaning back in his porch chair. He feels a wave of coolness wash over him, and he relaxes his posture - satisfied and complacent.

Does Sehun know this douche? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Me and Sehun have never dated,” you lash, walking toward him now. You make sure to keep your posture upright, so he knows that you’re sophisticated and not afraid of anything he was able to pull.

You weren’t ready for Chanyeol to smile a shit-eating grin.

The air is humid and dewy, and it becomes suffocating to breathe. It’s becoming easier to drown than to inhale now, and the petrichor on the grass doesn’t make it easier. Is this town always rainy?

“So, why are you here again?” Chanyeol nonchalantly quirks an eyebrow, uncrossing his legs on the chair. He phrases it quickly, like a proposal, ready to give you anything. He speaks your tongue and you speak his, yet whenever he opens his mouth, it’s so difficult to understand. It’s not disjointed or broken or slurred, but it’s never comprehensible to you.

You’re so much more gorgeous in front of him.

“To say sorry.”

“Okay,” Chanyeol hums. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You wanna, or you need to?”

“I need to,” you pant, being honest.

Chanyeol swallows, eyes not leaving your figure.

“I need to apologize for the other night,” you speak reluctantly, cautious and unsure of what you were even saying. “Sehun was being cruel. I didn’t intend for us to be on bad terms, we are neighbors, after all,” you say carefully. The concrete is abrasive on your heeled-kilt suedes and feels like burning tire underneath his gaze. Then, you don’t care: “but don’t try anything with us. I’ll rat you out the second you do.”

He smiles a smug smile. “Bunny’s so mighty in her heels, feels like you’re on top of the world with those extra four inches, doesn’t it? I just think it’s so cute when you say ‘us,’ like you’re defending your sweetheart even when he’s not here.” His voice makes your stomach twist, guttural, low, and full. “Don’t do that for him anymore, baby. He doesn’t know how to take care of you.”

Your eyes open wide. “What are you talking about? He’s NOT my sweetheart, and he’s NOT supposed to take care of me - drop it. Lastly, don’t call me that. Go to the head doctor and get out of my hair. I knew I shouldn’t have come here, you hound-”

He sharply hisses, fragmenting your spiel. “I'm the one in your hair? Hound? You gonna apologize for that too?” You take a few steps back, suddenly threatened. But before you can recoil too far, he leans forward and extends a cold hand to slither around your wrist. You’re in peril. No longer in control, if you were ever.

He flashes another crude smile, jester and jekyll. You try to stay silently in place, but it’s difficult to resist his force pulling you towards him. Relief washes over you when gentle hands juxtapose his strength, sneaking around your waist to holster you onto the porch. He works to handle you with care.

With a huff, Chanyeol reaches for a cigarette from his pant pocket with his functioning arm. It dangles between his fingers like a delicate trinket before aligning to the entrance of his lips. He lights it swiftly, before closing his eyes to breathe it in. You notice that he absorbs it the same way Sehun does, slowly with full focus. Do all smokers drown like that?

He chuckles before he opens his eyes, feeling your gaze. “Look away baby, I can’t have you taking in my bad influence. Your mommy already thinks we’re doin’ this and doin’ that. If your mommy finds out I'm smoking in front of you, she won’t let us spend time together anymore!” Your jaw clenches - was he mocking Sehun right now?

He wryly grimaces, and a shiver runs down your spine, like a finger tracing where the bone pokes out of your skin. Momentarily, he resembles a cheshire cat, his teeth sharp and pearly. It leaves a bitter taste in your own mouth. He throws the cigarette on the ground, pulling you closer. “Aren’t you in your last years of college? I would like us to be friends, [Y/N]. How about a real man, everything that your boytoy isn’t,” Chanyeol muses. “I can be treat you real nice, how you deserve. We could really help each other out,” he says, simply.

