#guess the customers words calling me useless truly left an impact

[sixcalibur]

I feel so left out and out of place again. I tried to ignore the feelings as I usual do but I truly don't fit in anywhere, right? The sadness that comes with that realization is the worst I wish I was more interesting as a person or more talented. Once again nothing art wise will come and work out. I have no right to even call myself an artist I suppose I truly am uselesss, huh..

[hyucks-archive]

fearing.

word count: 9,090

genre: angst, romance, gangleader!jeno

member(s): jeno, featuring donghyuck and jaemin

warning(s): small mention of blood, bruises, gunshots, kidnapping

author’s note: jeno has got me in the feels these days

⋆ part of the next destination series. please read the preface for context.

You squint your eyes, furrowing your brows at the somewhat familiar surroundings that you’re able to recognise the minute you make a right turn, exiting the creepy, dark alley. Apparently, your GPS decided that instead of using the main road, it’d rather you take weird, illegal turns through various alleys in order to get to your destination. Your car comes to a slow stop as you gradually step down on the brake. “You have arrived at your destination. Your destination will be on your right,” the GPS says. You shift your gear to park, pulling up the handbrake.

With both hands still holding on to your steering wheel, you lean your body forward, the well-lit, grand-looking building coming into full view. You watch as the doorman and bellboys scramble to serve the incoming customer. You’d be living in a cave if you’ve never heard of the five-star hotel that is owned by one of the biggest corporations in your state – Lee Family Co. As you continue to stare at the bellboy who is rushing to get the customer’s baggage onto his cart, you wonder why you’d forbid yourself from visiting this place. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be seen within a ten-mile radius of the hotel had you not written its co-ordinates in your letter.

You mentally curse at yourself – you’re too curious for your own good.

Slinging your bag across your body, you step out of your car. You have to strain your neck to be able to see the luxury hotel in its entirety, the yellow lighting only making the building appear even more golden than the gold poles that are used in its exterior design. How are you supposed to know the reason behind why you shouldn’t visit Lee Family Hotel, if you don’t even know what you’re here for?

You’re too caught up in your own thoughts that you fail to notice the presence that is looming behind you. Before you’re able to spot the shadow’s reflection in your car window, the shadow wraps an arm around your body, holding you in place. Swiftly, he brings his other hand over your nose and mouth, the cloth in the shadow’s hand that is soaked with the sweet smell of chloroform intoxicating you. You dig your nails into the flesh of the shadow, your restrained screams failing to catch the attention of potential saviours.

Your eyelids only get heavier.

You’ve blacked out.

There’s a faint odour of smoke. There’s the cackling of wood, and the silent drip sounds of water droplets falling into a small puddle of water. It’s cold against your cheek and the right half of your body that you’re resting on. Your eyelids are still too heavy to lift open. You try to move your limbs. You can’t. You can’t look, but you know that your hands are bound. You’re shivering, and you feel nauseous. Your heart rate starts to increase. Don’t panic, you tell yourself. You lay still. That might be the only way you can prolong your life.

You hear a metal can being kicked. “How long more ’till it wears off?” a low voice questions.

“Doesn’t it last for as long as it’s applied?” a slightly higher-toned voice speaks. “I’m guessing she’ll be awake right about now,” another voice says. You feel a hand grab onto your left arm. The hand tugs at your body, turning you over to lean on your back. The owner of the hand scoffs, “She’s already awake,” he says. Shoot.

“Hey,” the voice calls, tapping at your left cheek with his coarse fingertips. “You’re leaving us no choice but to give you a nice little face wash,” the voice continues. You hear the sound of a pail being filled with water. You’re already in a big enough bind, you don’t need to be left cold, out to dry. You muster the strength to force your eyes open, your vision a blur. You blink a few times.

Slowly, your vision starts to clear. You’re able to make out the blue hair of the person who is hovering over you. You’re not able to identify his features exactly, but he doesn’t look as sinister as he sounds. Your brows furrow, the discomfort from the shivering and the nausea getting to you. You let out a silent grunt, shifting your body uncomfortably.

You’re not given another second to readjust to being conscious again. The blue-head is joined by a purple-head, each holding on to an arm, pulling you up. You’re forced to semi-balance on your sleeping, jelly feet. As they walk forward, you give up trying to match their pace. Your legs go limp as they drag you across the empty vicinity, through two doors, to a room that looks like an office. You can’t tell for sure, though. You’re still semi-unconscious.

“She’s awake,” the purple-head says. “Put her down,” some other guy commands. You’re practically dropped to the ground, landing on your knees. The blue and purple heads leave. Your vision clears even more – you’re now able to focus on things. You look up at the person who is standing with his back towards you. his only identifying feature being his brown hair. You’re starting to understand why you’d tell yourself not to visit the Lee Family Hotel. You curse at yourself; you should’ve written ‘NEVER VISIT UNLESS YOU WANT TO DIE’, instead of just ‘NEVER VISIT’, if future-you truly cares about 18-year old you.

The boy turns around, meeting eyes with you. You let out a gasp; your eyes widen the moment you recognise who he is – Lee Jeno, son of and future heir to Lee Family Co. You swallow. Maybe you’re not going to die after all. You’ve seen all the articles that are released on a weekly basis about the boy; Lee Jeno is one of the most compassionate rich kid to grace the earth. He has the entire media, and the general public on his side. He wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head.

“Where is it?” his tone cold and icy. He’s practically glaring at you. Okay, you take it back. He might hurt more than just a strand of hair on your head. You gulp. “I’m sorry, what?” was what you chose to reply with. You obviously made the wrong decision, for his stare only intensifies with your foolish reply. “I know your father took it,” he says.

You raise a brow. What could your father have possibly taken from him that would make him hold you hostage? You’re pretty sure your father owns a vineyard, not the role of an employee for Lee Family Co.

“I think you’ve got the wrong person,” you say, your voice barely a squeak. Your brows knit when you observe the expression of intensified anger on his face. He takes a step towards you; it leaves you desperate. You want to survive. You’re not ready to leave this world yet, there’s still so much more you want to discover and realise. You’ve seen it in movies before. All you have to do, is re-enact it. He takes a second step towards you; you shut your eyes tight, throwing your body onto the floor. You can feel the pain in your chest, the tears beginning to well in your eyes. “Please don’t hurt me,” you manage out, voice cracking.

Jeno stops moving forward. His hardened expression relaxes a little. He looks at your curled-up form, and he spots the tear that rolls down the side of your face. From the background check that he had done on you, you’re said to be the most stuck up, cold-hearted being anyone has ever seen. You wouldn’t hesitate to kill if it meant getting what you want.

Jeno continues towards you, leaning down on one knee. He holds you by your arms, using his strength to lift your body back up, so that you’re on your knees once more. You keep your eyes shut tight, fearing for your life. You’re counting in your head. It’s supposed to calm you down, but why does it make you feel as though you’re counting the seconds to your death? Your lips quiver uncontrollably – good heavens, you should’ve listened to your stupid letter and not visit the Lee Family Co. You’d be happily getting ready for bed right about now.

Instead of a fatal hit to your head or a knife to your heart, you feel two cold fingers holding your chin.

Jeno holds you by the chin, analysing your face. He turns it to the left, then turns it to the right – you do look like the daughter of Kim Corporations, but you also don’t. Jeno isn’t sure. He stares at you for a moment. Indeed, you’re as pretty as the articles state. Jeno knows you probably think he’s the most heartless being to exist, having kidnapped you and all. But Jeno also feels apologetic when he sees another tear roll down your cheek – the rivalry between the two businesses shouldn’t involve either of you. But your father had crossed the line when he decided to play the lowest, dirtiest card in his stash. Jeno doesn’t have a choice.

