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thewinter-eden · 2 months ago

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That Your Man? pt. II

pairing: Lee Minho x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: mugger!Minho patrols his usual haunts, one of which being the parking lot where you first met. One night, mid-mugging, he sees you through the window of the coffee shop where he first bought you cake--but you're there with the man he thought you were going to break up with. He decides stealing girlfriends (or, rather, you) is now included in his job description.

warnings: Mugging, Minho still has a gun, asshole bf (still), evidence of past successful muggings, cats, fake boyfriend, angst, Ateez (one member), more crack/slice of life than horror.

Author's Note: I don't even know what to say about this. It just kind of happened and then it kept going. Oh well. Here we are.

Word Count: 15k

series info PART 2 INFO

< part 1

You’re newly single, newly apartment-broke, newly jobless. Happy birthday to you. Your alarm wakes you at 5am even on Sundays, your phone battery refuses to last longer than two hours unplugged, and your printer is sick of spitting out wads of mangled cardstock for your resumes.

Three weeks after that fateful birthday night in the parking lot, when Jake gave you the last bit of persuasion you needed to stop putting up with his cool detachment from your relationship, and you’re already struggling to make ends meet. You hadn’t quit your job, nor would you ever have dreamed of it. You’d worked and schooled infinite hours to get it, at last landing the vet tech job of your dreams in a private boutique clinic, only to lose it with one phone call.

You’d never realized how very small Jake was until he coped with your breaking up with him by informing your place of work that you were implicated in an armed robbery.

It’s not true; the police never even looked you up after Minho called them and reported that some nondescript, unidentified woman had been robbed; your name wasn’t in any reports or investigations, but Jake had decided since it was his company card that had been stolen and maxed out on gift cards, you must have given it to the mugger (and, technically, true enough).

But the phone call was more than enough reason to your vet clinic, and they let you go without even a week’s warning.

You’re halfway through a stale, microwaved breakfast burrito, sitting in the dark at your kitchen table with only the painful light of your laptop screen beaming stubbornly through the tinted lenses of your blue light glasses when an email pops up in your inbox. The subject line reads INTRODUCTORY INTERVIEW - WAYWARD STREET CAT HOTEL.

You’ve never clicked into an email so fast.

A quick scan tells you they liked your resume, they want you to come in for an interview tomorrow afternoon, and their address is only four blocks away from your apartment—a major plus when you don’t have a car and you’d rather avoid public transportation if at all possible.

Typing back a hurried—and quadruple spelling checked—response accepting the invitation, you immediately add the appointment to your calendar. It fits snugly between two other interviews, one with a coffee stand that just barely promises to pay minimum wage, and the other for a receptionist position at the biggest commercial vet clinic in town, that made sure to inform you in their very first email that there were over a hundred other applicants being considered.

You don’t want to be a drive-through barista, and you don’t want to diminish your college degree to a receptionist job (although a foot in the door is a foot in the door), so your heart is fully set on Wayward Street Cat Hotel. There’s so much bubbling hope in your chest that you have to close your computer and eat the rest of your burrito in the dark, praying with all your might that the hope doesn’t pop.

Trudging through your full day of first interviews (and one second interview that definitely doesn’t seem like it’s going to lead to a third), you finally make it back home and crash into bed, barely managing to change out of your day clothes and brush your teeth before sinking into disappointed slumber.

Night turns to day, and after another chalky burrito and another cup of cheap coffee, another fruitless morning of refreshing your email inbox, you step into a fresh set of professional interview attire and try to face the day with renewal. It’s not like you try to anticipate another booked schedule of unsuccessful interviews, but after so many days of getting punched by one rejection after another, it’s difficult to approach each appointment with an open mind.

After a pleasant but uninspiring meeting with the manager of the drive-through coffee stand, you leave the interview with basically the promise of the job if you want it, but you don’t see yourself jumping at that opportunity until you absolutely have to. After the two remaining interviews of the day, you may reassess, but you withheld your commitment until you could actually be sure that it was your only chance.

The Wayward Street Cat Hotel is a charming little house-like structure on the corner with a picturesque coffee shop and a small business ice cream shop on one side and a positively blooming little florist on the other side.

As you approach the door, there’s a number of cat-related signs on the window. “No dogs allowed,” “This property is protected by attack cats,” “Free range cats at work, please knock before opening.” The soft and quaint feel of the warm green door and front step of the facility draws you in immediately, thinking of those hand-drawn greeting cards or water color canvases that portray little cottages surrounded by flowers. You knock on the door.

Not even a full minute later, a young man’s face pops into view, dimples cratering his cheeks as he tosses you a wave and then gestures for you to wait. You smile back awkwardly, watching as he bends down and scoops up a small white cat into his arms, cradling it to his chest and hurrying to close it into a room in the back. Moments later, the man comes jogging back, unlocking the door, and letting you inside.

“Hi there,” He greets cheerfully. “You’re the interview?”

You nod, pressing your hand into his palm to shake, and tell him your name.

He gestures for you to come in and sit with him at the tiny desk in the back, picking up a clipboard and brushing cat hair off of his black shirt. “I’m San. I’ll be heading our conversation today, is that okay?”