You push off of him. “Tell me this, Chanyeol: I be your ‘friend’, and you get to toy with a woman, which you haven’t touched in years." Feeling red at his snarkyness, you tug on his shoulder. "But what’s in it for me? Listen to me when I say that I’m not interested in fucking you for cocaine. I'm not a prostitute-"

“Relax, strong stuff,” Chanyeol's eyes glint momentarily. “Didn't I say I would treat you right, the way you deserve? I forget everything that you and your boytoy said the other day, I keep my glock away from his mouth, and my name out of your mother’s. You help me clean for a little,” he thinks a little longer. “Keep me real nice company. And I’ll tell you all about what Sehun’s hiding. Sounds fair for a bargain?”

“Then I’ll do it,” you nod, skeptical. But you wouldn’t let it on. Sehun, hiding something?

“Do you have to be home tonight?” You look surreal standing before Chanyeol, tracing your curves mentally with his mind. You make him feel so filthy.

“Not tonight. My parents think I’m at Sehun’s place.”

Chanyeol’s face twists into violent disgust. “Then I want you to stay at mine tonight. This is me forgiving you.”

“Sure.”

Chanyeol clears his throat, opening his front door. The cold air against your skin does the opposite of what you wished, awaking you from your hazy stupor.

⇒

It’s a quarter past three o’clock on the analog. Your eyes are half-lidded, heavy with lethargy. You’d snuck downstairs, meaning to explore his house, like it would give you more insight into who he was. Feeling quite somnolent yourself, your pupils dart wearily between the twisted pillars of stained wood before picking one to follow the contour of. The balusters are carved beautifully, casting shadows just as pretty on the tile. When you find your gaze drifting downward still following the pillar, your vision lands on Chanyeol.

Uneven and choppy, his chest rises and falls. He’s sleeping on the velvet sofa.

Tonight’s moonlight works tirelessly with stained glass, streaming through the tall, arch windows while prisms reflect his every blink and breath into shades of blue. You approach him carefully, planning to glance at his sleeping portrait.

He’s without a duvet, chin tilted toward his heart. his ears noticeably red and perky, and his hair is disheveled and messy. For the first time, Chanyeol did not look like the weird, rich neighbor down the street. He looked like a human, a real human, capable of empathy. Yesterday, it was a mistake. Today, it was untamable.

His eyes snap open, and you lunge backwards in surprise. Your heart stops momentarily.

“Are you trying to leave me already?” Chanyeol seethes while sitting up calmly, scanning the dark room for your silhouette.

“No,” you start, exasperated. “I was blindly finding the bathroom when I saw you down here. I just thought you would sleep in your quarters," lying through your teeth.

Chanyeol hefts his weight off of the couch, standing up to find your small frame. It happens instantaneously:

Chanyeol leans down, and his plump lips crash into yours. Mangled between barriers of skin, you taste fresh between his teeth.

At first, he struggles to find harmony between his dryness and your candy lip balm, but his lips search deeper. He cups your face with both hands gently, fluttering his eyes closed. You thrust your hands toward his chest to shove him away, but his hands position at your jaw, pulling you closer.

He pulls apart when you’re both winded, finally pushing himself away from you, looking away, even in the dark.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sickenly in love with you, [Y/N.]”

#by demure2 #chanyeol angst #sehun angst #yandere exo #exo yandere au #yandere chanyeol #exo au #exo x reader #chanyeol x reader #chanyeol au #sehun au #yandere au #yandere!chanyeol #yandere!exo

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demure2 · 2 years ago

Text

Blood is Thicker Than Wine _ ONE

> BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WINE [MASTERLIST]

— 1930s au

— yandere neighbor!chanyeol x reader || ft. best friend!sehun

— genre: angst, suggestive

— warnings: language, alcohol use, cigarette/substance use, mental illness, watching from afar, anxiety, gun, blood, older fella chanyeol

— word count: 3.1k

— note: this story has been in my drive for 3 years, even tho this is the first piece on my account. i even had a timeline at the bottom of my draft to make sure war dates and stuff lined up hehe. it's O.K. if this doesn't do well since i'm writing for fun, but i'm happy i got at least part one of this out! then i can finally put this series to rest. i’m sorry that this kinda introductory part doesn’t have many interactions with chanyeol yet. i want to accurately convey the reader’s relationship with sehun before i make it fall apart :)

Girls like you loathe compliance but act it, anyway. You go against rules and you wear two faces, but you’re still compliant because nobody knows. Nobody suspects a thing, and you’ll keep it that way.