You’ve gotten to 147. That means Jeno hasn’t made a move in two minutes. You know you’re endangering your life even more, but you can’t just spectate and do nothing to try to save yourself. With your eyes still moist from the tears, you purse your lips. You can do this, you encourage yourself. Three, two, one. You throw your head forward, your forehead colliding with the side of Jeno’s lips. The impact so intense, his teeth cuts the inside of his mouth, blood beginning to trickle down the side of his lips. He falls backwards.

You open your eyes, gasping at the red dripping out from Jeno’s mouth. You don’t have the time to feel guilty, though. You scramble to stand, your bound hands completely useless. Your eyes shift about the room anxiously, desperate to find an alternate exit. You’re smart enough to know that there’ll be people guarding the doors. You’re left with the window.

Jeno grunts; he can taste the blood on his tongue. He looks up at you, and he sees that you’re aiming for the window. He gets up on his feet.

For the nth time tonight, you shut your eyes tight. Please, let me live, is the mantra in your head. You swallow once more, the determination to escape alive overpowering the immense fear that’s overwhelming your entire body. You run forward.

Jeno reacts fast. He starts at the same time as you, but he’s agile, and he’s able to use his long legs to his advantage. He arrives at the window a split second before you collide with the glass. He throws himself forward, wrapping his arms around your body in time to stop you from making the biggest mistake. Holding you close, the two of you roll across the cement, coming to a stop just in time, for another roll would mean a collision with the file cabinet.

Your face is nuzzled into something warm, your heart beating at a speed that you’re sure isn’t humanly possible. You only realise the position you’re in when you hear the stable, well-paced thumping of a heart that isn’t your own. You pull your neck back, to be greeted by the chest of none other than Lee Jeno. You look up at him, the blood already dried on his chin. He has his eyes closed, and his breathing is gentle. You jump when his eyes open, immediately searching for yours.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing? We’re on the fifth floor!” he almost yells. His tone is harsh, mixed with a hint of concern, that you don’t pick up on.

“What else do you expect me to do? Stay here and die?” you retort, the tears rushing to your eyes once more. “I’m not the person you’re looking for. My dad didn’t take anything. Please, just let me go,” you beg, bringing your head down, your forehead resting against his chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be really nice?” you sob.

Jeno is stunned for the second time. He watches as your body shakes from the fear and the tears. He can tell that you’re genuinely afraid. He pushes himself up with his arm, transitioning into a sitting position. He helps you up. You sit with your head hanging, eyes closed. The only thing you want right now is to leave. You shouldn’t have doubted your future self. You should’ve believed her when you read the words ‘NEVER VISIT’. If you did, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

You feel Jeno tugging at the rope that bounds your hands. Jeno undoes the knots that his people had tied. He doesn’t say anything. Jeno isn’t sure if you’re telling the truth or not. A part of him still believes that you are the daughter of Kim Corporations, but a part of him also believes that you’re just an innocent civilian whom happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Maybe Jaemin recognised the wrong person. Either way, Jeno doesn’t want to deal with you anymore. He hates that you’re crying. Your tears are painting him as the bad guy.

Your hands are freed as Jeno successfully removes the rope, placing it down beside him.

“Leave,” he says. You look up at him, his expression telling of how frustrated he is. Your heart softens immediately. “You’re just going to let me go?” you ask. You’re not sure what fuelled you to ask that question. The boy was literally at your throat moments before, but he’s suddenly just letting you go. Again, curse your curious nature. You continue to eye his expression, waiting for him to answer you. You see the way his eyebrows furrow further.

“Are you the daughter of Kim Corporations?” he asks, meeting eyes with you. There it is again – the cold, icy stare. There’s a hint of menace in his eyes. Just what in the world did this daughter of Kim Corporations do to make him this mad?

“I’m not,” you tell him. “Then leave,” he says.

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment longer. You get up, making your way out. The boys who see you walking out of the room rushes into the room in search of their leader.

You sigh.

At least you’re out alive.

You groan, running a frustrated hand through your hair. While you’re happy you managed to escape the life-threatening experience, you failed to realise that this also means that you’re going to have to find your way back to your car by foot. Turning your head in all directions brings you to the same conclusion – you’re stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and you have absolutely no idea how you’re going to find your way back to the main road, let alone your car. You throw your head back in frustration; gosh, you really hate yourself.

As you continue trudging forward, unsure of whether or not you’re even going in the right direction, you hear the acceleration of a vehicle, followed by lights beaming from behind you. You turn, spotting a bright red Ferrari coming your way. The car comes to a halt beside you. You look into the car, a very familiar brown-haired boy in the driver’s seat.

Jeno winds down the window. “Get in,” he says.

You stare at him. He has on a blank expression, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. He may have let you go the first time, but he might’ve also changed his mind. What if he intends to silence you for real this time? You can’t risk it. You turn, continuing your trudge downhill.

Jeno rolls his eyes. He gets why you ignored him. He would’ve done the same too, if he were in your shoes. But the only thing he can do to feel a little less guilty, is to transport you safely to your car. He pushes the car door open, getting off. He arrives behind you within a few steps, spinning you around by your arm. You glare up at him. “Let me go,” you say. Jeno doesn’t glare back. You can’t tell how he’s feeling, or what he’s thinking by his expression. But he replies, “Get in the car.”

You furrow your brows, throwing your entire arm down with all the strength you can muster. Jeno’s grip remains firm on your arm. “Let me go,” you say through gritted teeth, struggling to free yourself from his hold. “Do you think you can walk all the way back to the hotel?” he reasons calmly. Your eyes drop to your feet. As much as you’re re-risking your life by getting into his car, it’s also the only option you have if you wish to return home safe and sound. You let out a sigh, “I’m crashing the car if you try anything,” you warn, even though it’s painfully obvious how harmless you are.

You get into the car, and Jeno begins the drive back to the Lee Family Hotel. The silence is suffocating.

“You look a lot like the daughter of Kim Corporations,” Jeno speaks, breaking the silence. You turn your head to look at him in reaction. “Is that supposed to be an apology?” you ask, raising a brow. “It’s a reason,” he replies. You scoff, “So just because you’re rich, you can kidnap random people off the street, make them fear for their life, then let them go, and tell them ‘oh, I kidnapped you because you look like someone I actually wanted to kidnap!’? Great, I love rich culture,” you mock, turning to look out the window.

“You don’t get it,” Jeno says.

“And you’re supposed to be the nice one,” you comment, the numerous articles about Lee Jeno and his compassionate ways flooding your memory. “If you’re like that, I can’t imagine the other rich kids who are caught in a new controversy every week.”

“The Kim family is out to get my family,” Jeno says, voice so quiet that you almost fail to hear him. You can feel your gaze soften. Your eyes shift to look at your hands that are resting on your lap. Jeno doesn’t continue his sentence, so you tiptoe around the topic, mainly to satisfy your curious mind. “What do you mean by that?” you ask, looking up at him. You can’t really see his expression because of how dark it is, but you can tell from his voice, that the topic is a heavy one for him.

“I don’t know if you’ve realised, but we’re not a regular business corporation,” he begins. “If Kim Corporations gets their hands on any evidence of our illegal business dealings, that’s it for my family.” It makes sense. It didn’t occur to you earlier, but everything makes sense now. The reason why Jeno had kidnapped you with such ease, and has a literal hideout that’s hidden so far uphill; it’s not because he’s the son of a conglomerate. It’s because he’s part of some underworld, one that you never knew or would’ve imagined that he’d be a part of.

“What has that got to do with kidnapping the daughter of Kim Corporations?”

“Kim Yerim has been pulling strings. She’s been trying to get her hands on any evidence, and we received wind that she managed to find something, because her father took it from my father’s office.”

“That doesn’t mean you can kidnap her,” you reason, furrowing your brows at him. You can see Jeno’s body tensing at that. “Do you think I like doing this?” he questions. You pause, eyeing his expression. His brows are knit, the wrinkles in his forehead telling of how frustrated he seems to be with the topic of discussion. You don’t know what your answer is. He did save you from actually dying by stopping you from plunging through a glass window and falling down five storeys worth of distance. He did let you go. He’s also driving you back to your car.

You opt to move on, to avoid answering his question. The rest of the ride is silent.

Soon enough, the well-lit, grand-looking building comes into view once again. Jeno pulls up by the pavement. You unbuckle your seatbelt, pushing the door open. You set one foot on the pavement, but you pause in your movement.

“Don’t do something if you’re going to regret it,” you say, getting off the car. You slam the car door shut, before making your way towards your own vehicle, that’s still sitting in the position you left it in, patiently waiting for your arrival. Once you get in, the red Ferrari speeds past you, and you watch as the car disappears when it turns a corner.

You sink into the seat, letting out a hesitant breath. You pat yourself on the shoulder.

“It’s all good,” you tell yourself. Reality still hasn’t fully sunken in yet. You can’t believe you’d have a day where your life actually flashes before your eyes. But all that matters now is that it’s over, and you’re able to drive home to your cosy, homey studio apartment.

You throw your head back in defeat when the words ‘GAME OVER’ flashes across the screen in bold block letters. After the most stressful night of your life, you decided that it would be a good distraction and stress reliever if you made a visit to your favourite arcade in town. Usually, you’d ace in a game of racing, but you aren’t in the best condition today, which explains your twelve consecutive losses.

Deciding that you’ve had enough, you slide off the plastic seat, adjusting your crossbody bag. As you make your way out, your attention is captured by the small crowd that’s gathered in the corner of the arcade, seemingly spectating something. Curious, you make your way over, shifting your head around to find a little gap amongst the crowd, in order to get a view of what everyone is so excitedly staring at. You listen in as the two girls in front of you squeal, “He’s literally the most handsome guy I’ve ever come across,” one of them gushes. “I wonder what happened to his lip, though. The bruise makes my heart ache,” the other one says.  

You tiptoe, trying your best to get a view of what everyone seems to be dying over. You squint your eyes – you recognise the familiar hair colours, your eyes searching for the familiar face, and you spot him. Lee Jeno and his friends are in the middle of a very intense, competitive game of motorcycle racing. The disgust you feel at the sight of them slowly fades when you see the bright smiles on all of their faces, especially Jeno’s. Unlike the cold, steely glare he looked at you with, his gaze is soft, it’s filled with excitement, and he’s laughing like a child being rewarded with ice cream. He’s nothing like the Jeno you encountered last night.

Seeing Jeno at 3PM in the afternoon differs vastly from seeing Jeno at 10PM in the night. Afternoon Jeno maintains his peace-loving, deadly attractive aura, while night Jeno becomes a malicious, scary fella. It’s scary how all these girls are dying over his good looks and sweet persona, fully unaware of the kind of person he really is, and the premise of the industry he’s involved in. With all of these thoughts swarming to your mind, you fail to realise that the game is over, the boys high-fiving each other.

Jeno looks around, giving a polite smile and a bow to the girls who are screaming for his attention. That’s when his eyes meet a pair of eyes that seems oddly familiar to him. He recognises that it’s you. Jeno’s smile fades a little – what are you doing here?

You only realise that you’ve unconsciously been making prolonged eye contact with Lee Jeno when the crowd begins to murmur, throwing all sorts of praises in his direction. You quickly shift your vision downwards, only for it to be caught on the purple bruise that’s sitting on the side of Jeno’s lips. It’s the bruise caused by you when you had tackled him yesterday. Granted, he deserved it, but a part of you still feels mildly guilty for doing that, especially with the knowledge that he would’ve let you go without hurting you either way.

You shake these thoughts out of your head. You turn around, making your way out of the arcade.

After a visit to the washroom, you head to the carpark, unsure of what is next on your itinerary. As you approach your car, you spot a being with their back leaning against the passenger door. You furrow your brows, quickening your footsteps. When you’re within a reasonable distance, you realise who it is – Lee Jeno. You roll your eyes; what the heck does he want from you? You continue to walk towards your car. Jeno looks up when he hears your approaching footsteps.

“What do you want?” you shoot. Jeno holds out a bag. He doesn’t say anything, so you take the bag from him, looking inside. “Why are you giving me sweets?” you question. Jeno shrugs, “An apology,” he says. You look into his eyes, the two juxtaposing sides of Jeno flashing across your mind. You decide that afternoon Jeno poses no threat to you. After all, you do feel the need to apologise for the bruise on his otherwise perfect face.

“Are you free right now?” you ask. Jeno raises both brows questioningly. “If you are, get in,” you say, making your way to the driver’s seat.

Jeno does as you instruct, getting into your car. “Where are we going?” he asks, but you don’t answer. Instead, you simply start the car, accelerating. After turning a few corners, you come to a stop by the roadside. “Wait here,” you tell him, unbuckling your seatbelt and getting out of the car. Jeno watches as you jog towards the pharmacy. He waits patiently, until you show up again, a small bag in hand.

You settle back into the driver’s seat, turning your body to face Jeno. He continues to watch as you reach into the bag, pulling out a tube of cream. You hold it out, “Here,” you say, using your free hand to point towards his lip bruise, “Sorry about that.”

Jeno stares at the tube in your hand. You push your hand upwards, “Take it,” you urge. Jeno looks back up to meet eyes with you. “Apply it for me,” he says. Your eyes widen at his sudden request. “There’s a mirror right there,” you say, pointing towards the sun visor. Jeno remains nonchalant, persisting, “I know. Just apply it for me.”

You’re not sure what makes you comply, but you find yourself twisting the cap off the tube of cream with a heavy sigh. Squeezing a little of it onto a cotton bud, you bring the cotton bud towards Jeno’s face. With your other hand, you hold onto his chin, gently applying the cream to his bruise. Jeno watches you, the way your eyes are focused on his bruise, the way your brows are slightly knit in concentration. The words you had said to Jeno before you left his car last night has been bugging him ever since - don’t do something if you’re going to regret it, was what you told him.

Even though he kidnapped you, and made you fear for your life, you still offered genuine advice. It was definitely something that he isn’t used to hearing; his dad would just tell him to suck it up and do it, because it’s his job. His friends would tell him that if he wants to survive, he has to do whatever it takes, regardless of morals. But then there’s you, who told him, that he shouldn’t do something, if it isn’t going to sit right with him. It’s blatant, and it’s obvious. It’s common sense. Yet, the thought behind it makes it different. It makes it meaningful, to some extent.

You lean back into your seat, finished with applying the cream. Jeno remains in his position, eyes still fixed on you.