There’s not much to it, really: keep your papers in neat stacks, your dollars in even neater stacks, and your mouth shut. It’s a commitment, but it's applicable to the art of both compliance and not. That’s how this town runs. Girls like you are compliant.

Lately, alcohol traffic has been wedging tension into champagne bottles ready to pop, like faulty cork stoppers. Tenfold, and you’ve seen it. Tons of progeny craft succumbing to the paradigm of unrelentless violations of law, but you swore to never break the rules. That includes even the unspoken ones, like knowing to not mess with the neighborhood weirdo, Mr. Park.

Technically, you were just helping your best friend Sehun deliver night mail. It’s part of his job.

“What a hound,” Sehun pants, steadying himself by gripping the fabric layering over your shoulder with calloused hands. Orphically, his brown irises are suddenly void of any liveliness. He’s exasperated, pupils fitfully blown out wide, the onyx barrier warped in various ways. Ways that make him look wild, more unimaginably feral than the manor overgrown with vines and rusted trellises in front of you.

“I gummed up the works on this one,” he coos, lowly. Sehun’s arm parts from your shoulder to clutch his heart, breath hitching. He shudders, even in the cooling night zephyr. “Guess your momma was right all along,” he breathes. Mimicking a high-pitched voice, “stop hanging out with Sehun! He’s a neighborhood no-good nick who delivers mail for a few cents!”

You grin, wide. “So?”

Sehun looks at you like a stray pet. “Town mail won’t deliver itself,” you offer. "You’re an author, too, delivering your own work. That’s important. Don’t say useless things to me, Sehun.” The tone of the night becomes less tense. Smirking, you continue: “relax, then tell me what happened in that freak’s house.”

Your teeth bite down on your tongue, eyes narrow and reflecting the moonlight.

You don’t know why you’re expecting a longer, well thought-out response from the Sehun you’re looking at right now. His short hair damp from the sweat and mild rain, parted in awkward tranches - you’re not used to comforting him, although it feels good to be the one seeing Sehun vulnerable, for once.

While you’re waiting for Sehun to rearrange his thoughts, you run your hand against the bars of iron separating you from the front yard of the manor. The sounds are a symphony of metal clink-clanks against your graceful nails, free of overgrown cuticles or ragged whites, unlike Sehun’s. The bars are hollow iron, but their wounds are merely rusted scratches, like they don’t give in over the years.

Neither does Sehun.

Lazed back. Real lazy. Doesn’t like thinking about what he is, why he is, who he is. He’s thought about it before; things like whether or not cabbage was really nutritious (it’s just water), whether or not he wanted to be a writer forever, whether or not he should tell you about the car shop home, whether or not he loved you more than just a friend.

It’s fated, and so he doesn’t bother to delve deeper than what he needs to know. He just knows that it’s all bliss when he’s with you. And he knows that he’s in love with this life: the rush, the fights, hell, he had almost forgotten his dad was a cop. Just like magnets, though polar opposites, you stick together. Late night escapades into the apple of the town was just another habit branded deep into your history.

He feels like laughing at his own inanity, so he parts his lips, but not even the chuckle at the edge of his throat makes it past. Something irks him uncomfortably about what happened tonight, so he clears his gullet filling up with phlegm and blames the bright waning moon. It used to be so full of itself, now only a needle in the vista expanse of night. Sehun breathes harder now, because he realizes that they’re not so different.

Sehun finally speaks: “Well, I just tried to throw the freak his mail. But I think I set off his flares, doll. Mr. Park - he’s really a bent man, broken after the war. There was an iron on his hip, a-and as soon as I saw it leave his belt loop, I didn't have a doubt that he’s not wicked.”

Sehun’s joints ache uncomfortably despite wherever he shifts his weight toward, so he leans against the tall wire fence guarding the manor. He feels an ivy trickle down the nape of his neck everytime he tilts his head to the side. Nuances here, nuances there. Last time you both were out here, there weren’t any ivies. Were there?