“Do you hate me?” he asks, abruptly. You don’t look at him. You should hate him. But you don’t. It might be because of the dilemma he seemed to be in during the conversation in his car last night, or it might be because of the pure childlike innocence you witnessed at the arcade. You don’t know Lee Jeno well enough to be able to tell, but that’s exactly why you don’t hate him. Because you don’t know him well enough to judge his character. Not all people who are involved in the underworld are necessarily bad people.

“No, I don’t,” you reply.

“I thought you would, considering everything that happened last night,” he says. You shrug, dropping the tube of cream back into the bag, “I thought I would, too. But you haven’t given me enough reason to,” you admit. A small smile forms on Jeno’s lips – it’s nice to know that there’s someone in this world, who is fully aware of his job, that doesn’t force the image that comes with his job unto him.

“Where are you headed? I’ll drop you,” you say, still oblivious to the slight shift in Jeno’s gaze.

“Lee Family Co. Headquarters,” he says.

From a distance, the camera shutter sounds. He checks to make sure that he managed to capture the car plate number.

You sigh, stretching out your arms. You tilt your head to the left, then to the right, then you turn it clockwise, stretching out your stiff neck muscles. Letting out a yawn, you decide that you’ve done enough for the day. You shove your stationary back into your pencil case, closing your notebooks and textbooks. Sliding in whatever you are able to fit into your bag, you hug the remaining textbooks, making sure to clear your table of whatever rubbish that’s been accumulated over the few hours that you’ve spent mugging for your upcoming examinations.

Exiting the café, you begin to walk towards your car. You don’t get very close.

You gasp when a warm hand wraps around your wrist, forcefully pulling you towards them. Your back collides with the brick wall. You look up at the culprit.

“Jeno?”

“You’re being tailed,” he whispers, gesturing towards a black sedan parked a few cars behind yours. “It’s Kim Yerim’s men,” he says. You frown, raising a brow. “Why would her men be following me?” you question. Jeno sighs, running a hand through his hair. “They probably think you can be used as a pawn,” he states, eyes fixed on the black sedan. “They probably saw me getting into your car on the day that we met at the arcade.”

You nod your head, processing the information. Truth be told, you don’t feel affected by the fact that you’ve now got random men on your tail. Either way, they’ll just realise you have absolutely no relation to Lee Jeno and his family’s business, so they’ll be left with no choice but to leave you alone. The side of your upper lip raises, your brows furrowing, when you realise that Lee Jeno’s appearance today will only make them doubt your irrelevance. Your eyes snap up to look at Jeno – he’s still busy eyeing the black sedan, as if he’d be able to get anything from staring at a car with tinted windows.

With your free hand, you push him away by the chest. Jeno looks down at you in confusion.

“Don’t you realise that you’ve just put me in greater danger by showing up here today? If you didn’t come, they’d realise I have nothing to do with you. But now that you’ve showed, they’ll think I really have some insider information,” you say, expression telling of how dissatisfied you are to be put in such a situation.

“So you’d rather I leave you to continue driving around alone, presenting them the perfect opportunity to capture you?” Jeno retorts, brow raised tauntingly. You let out a breath. Jeno points in the opposite direction. You look over, spotting a matte black motorcycle parked in front of your car. “Ride with me,” he says, “It’s the only way you’re going to be safe.”

Your eyes revert back to Jeno. For a moment, there’s the fleeting thought as to whether or not Jeno gets this guilty with every innocent victim of his. You can tell he’s only trying to protect you because he knows he’s the one who got you into this situation. You concede, nodding your head. A small smile forms on Jeno’s lips. He leads the way, and you follow closely behind him. “Don’t look in their direction, or they’ll know you know,” he says, trying to shield you from their view with his body. You can’t help but feel a mild fluttering in your heart – it’s kind of attractive, the way he’s genuinely doing his best to protect you.

“What do I do with this?” you ask, holding out the textbooks in hand. Jeno looks at them, “Throw them away?” he says so nonchalantly. You gape at his words, hitting him in the arm. He backs away, eyes widening. “What?” he says. “I don’t want to fail my exams,” you say. Jeno almost smiles, but he holds it back. He opens the trunk, “Here,” he says, gesturing for you to place your bag and your books inside.

He closes the trunk, holding out a spare helmet. You take it. “You’ve ridden a bike before?” he asks, sliding on his helmet. You stare at the circular, heavy object in hand. You turn it a full circle, “Yeah, sure,” you lie. Watching your confused, slightly repulsed expression only urges Jeno to chuckle. He stops at a smile, though. “You don’t know how to put on a helmet?”

You look at him, deadpanning. “Of course I do,” you lie, again. It can’t be that hard, anyway. You slide the helmet over your head, buckling it. “See?” you say, raising your brows, expression proud. This time, Jeno doesn’t hold back. He chuckles, and it elicits a reaction in your heart. It’s undeniable that Lee Jeno is attractive. You’ve established that. But when he’s smiling like that, he becomes even more attractive. And it’s affecting your heart.

“If you leave it like that, it’s not going to protect your head at all,” he says, taking a step towards you. Your body tenses; Jeno reaches out, tugging at the buckle to adjust it to the appropriate length. You swallow – he’s not very close, but he’s close enough, that you can see how flawless his skin is, how long his lashes are, and how perfectly structured his entire face is. You blink multiple times. “There,” he says, stepping back. Jeno doesn’t pick up on your awkwardness. “Get on,” he says, throwing a leg over the bike.

You purse your lips – get it together, it’s just one ride, it doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. Taking a breath, you wrap a leg over the body of the bike. You lean your weight backwards, your hands grabbing on to the rear of the bike. Jeno looks over his shoulder, “What are you doing?” he questions. “What?” you reply.

“If you sit like that, you’re going to fly off,” he says. “I won’t,” you reply, stubbornly.

Jeno rolls his eyes. Suddenly, he leans his body back, reaching both hands behind, easily holding on to both of your wrists. He pulls them forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. You can feel his toned abdomen. “Hold on tight,” he says, revving up the engine. You’re beginning to find it a little difficult to breathe with everything that’s going on. You hate yourself for feeling in the least bit attracted to the man who almost killed you. You hate yourself even more because you can’t control your palpitating heart. “We’re going,” he informs, lifting his foot off the ground. The bike charges forward, the action so sudden, your body is thrown forward, your butt lifting off the seat. You shut your eyes tight, clinging onto Jeno for your dear life.

Jeno glances over his shoulder, a smile playing on his lips. He glances down at your arms that are suffocating him, but he doesn’t mind it. Jeno hasn’t been able to keep you off his mind. It’s because you’re different. You bring a refreshing perspective into his otherwise dull life. Jeno likes that he can feel your warmth against him.

He focuses on the road. He doesn’t want you anywhere near danger.

The ride goes by quickly. You had your eyes shut tight the entire time. The bike comes to an abrupt stop, Jeno dropping his right leg to balance both of your weights, along with the weight of his bike, against the pavement.

“We’re here,” he says. You let out a sigh of relief, your grip around Jeno’s abdomen loosening. You continue to rest your head against Jeno’s back without realising it, the fear and tension in your body slowly dissipating. There’s a small smile on Jeno’s lips – he keeps quiet, allowing you to take the time you need to recover from the shock from the ride. When your breathing begins to slow, he lets out a cough. You snap back to your senses, backing up from Jeno’s body. He gets off the bike.

You swallow, avoiding direct eye contact. “That wasn’t so bad,” you say, biting down on the inside of your cheek. Jeno lets out a chuckle, “Right, we’ll just pretend you didn’t almost suffocate me with your desperate hold,” he says, removing his helmet. You roll your eyes. “Aren’t you going to get off?” he asks, raising a brow. You cough awkwardly, sliding off Jeno’s bike. You unbuckle the helmet, pulling it off your head. You hold it out, and Jeno takes it from you.