Mr. Park stands leaning back, intently listening from the arch door frame that separated his balcony from his quarters.

These kids talk so loudly, he thinks, he could hear your entire exchange from up here. The yellow cast light from his bedroom fights with the dark to illuminate his figure carefully in the night, but he knows that you’re both still unable to see him from the ground angle. He feels slightly creepy, standing there in his satin dress shirt and work jeans. He pulls out his gun one more time, loosely, just to swing it.

Feeling watched, you decide that you both shouldn’t be there any longer. Sehun’s teeth grind against each other eagerly for a taste other than his own metallic blood being drawn. Yawning, his mouth goes dry and his throat parches, longing for the feeling of smoke in his lungs.

Sehun knows he shouldn’t smoke around you. He doesn’t want to ruin your innocence, but he can’t help it. He wishes he had better self-control and restraint, but even so, you were clearly too much of a goody-two-shoes to care. “Drop dead Sehun, are you stupid? How’d he get a gun in this old town? Those are so hard to even-”

“Everybody knows they’re prohibited, doll. It must be ‘cause he’s a veteran, the govs decide that they don’t need to necessarily establish regulations with them,” Sehun glances up back at the house. You know he’s just said a bunch of nonsense.

“Somethin’ like that,” he continues. “Like it’s any work.” He almost scoffs, reaching into his pocket upon instinct. He doesn’t notice, but you’re intently watching.

You follow his hands well, when he rubs the nape of his neck and pulls out a Marlboro from his tattered satchel. Same satchel that’s been long worn with dirt and grease but vacant of textbooks, pencils, or really a real use, ever since the start of freshman year in college. Sehun still stands that it serves purpose in his mail business.

He shuts his eyes tight as he lights it between his lips, drawing out the smoke for as long as he can. It blows away in the wind, but you scrunch your nose, in the contingency it dissolves in your nostrils.

You pressed Sehun for more: “Don’t you care that Mr. Park’s gonna smell the smoke? His window’s open and he could still be on his balcony for all we know,” you advise him, worried. “And what’s Mr. Park doing with a gun at this hour, anyway? You could see it from the ground? Should we rat him out?”

Sehun shrugs, not letting on much.

The smoke ignites something in you, you think. “Sehun, answer me! Isn’t this technically trespassing? Shouldn’t we leave now? All that stuff you said about Mr. Park’s makin’ me nervous.”

He finally feels free and empty of apprehension when he lets go of the cigar, balanced between his lips. He feels powerful. But before he can halt the smile that plays at the curve of his mouth, he chuckles a dry, derisive laugh laced with smoke. “Just decided to be nice this week and stop skippin’ his address on the newspaper list for once. Only trespassin’ if we go beyond his door, these front gates bind nothing,” Sehun smirks. “You should know that by now.”

Thin to a whisper, you display a frown. “I don’t hop as many fences as you. Who knows what else this Park guy has, he’s the real deal, gat and all. You should know that before you do anything else, you fool.”

But he grins right back, and he grins wide. “I should? How touché.”

When he proves satisfied with the gasper, Sehun withdraws the smoke from between his lips and thrusts it toward the grass. It doesn’t burn the damp grass, barely at all. Just tucks itself neatly in a pile of dandelions, the tarnished flame still warmer than the muted yellows surrounding it.

Quickly, almost lunging himself off, Sehun hoists his body up from the iron gate and firmly turns his heel on the cigar, smiling.

And when he lifts up his shoe, even under the dim haze of the moon, you can see that the mud has been imprinted deep into the design on the sole of his shoe and the weeds have been stomped flat, butt of the cigar crushed. He finally lifts his eyes to converge with yours and he deadpans, “You know, you’re gonna want a smoke one day, too,” pausing. “Finally want one, doll?”

Doesn’t Sehun know how to properly take care of a girl?

His hand lazed onto your shoulder leaning on the gate post, your eyes glued to the dirt. He wants you to look up, but his gaze is the only thing holding you down. You can’t break free from his glare, lidded and dazed.