You grab the textbooks from the trunk, hugging them to your chest.

“Thanks,” you say, brushing past him. You stop. You turn around, and Jeno’s just looking at you. “Jeno,” you murmur, but he hears it loud and clear. “You’re not as bad as I thought,” you finish off, turning around to head into your apartment complex.

Jeno watches as your silhouette disappears into the building. He smiles.

You run a hand through your hair, letting out a yawn. You rest your cheek on your opened textbook, concluding that you’ve already used up all your brain juices for the day. You close your eyes momentarily, letting out another breath. It’s unbelievable that Lee Jeno is popping up in your mind. You frown, smacking the side of your head. “What the heck,” you mumble, rolling your eyes at yourself.

You open your eyes, staring at nothing in particular.

Lifting your head off the textbook, you grab your phone, entering the browser application. You type in Jeno’s name, and immediately, a bunch of news articles, his photos, and his entire profile pops up. You click on the ‘images’ tab, scrolling through the very many journalist pictures, candid pictures, and official pictures of Jeno.

You let out another sigh, throwing your phone onto the couch, planting your forehead onto the opened textbook on your coffee table. You close your eyes once more. Are you seriously taking an interest in Lee Jeno right now? You groan.

Sitting back upright, you drag a hand over your face. “Focus,” you tell yourself, picking up your pen to continue where you left off.

You wave goodbye to your friends, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket as you make your way towards your car. Completing one paper out of the five that you have provides some form of relief, despite the burden and pressure that remains, to do well for the rest of the papers. Nevertheless, the sky is bright, there aren’t any clouds looming, so it makes you feel good. You look up at the sky, a small smile on your lips. You love fresh, crisp weather.

Your eyes travel to rest on your car. You continue to look at it as you get closer. Your eyes shift to the side mirror, a reflection of yourself in sight. Your brows furrow when you realise what else is reflected in the mirror – a man clothed in an entirely black outfit, acting oddly suspicious. You can’t really see that well, but it looks like he has his eyes fixed on you. Are you still being tailed by Kim Yerim’s men?

Think fast, you tell yourself, eyes searching around for anything that may be of help. The street is mostly empty, and that’s obviously not favourable for your situation. If you rush into your car, he’d probably be quick enough to open the door to the passenger seat, before you’re able to lock the doors from the inside. Your heartbeat begins to quicken; you’re not sure what you should do. You sigh internally – it seems like the only option you have, is to run. Maybe if you’re fast enough, you’d be able to reach the convenience store that’s a few feet away. That’s right, that’s the only way you’re going to be able to move past this.

You look into the side mirror once more, the man still lingering behind you. You brace yourself.

Now. You run.

You can hear the footsteps that echo your own coming from behind. You continue to run. The bystanders on the street look at you, but they don’t react. You continue to run. Your eyes are fixed on the signboard of the convenience store, your only hope for a safe place. You continue to run. You’re so fixated on the signboard, that you don’t see the slight crack on the ground. You trip, letting out a yelp as you tumble forward.

You hear a grunt from behind, followed by the sound of scuffling. Suddenly, a hand holds you by the arm. You scream in reaction, refusing to open your eyes to look at the person.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice says, placing his other hand on your shoulder. You open your eyes, searching anxiously to meet the pair of eyes that sends signals of immediate security and reassurance. You tear up, a shaky breath leaving your lips. “Jeno,” you breathed, grabbing at his sleeve. You were holding it with a grip so tight, it’s definitely going to leave a very obvious wrinkle when you let go. But Jeno doesn’t care. He’s looking at you with his brows knit. His eyes do a quick scan of your face.

“Are you alright?” he asks, looking over your body. He spots the wounds on your arm, knees, and palm.

You don’t say anything. You simply pull Jeno towards you, resting your chin on his shoulder. Jeno understands this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, patting gently. “It’s okay,” he tells you.

Hesitantly, you look to the side.

The man in black lies there lifelessly, face bloodied and bruised.

You bite down on your lower lip, swallowing hard.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Jeno questions, heading for the bathroom, where he assumes the first aid kit would be. You don’t answer. You haven’t spoken since earlier. You’re still shaken up from the entire happening. Jeno comes back into the living room upon realising the first aid kit was nowhere to be found in the bathroom. He glances at you, moving quickly to the kitchen. He opens the cabinets, finally spotting the first aid kit. He pulls it out, making his way towards you.

He takes a seat beside you, setting the kit on the coffee table. He looks at you, only to see that you’re staring at nothing, practically zoning out. Your attention turns to the warm hand that he places on top of yours, small cuts decorating his knuckles. The sight of the beaten-up man flashes in your mind. You gasp, withdrawing your hand, flinching away from his touch. Jeno frowns. He’s hurt and confused by your sudden action.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. You gulp.

“Why’d you beat him up like that?” you managed to say, voice so soft, Jeno struggled to hear your sentence.

“He deserved it. He was after you. Who knows what his intention was? If he had gotten to you, he might’ve harmed you,” Jeno replies, voice raised. He’s being defensive. You hate that you were the cause of his brutality. You hate that Jeno decided that one punch wasn’t enough. You hate that Jeno bruised and wounded a man. You hate that Jeno thinks his actions were justified.

“You could’ve just subdued him. You didn’t need to beat him up like that,” you reason, tears brimming once more. Jeno doesn’t understand why you’re upset with him. He was just protecting you. Why are you mad?

But when he sees the tear that rolls down your cheek, he feels that no matter what it is, he shouldn’t be arguing with you right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says. You meet his soft, disheartened gaze. You’re well aware he did it to protect you, and you’re grateful that he had showed in time to do so, before anything was able to happen to you. But it doesn’t forgive the fact that he had resorted to violence to do so. You didn’t like it. But still, he did it for you. So you scoot yourself closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You rest your head against his chest, the calm beating of his heart and the calm pace of his breathing so soothing to you. He pulls you in closer, breathing in your scent.

“Don’t do that anymore, please,” you say.

Jeno nods his head. “I won’t,” he promises.

“You failed?” Yerim says through gritted teeth. She swings her arm, sending the failure of a minion to the ground, as if he isn’t already pummelled enough. “Useless,” she whispers, giving a small wave of the hand, a signal for the minion to be brought out.

“I’ve been watching her for weeks now,” Yerim’s right-hand man begins, “And I highly doubt there’s anything going on between Lee Jeno and her.”

Yerim scoffs, folding her arms. She stares out the window, contemplating what her next step will be. “If I can’t have Lee Jeno,” she begins, “Then no one can, right?” She turns to her right-hand man, expecting agreement. He nods his head upon understanding Yerim’s message.

To Lee Jeno, it’s a battle between both businesses. But to Kim Yerim, it’s about winning the sole, undivided attention of the one boy that she’s had her eyes set on for nearly a decade now. She digs into the flesh of her finger with the nail of her thumb.

Lee Jeno forced her into this.

The bell sounds throughout the house. You look towards the door – you aren’t expecting any guests today. Standing up, you head towards the door. When you pull it open, you’re greeted by the sweet smile of Jeno, who is standing in the corridor with a bag of takeout food. You raise both brows at the sight, “What are you doing here?” you ask.

Jeno’s smile widens. He brushes past you, removing his shoes and inviting himself into your apartment. He goes to the kitchen, placing the bag of food on the kitchen aisle. You follow behind him, arms crossed. “I came to check on you,” he says, glancing over at the wound on your knee. Instinctively, you look down as well. It’s healing relatively well. It hurts to shower, but it’s alright. At least you’re still alive.

“What did you get?” you move towards the bag. “Your favourite,” he says. You raise a brow, “How would you know what’s my favourite?”

Jeno chuckles. “Hamburgers are everyone’s favourite. It’s comfort food,” he states, untying the knot on the bag. He pulls out a burger, setting it down in front of you. “You’re really free for someone who’s supposed to be leading an entire gang, you know,” you say, taking a seat. “I’m the boss,” he says, “I don’t have to be present when I have people to do the work for me.” You scoff at that, but a small smile tugs at your lips. It’s nice that Jeno’s been hanging around recently. Although, you haven’t really left your house at all, just because there’s the minute fear that Kim Yerim might still be after you.

Heck, she probably is.

You’re scared, but you don’t want Jeno to know. You’re even more afraid that he might do something foolish. You don’t need him to end up in jail for killing a man with his fists because of you.

“Hey Jeno?” you call. He hums in reply. “What happened to you needing to kidnap Kim Yerim?”

He looks up at you. “You told me not to do something that I’d regret.”

Your mouth opens slightly to say something, but you’re not sure what you want to say. You’re slightly taken aback at the fact that Jeno took to heart what you had said on the very first night you met him. You flash a smile at him, “That’s good,” you say. Jeno can see the small panic in your eyes. He knows you’re scared. He knows. He just isn’t sure what he should do to make you feel safe. He isn’t even sure himself what lengths Kim Yerim would resort to just to get what she wants. What if she’s serious about taking your life?

He takes your hand, soothing over it with his thumb. He looks into your eyes.

“Trust me, okay?” he says.

You nod your head.

There’s a thud against your front door. Your eyes snap up, shifting anxiously. What the heck was that?! You remain still in your position.

There’s a second thud against your front door. It doesn’t sound like someone’s knocking. It sounds like someone is throwing their weight against the door. You gulp, heartbeat quickening. You scramble to reach for your phone, hands shaking.

There’s a third thud against your front door. You’re not sure how strong the hinges are, or how long more it’ll be able to resist the impact from the weight of the person who’s trying to break in. You click on Jeno’s contact name, the screen transitioning as it rings. Please pick up, you beg.

There’s a fourth thud against your front door. You hear the faint sound of metal. Are the hinges loosening?

“Hello?” Jeno picked up. You press the device to your ear, voice evidently shaken up. “Help,” was all you managed out. Jeno furrows his brows. “I’m on my way,” he says. “Don’t hang up,” you tell him. Jeno tries to sound reassuring, “I won’t. I’m right here,” he affirms.

There’s a fifth thud against your front door. It bursts open.

The last thing you remember, are four men clothed in black, rushing in through your apartment door.

There’s a faint odour of alcohol and smoke. There’s the cackling of wood, and slow footsteps that seem to be pacing back and forth. It’s cold against your feet. You can feel that you’re slightly hunched over. Your eyelids are still too heavy to lift open. You try to move your limbs. You can’t. Your hands are bound behind your back, your feet bound together. You’re seated. Your mouth is dry. Your heart rate starts to increase. Don’t panic, you tell yourself. Jeno said he’d come for you, you tell yourself. Yet, you can’t control the tears that rush to your eyes.

“Hi there,” a female voice speaks. Your brow quirks at the sound of her voice; it must be Kim Yerim. You force your eyes open, looking up to be greeted by a playful smirk on the girl’s face. She has two burly males on her left and right. She smiles at you, “You’re awake,” she says. You cough.

She comes closer, bending down to level eyes with you. She looks you up and down. Her brows knit together; she pouts. “You kind of look like me,” she comments, “Is that why Lee Jeno chose you?” You furrow your brows at her sentence – what the heck does she mean by that? She proceeds to laugh, and it sends chills down your spine. You swallow, desperate for water. She sighs, “But what are we going to do, sweetheart?” she says, tilting her head to the side, feigning a look of sympathy.

“The only way out, is by body bag,” she whispers, smiling at the end of her sentence.

You close your eyes. Jeno will come for you, you repeat to yourself.

“Get rid of her,” Yerim commands.

Cold sweat trickles down your back. You hear the cocking of a gun. Your lips and eyelids quiver. You seem to lose all your senses, your brain blacking out from the fear. There’s a gunshot. You’re still whole.

There’s a second gunshot. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth. There are multiple gunshots.

You feel a pair of arms lifting you up bridal style, but you’re too numb to process anything.

You’ve blacked out.

“Relax, dude, she’s going to be fine,” Donghyuck says, frowning at his friend who has been pacing around the room nonstop. “You’re giving me a headache,” Jaemin adds on. Jeno shoots a glare at the two of them. They cower into their seats, refocusing their attentions on their phones.

Jeno glances over at you. You’re still unconscious. You have been for way too many hours now. The doctor said it isn’t a matter of concern; you fainted in reaction to an emotional trigger. You were too overwhelmed with fear, it caused a dip in your blood pressure, and your heart rate slowed, which caused you to faint. The doctor said you’d wake up soon, but how soon is soon?

You begin to stir. Jeno rushes to your side, taking your hand in his.

Slowly, you open your eyes. It’s a blur at first, but your eyes begin to adjust. You’re greeted with a very concerned Jeno. A small smile forms on your lips. Jeno closes his eyes, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. He’s so grateful that you’re alright.

“They won’t come for you anymore,” he whispers.

You’re too afraid to ask why.

But that’s the nature of Jeno’s job, right?

You wouldn’t have gone to the destination if you knew it would cost lives.

[yodawgiherd]

Rome pt.1

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Rating: M Setting: Historical Rome

Heyy, I'm alive! :D Having recently watched the Rome tv-series, I finally got an idea that I just couldn't shake. So enjoy the first part of this AU, which I will (most likely) continue!

The sun was hot on young Mikasa’s back, as she was hunched over the tub, dutifully washing the stained bedding. Taking a small break, she straightened, shielding her eyes from the merciless rays. The unyielding sun was one of the many things she didn’t like about Rome. That, and having her parents murdered and she herself being sold to slavery.

They were nothing back home, just another tiny tribe that got crushed under the unyielding boot of the roman empire, trampled and absorbed to be forgotten. The legionaries killed her father, then her mother when she tried protecting her, and almost killed her too before the commander barked a few orders in a language Mikasa didn’t understand. Sheathing their bloody short swords, they threw her in a cage, where a few other members of her tribe already were, and after a long and very unpleasant journey, she arrived at the capital of the empire, the beating heart of civilization.

And it was filthy.

For all the supposed grandeur, Rome had enough dirt in the streets to fill a sea, the sewers smelled and there were annoying flies everywhere. Insects were one thing, but the people, that was something else altogether. Never in her short life had Mikasa seen so many in one place. Thousands and thousands moving around on their business, ignoring the cage that rattled past them towards the slave market. Watching them one was thing, being watched was other, she realized once the slaver ushered her up on the stage. Dozens of hungry eyes scanned her, made her wish that the earth would just open up and swallow her whole. But as usual, the gods ignored her.

In the end, Mikasa was sold to a bald, corpulent man whose name she quickly forgot. Her new owner managed a chain of brothels, or “houses of pleasure” as he called them himself, and was hoping that her exotic look would attract customers. That was, once she matured enough. Sure, there would be clientele for her even now, as any sort of demand had to be satisfied, but it was decided that ruining her now would be a waste of investment. Mikasa was thus put to work, cleaning and maintaining the house that quickly became her prison.