Last night’s rain drips down the manor’s primary parapet beam. A premonition?

“I don’t need more mess in my life right now.” You hadn’t intended for it to come out so harsh and raspy, but Sehun didn’t pay much attention to it.. “Your parents are too pliant, Sehun.”

Mr. Park sighs a breath of relief. You can take care of yourself. He runs a stiff, left hand through his hair. He wouldn’t have to think about Sehun taking advantage of your company. He quietly hums an incisive tune, like a victory sequence.

“Give it a try. I know your momma doesn’t like me so much anymore, thinkin’ we’re doin-this and doin-that. You don’t gotta do anything you don’t want to, alright?” He reassures you, something you’re grateful for. “I’m just saying, you can’t be such a high-pillow all the time and expect fun. Even if we landed in jail, my dad’d let us out,” Sehun tilts his head down to hide his smile under his breath, giddy.

“I’m not a high-pillow! Can’t we just go to the next address now?”

Ignoring your question, he’s totally replaying the scene over and over in his head. In his pocket, Sehun crosses his middle over his index. He did not like the feeling of mild defeat. At a weak attempt to cure his frustration, his hand rubs at his forehead. Instead, he’s inundated by the dewy sweat collecting at his brow. How could I let Chanyeol scare me off like that?

You change the subject. Softer, quieter, your voice barely cuts through the air. “Sehun?” Your voice seems to awaken him a bit. Quickly, he mutters underneath his breath, “huh? What?” His mouth parts uncomfortably, small drops of rain collecting on his bottom lip and cupid's bow.

“You look like tonight’s over. We can walk home now, you’re very pale.”

Sehun responds, an equally modest, “I’m okay.” Insisting, “let’s hang out a little longer,” pausing to offer a smile. “Gumshoe.”

A smile peels your lip open. “Oh yeah?”

Acquiescently, he smiles. “Oh yeah.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Sehun winces. “Not yet. Don’t bleed anything against me, ‘kay detective?”

Sehun steadies himself against the tall iron fence again, and it hits him like cold deja vu against his spine. The metal presses deeper into the valleys of his back this time like a knife, but still, he doesn’t move. Instead, he lets it cave against his skin even more, jutting through the fabric of his dress shirt. He takes another look at the smothered cigarette hidden in the grass and laughs a hearty laugh. All he smells is ash and wet dew.

And then, rather obscenely, it comes crashing down on him like dead weight.

“You know, Chanyeol pulled the gun on me first, looking down on me from that balcony. Then tauntingly, he pointed it back toward himself. What would you do?” Sehun says honestly, turning to face you.

“His blown out eyes wide, but completely still. I’m so pissed that I was scared. Fuckin’ embarrassin’.” he grumbles, matter of factly, a frown thin between his lips as if he’s proven his own point wrong.

“Chanyeol?”

Fuck! “Oh, yeah. That’s his first name. Chanyeol. It means ‘loser’ in the ‘i-can’t-get-any-girls’ language.”

Chanyeol quirks a brow, leaning onto the side railing, still hidden.

You can’t help but snort. “And why would he do such a thing? Was his tongue stickin’ out too?”

It’s hard to tell where the fabrication starts, but with a pat to your head and a hum in validation, Sehun opens his mouth to protest. “What makes you think he wouldn’t? He’s the town freak.”

Shrugging, you scan the line of trees enveloping the path down the hill. “No, I mean that he was makin’ fun of you with that face.”

“Sure,” he nods. “But you cannot twist the truth, and the truth is all I’ve been telling you. Don’t you see? That’s creepy, he was pointing the rod at himself. I didn’t want to be responsible in case he actually pulled it, so I left, but now I know that he has no limits. He was ready to die, [Y/N]. This guy’s got no girls, and he’s creepy. You should stay away from him.”

Sehun’s story is like a leaky faucet. It holds enough truth to be believable, but somewhere in the piping, it doesn’t go over well with you. But you believe him.