Over the first few weeks of her captivity, she learned a great deal, besides being taught the language. Trying to escape was useless. Just two days after she was transferred to her new home, one of the other slaves did escape, only to be brought back mere two hours later. Then, the master of the house called everyone and made them look while his dogs tore the poor fellow apart. After she was done throwing up what little was in her stomach, Mikasa realized that following the escapee’s footsteps would be suicide. She didn’t know Rome, she had nowhere to go. Worst of all, the people of Rome would never help an escaped slave, that was beneath their station as free citizens.

So what was Mikasa left with? Survive, that was her only objective. She knew that for now, it was easy on her. Cleaning and housework were easy, even back with her tribe she had to work. But deep at night, when she curled up beneath her flimsy blanket, she could hear the disgusting noises coming from the rooms all around her and knowing that was her fate made the bile in her throat rise. To not lose hope, she focused on the present, taking it in day by day. Maybe something would happen to free her from that terrible fate, maybe something… anything….

Shaking her head, Mikasa lowered her eyes back to the tub, once again taking hold of the dirty bedding, stained by those activities that the brothel existed for. Pressing extra hard to get the wine out, she worked in peace until there was a shuffle of feet behind and suddenly the sun was not the only thing staring into her back. Thinking that it was most likely her owner, coming to see what’s taking so long, Mikasa turned with an apology on her lips but that died when she saw who was standing there. Not the fat man who held her life in his hands, but a boy, no older than she was. Yet the age was about the only thing they had similar.

Mikasa was dressed in rags, understandably for a slave, while the boy’s clothes were fresh and clean, bearing the marks of high-quality material. His skin was amazingly clean, a feat that Mikasa didn’t understand how he accomplished. How come he didn’t get dirty while working? But work was the last thing on the intruder’s mind, as he scanned her with his forest green eyes, taking a bite from whatever he was holding in his hand. She had no idea what it was, but it smelled damn tasty.

“Your eyes are weird.”, the newcomer said out of nowhere, the carelessness of a child in his voice, “All tilted. Why?”

“I was born that way.”, she said, shuffling from foot to foot.

He nodded at that.

“I guess the gods made a small mistake with you.”

For some reason, those words hurt, but before she could truly feel it, he continued.

“I like it.”

Surprised, Mikasa looked up, but her eyes were once again drawn to that thing in the boy’s hand. It really did smell good, and to say that she was underfed would be an overstatement. As long as she didn’t die from starvation, the master was happy. He must have noticed her hungry look because taking a step closer, he offered her the thing.

“You want some?”

Mikasa knew that she shouldn’t take candy from strangers, but she was hungry and couldn’t imagine why this boy would ever want to harm her. And to top it off, there weren’t any ways to make her situation even worse. So throwing her better judgement out of the window, Mikasa leaned in, taking a  small bite of that thing. And damn, it was worth it. She couldn’t say what it was made of, but it was sweet and tasted even better than it smelled. Opening her eyes, she could see that the boy was watching her with a smile, teeth like small pearls shining.

“It’s good right?”

Robbed of words, she simply nodded, making his smile widen.

“I could bring you some more, we have this at our villa every day and…”

Whatever he was about to say would be lost to history, however, as there was a shuffle of feet and then someone was shoving Mikasa violently away from the boy. She landed on her back, hitting the ground hard, the air in her lungs pushed out by the impact. There was a scrape of steel, and suddenly she was staring at a large man in front of her who was holding a sword in his hand, the point angled towards her chest.

“What are you doing? Stop!” the boy screamed, but the man ignored him.

“Young master, what are you doing here? Running away from me and associating with this…”, his eyes travelled up and down Mikasa, mouth twisting in disgust, “filth.”

“She’s a friend!”

“She’s a slave. What would your father say if he saw you with her?”

The boy seemed to deflate when his father was mentioned, but then he took a deep breath and straightened his back.

“My father is not here now, and as far as I know, you work for my family.”, the tone of his voice changed too, suddenly being much more commanding than before, “So sheathe your sword this instant!”

Surprised by the sudden man-up, the guard took a step back but his eyes never left Mikasa’s fallen form. As if she posed some sort of threat to the young master. The boy passed his guard and walked over to Mikasa, offering her his hand. Under the older man’s piercing gaze she took it, letting him help her to her feet.

“I’m sorry about Hannes, he’s just careful.”, the boy mumbled, embarrassed by his retainer’s behaviour. Not sure how to apologize, he thought for a moment before taking her hand and pushing the rest of the treat into her palm.

“Take it.”, he said, “And forgive me, please.”

“Young master, this is very noble of you, but we really have to go. Your father is waiting.”, the guard interjected once more, making Eren sigh and nod.

“Very well.”

Turning around, he took two steps away before turning back towards Mikasa, the old smile on his face.

“I’ll definitely come and see you again!”

Before she realized what was happening her face was mirroring that smile and she even returned the wave he gave her before disappearing in the streets with his guard in tow. And when Mikasa fell asleep that night, with belly full of honey, she dreamed of those green eyes. But dreams are not for the waking world, and her life quickly took a turn for the worse.

Worst of all, the boy never showed up again.

[issyaboimoony]

More works in progress for Chiccolo

This one is: Bulma owns a store, and Piccolo works as a manager. Shenanigans ensue from there. To let you know how high-brow I intended this work to be, here’s a quote that was planned for later in the story:

“Is that all my finger in your ass meant to you that night?” Bulma demanded. Her brow was scrunched up in the most incredulous way as she glared at a rather disgruntled Vegeta. Piccolo was left, once again, with the deepest desire to leave this spiritual plane.

Worker AU

If you asked Piccolo if he was proud of his current occupation, you would probably receive a rather ethereal grunt, coupled with the most perfectly executed cold shoulder that any creature on Earth had ever managed to conjure up. It was all, Piccolo had learned, in the exact sixty-three point five degree turn that one had to use, that truly just spelled out the ‘fuck you’ nature of its intent. Sure, some people went for a sloppy eighty-five—but they paid dearly for it when the impact was lessened.

Regardless, his current occupation consisted of what was essentially babysitting, but for adults. And unlike everything else that earned that particular subtitle, there was no drinking, no fun, and certainly no sexual escapades of any kind. All that was offered as a reward was that Piccolo wanted to completely pluck all his non-existent hair out of his skull and promptly move to the Caribbean, where for once his species would work in his favor and he could soak up all that glorious sunlight.

He couldn’t exactly cash in on his 401k yet, though, and was thus left sitting dismally at a desk, punching in schedules as his boss rattled on behind him.

“Listen—it’s just, last year the decorations were so lame. I mean, I pay top notch, and what do I get? Some Great Value looking garbage taped to the walls? I don’t think so.”

“You chose to use decorations from our store,” Piccolo pointed out, voice devoid of all interest. The computer screen gave him an ominous flicker, that seemed to be a warning that if he were to handle anything improperly, it would promptly shit itself just to spite him. He didn’t want to go back to doing schedules by hand, so he tapped the left button ever so lightly.

“Whatever. This year, I guess I’m going all out. When people walk into Capsule Corp, I want them to get the ol’ razzle-dazzle! Y’know what I mean?”

Piccolo furrowed his brow as the computer beeped. He quickly removed his hand from the keyboard where he’d been letting it rest. Innocuous as it was, he didn’t know what exactly would set the machinery off. This stuff was ancient—which was really hilarious, considering his boss was highly trained in electronics, what with her father being the lead engineer in this day and age.

“Hey! Piccolo! Are you listening to me?”

Ah, if there was one thing that he had to do whenever his boss was present, it was listen. Bulma Briefs was, for lack of a better word, an all around bitch. Not that Piccolo particularly minded that, however it is certainly something that must be mentioned when discussing her. Bulma was the kind of woman who would stab you, and then cuss you out, sue you, and petition for your arrest all because you bloodied up her red Prada shoes. The woman was tall (for a human anyways), and to quote some vulgar co-workers, “built like a brick shit house”. While Piccolo didn’t know much about that, he could certainly ascertain to his boss being one of the most terrifying humans to ever walk the Earth. Her voice could cut through any noise, at any level. She could call you everything but a child of God all with a cheery little smile perked upon her lips. And she would assign you mandatory overtime on nights where she could tell that you were feeling particularly tired.

(That last one was a bit of a sore spot for Piccolo. He’d mentioned, in passing, that his wrists had been hurting as of late. Fast forward to post-lunch, where Bulma had immediately sprang on him that she needed him to stay late and handle a bunch of paperwork, then to sort it as well as he could.)

“I’m listening,” Piccolo finally responded. He flicked his ears in her direction. “So what’s your plan?”

“Order from elsewhere, duh.” Bulma gave him a critical look. “While you’re in here messing around on the computer, have you done a perimeter check?”

“I did earlier.”

“When?”

“Around noon.”

“Well, go do another one. You know they get antsy after meals.” Bulma flopped down into her plush leather chair—which Piccolo eyed greedily. His own chair was a tiny one that Bulma had taken off the floor once it was discovered that the thing was bent. Now Piccolo had to hunker over his computer in what Bulma assured him was a rather comical way.

Piccolo rose to obey the orders, and said chair screamed in agony as he rose. His elbow ever so gently knocked the desk, which in turn seemed to personally offend the computer. He stared in misery as the computer gave a rather haughty beep, before promptly erasing all his work by restarting itself for an update.

He gritted his fangs together, rose to his full seven feet, and stomped out of the room to go check on the workers. Already agitated by the loss of the schedule, he found himself less than eager (more than usual, anyways) to deal with the employees. If there was one thing that Bulma did not do, it was hire efficiently.

Piccolo’s first stop was the apparel area, where two girls occupied the stations. Lazuli and Marron ran this department with it bearing the nickname the Love Triangle (courtesy of Bulma). Unfortunately for everyone involved, Marron had once dated the Electronics man—Krillin. It had led to disgusting displays of affection, and for Piccolo to act as HR, and carry the Code and Conduct book with him everywhere he went. When that had crashed, and burned, Piccolo had hoped for peace. He had been sorely mistaken, however, as Bulma had soon hired Lazuli. At which point Bulma had sent him a rather lengthy text message about how she’d seen Lazuli eating lunch with Krillin. As much as Piccolo had wanted to ignore this, he’d been put on strict guard duty to ensure nothing else happened.

If Piccolo were being honest, though, he was certain that his station here was specifically meant for surveillance.

“Lazuli! Lazuli!” Marron’s grating voice reached Piccolo’s ears as he stomped through all of the clothing scattered about. “Have you read this magazine yet?” She was waving a glossy looking pamphlet in Lazuli’s direction, pointing emphatically at the cover. “Isn’t this guy dreamy? And oo—look at her eyelashes!”

Lazuli merely slid Marron a rather bored look, before returning to filing her nails. She did pause at Piccolo’s approach, however, and gave him a passing glance.

“Your department needs zoning,” Piccolo snarled.

Marron pouted her lips at him. “It looks perfectly fine.”

Piccolo toed a rather strappy looking shirt with his foot. “You certain about that?”

She grimaced. “Okay, okay, Mr. Grumpy Britches.”

“I’m your boss!”

“I got it.” Marron tossed her magazine to the side. “All right, Lazuli! Let’s get to folding!”

“And don’t just stuff them in a buggy like last time,” Piccolo instructed. “I had to call Gyumao to come and help.”

“I’m sure that must have eaten you up.” Lazuli said. Her voice was unnaturally bland, and Piccolo growled in her direction. The two were in action, though, and that was what mattered. They weren’t really that bad, drama aside. Marron seemed to think Lazuli was her best friend, while Lazuli treated the girl with something like indifference. With just the tiniest bit of prodding they actually worked pretty well.

He left the apparel section, and barely paused to give Krillin a nod in electronics. Krillin was never an issue Post-Marron. He worked hard, was always incredibly friendly, and managed to zone while running his freight. He was a blessing upon this cursed land. The only other worker he could actually count on was—

“Goddammit—Goku’s doing It again!” Bulma’s voice crackled from Piccolo’s ear piece, and he groaned. It didn’t really need to be elaborated on, because he already knew what was happening. He’d go to Housewares, where Son Goku would be doing something inane, with Goofball Smile #5 locked on his face. It had already been banned in the store—as well as smiles 1-4, due to the horrific effect it had on Gyumao. The woman was rendered completely useless after direct exposure to it, and it had been deemed too powerful to be allowed to run rampant any longer. Piccolo had to get to Housewares quick before Gyumao dropped another toaster.

Piccolo took off down the action alley, and finally arrived at the Housewares department, where Goku was rambling on about his recent workout, with Gyumao staring at him, a rather drippy smile hanging from her face.

The Goku-Deal was rather disappointing, considering that Gyumao was otherwise one of the best workers in the store. She ran Housewares like it was a war-zone, where anyone and everyone was under fire at all times. She helped customers so fast that often they would forget what they had come in for after she’d already walked them to the section, rattled off details, and had jumped to the next unsuspecting group. She ran all her freight in record time, hoisting entire couches over her head and up onto shelves. It had been the single most impressive thing that Piccolo had ever seen anyone do.

“Well, hey, Cheech—you should join me n’ Yamcha sometime soon! You’re real strong, ain’tcha?” Goku had dropped down to smile #3, and even though Piccolo knew that it was all unintentional, he still wanted to punch Goku dead in his face. Gyumao was completely at a loss, merely nodding along as Goku talked.

“Son!” Piccolo interjected, getting there just in time to watch the grip that Gyumao had on the daybed grow a bit wobbly.

“Hey, best buddy!” Goku greeted cheerily, and Piccolo grimaced.

“I’m your boss.” Piccolo felt as if he were constantly reminding his workers of this fact. Of course, it wasn’t entirely their fault. Bulma ran a pretty loose, and sometimes hectic, ship. Often her only commands came as a surprise to everyone, and were based off of odd whims that she had—and she used Piccolo to enact them. He often ended up looking like a fool in front of the very people who were supposed to listen to him.

“Sure, Piccolo, I know that.” Goku gave his best serious face—which was just two notches from a boyish grin.

Piccolo sighed. “You’re needed over in Toys; a customer wants a bike pulled down.”

“Of course!” Goku saluted and took off then. He jogged backwards energetically, and waved to both before he zipped around a corner.

With Goku gone, Gyumao reverted to her usual self, and gave Piccolo a rather acidic glare.

“You can quit pretending. I know Bulma sent you over here ‘cuz she thinks I can’t handle myself around Goku.” Chi Chi’s face seemed to be daring him to say otherwise—but Piccolo wasn’t an adrenaline seeking person. He preferred his face stay attached to his skull. He decided to merely shrug.