Your mind becomes numb and somber for a moment, but the feeling is botched. As if the anesthesiologist didn’t know better, unable to properly administer the drug, and you could still recall Sehun’s words in your head. They lay heavy on your heart, yet you’re not prosaically thinking into the consequences, at all.

Maybe Mr. Park wasn’t as insane as the town recalled him to be. Sehun suddenly speaks. “What a crumb, huh? I don’t think that man’s has mercy on anyone, not even himself.”

An epiphany makes you feel sick, like a bully. Kids swirl baseless rumors around him. “What are you implying? That he’s lonely and lonely people are crazy?”

“I mean, yeah. He’s a vet, after all. What’s surprising?”

“Listen, you - I mean, Mr. Park, he-he doesn’t have the motive. Stop giving him motives. Rumors say he studied business after his discharge from the draft. That manor of his is built on years of liquified assets, why would he put it all on the line?”

Mr. Park stifles a laugh. You’re defending him.

Sehun shuts his eyes to think, and for a second you think he’s going to reach into his bag for another cigar, but you think he’s really thinking this time. Sehun definitely knows he is; maybe it’s the lingering tobacco in his throat, maybe it’s the aftershock of what he just said, but he’s really thinking, fitfully. “I - I don’t know, [Y/N]. Maybe he deserves it, for all the people he’s killed.”

A flicker of candlelight moves in your peripheral vision. You nervously glance up at the manor’s ridiculously high arch windows, and wince in horror as the orange glow casted on the balcony shifts. It’s dimmer this time, because there is quite clearly someone blocking the light.

And the silver alloy shotgun in their grasp gleams under the lunar projection, very, very jeeringly.

They stand there, eerily forlorn. Lacking real tone or emotion, barren. A machiavellian with a .357 in the limelight pointed dejectedly at the ground. The candlelight behind the figure filters around the silhouette like a stencil on a black canvas, a ghastly spectacle.

And as his arm rises, gun following your bodies, a ghastly spectacle, indeed. It’s hard to tell who he’s aiming at because of the distance.

The only thing more daunting than the sight itself was the sound of silence. Sehun mutters a curse beneath his breath, beginning to crouch next to you on the dirt. You feel his hands lightly traipse your torso, yearning for your palms in the dark. He first finds your thumb, tender on your clavicle. Then your index, playing with your blouse cloth. You’re glad he doesn’t feel your heartbeat above all, otherwise he would have felt the throb of fear and the mop of tangled love strings evident in the moment.

Instead, he squeezes your palms together and intertwines your fingers on a whim. Sweaty and scared, they mangle like ropes. He doesn’t know what he’s doing at first, but it was the only way he knew how to provide enough ease for the both of you. It always offers him a little warmth; besides, you were both in danger.

You shudder. “The cover here isn’t good enough,” you whisper. “I bet he’s been listening in on us, Sehun. You see his gat?” Your teeth are chattering now, despite the cooling atmosphere.

“I don’t know what your mama tells you dolly, but now ... we fucking run.” He wants to tighten his grip on his hands on you further and take off like that, but he knows your nature and psyche too well to do that.

Your chattering halts, “He’s going to see us. And shoot us.” Suddenly apathetic, Sehun finally muses, “Alright. Let’s stay here until that husk of a man leaves.” He exhales, blowing the strands of black hair from his eyes, “promise.”

Sehun was never very good with promises, and you realize that too late. The fingers caught in yours are already replaced with air and are instead wrapped around your wrist. He juts out his hip, and rises to his full stand. He’s very tall. “Sorry doll. Lied.”

Your stomach sinks. “What are you, a puppy? Do I have to pick you up myself?” He’s towering over you, height teetering past the gate that separated Mr. Park’s property from the town’s. “Sehun, get down, there’s going to be a metal shell in your head anytime now!” With a swift kick to your knee, he pulls you up from the dirt before you can even feel the jolt against your joints, and runs against the wind with you.

#by demure2 #chanyeol angst #sehun angst #yandere exo #exo yandere au #yandere chanyeol #exo au #exo x reader #chanyeol x reader #chanyeol au #sehun au #yandere au #yandere!chanyeol #yandere!exo

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