You’re confused. “Um. Yes?”

“It’s just that I’m only an employee, and that the owner won’t be in until tomorrow. But I promise I’ll be thorough in my notes.” He grins at you, encouraged by the polite laughter you give him as you wave off his concerns.

“That’s completely fine, no worries.” You spend the next few minutes discussing your education, your work history, and your personal experience with animals. He’s polite, charming, and pleasantly engaging as he runs you through a list of scripted questions, pausing between each one to pen down your answers and offer kind little comments as you bounce back responses.

“Okay!” He sets the clipboard down at last and fixes you with another dimpled grin. “Well, I feel good about this. You seem great, and I love your background for this. Why don’t you accompany me on my rounds this morning and we’ll see what you think of the actual work?”

This suggestion thrills you. No polite, tight smiles and tense handshakes and empty “We’ll be in touch” promises. Even if he decides that you can’t be trusted to work in cat boarding, at least you get to meet some kitties before you go home and cry into a vat of ice cream. You get up, leaving your bag on the chair you were just sitting in, and quickly follow him back towards the door.

The facility is a single large room, one half wall dividing the front from the back, with the desk you just had your interview at set on the back side of said wall. At the front of the room, there’s a sink, a set of cabinets, and a supply closet on the same wall as the door you entered through. To either side of you, the walls are lined with doors, all the way to the back of the room.

Each door is solid on the bottom and grated at the top so you can look in and see the kitty guests lounging in their own private rooms, blinking lazily at you as you pass by the windows. It’s not what you would have thought—all of the cat boarding facilities you’ve seen online look like sterile vet environments, with boxes in the wall that have barely enough room for a cat bed and a portable litter box.

This is small and cozy, but genuinely akin to a hotel for cats.

“So we have two shifts per day—but the boss said maybe we’d add a third since we’re looking for another worker. Every morning I come in around six am and check on everybody.” San begins, peeking into all of the rooms. It’s almost noon, so you figure he must have done all of this already, but that doesn’t stop him from chatting blithely about his entire morning routine.

When he’s finished his spiel, he guides you to a room about halfway down the row. “This is how far I got before your appointment. This is Bbam.” He steps aside so you can peer in and find the big gray tabby lounging comfortably on a plush bed. “He’s either an animatronic cat or a changeling.”

You give a shocked laugh at his playful words, but as you look at Bbam, you realize exactly what he’s talking about. The gray tabby has perfectly round eyes, about half the size of golf balls, which he pins to you the moment you appear in his line of sight. He meows at you, and when he does, his mouth hinges down at the jaw like a robot kitty. He does look like an animatronic cat. “Oh my god, he’s kind of freaking me out.” The moment you speak, Bbam’s eyes flick to the side, then down to the floor, then back at you—like he’s actually understanding your words.

San laughs at the sudden look of discomfort on your face. “Yeah, he appears in my nightmares sometimes. I frequently ask him not to answer me, if he has the ability to do so. Just in case. But he’s a huge sweetheart. Step back.” San turns the knob and swings the door open, and Bbam immediately jumps down from the bed and winds himself around your feet. “He’s a total love, once you get past the horrible expression on his face. So, he’s here for three more days—his owners went to Costa Rica.” He tells you every detail about the cat as he shakes out the blankets and the bed, sweeps the floor, cleans the litter box, changes the water, and then fills the food dish. “He gets totally nutty about meal times so he gets a Prozac at dinner.”

“Aw, poor Bbam.” You’ve spent the entire demonstration crouched in the doorway, letting the kitty bonk his head against your knees and curl himself around your hand and purr deep guttural grumbles at you. “He’s just a hungry little guy.”

“Bbam weighs thirty-one pounds.”

“He’s a hungry big guy.” You’re totally in love. Bbam the freaky animatronic changeling cat is the sweetest thing you’ve ever put your hands on, and every little mew he gives you digs right into your heart.

San notices the dumbstruck puppy love look on your face. “You haven’t even met the kittens yet. Come on.” He takes you all through the facility, introducing you to each of the cats and talking to them sweetly in a low, soothing tone. Some of them jump out and practically maul you for affection, while others tuck themselves safely under the stools that are set up specifically for the purpose of hiding. Every time one of them hides from you, San seems to know exactly why.

“She just got here this morning,” He’ll say. “That’s Bobae, she’s still nervous. She probably won’t eat her food tonight but I put just enough in to cover the bottom of the bowl, so I can see if she’s comfortable enough to try.”

Or— “That’s Kyong, he’s a little nervous. He hisses but as soon as we open the door he’ll run over here and start demanding affection, hissing all the while, see?—yep, there he goes. He won’t hurt you, just wants to make sure you know he’s a big scary cat.”

You follow along, soon jumping in to hand him things or going ahead to read the charts and starting on the food prep, even taking a few litter boxes from him to clean so he can focus on tidying up the rooms. By the time you’ve helped him finish his shift, your head and heart are chock full of cat information and your interview clothes are positively covered in kitty hair.

“Yeah, so that’s the morning shift. Evening shift starts at 4, and we do pretty much exactly the same thing, and then in between washing dishes and doing laundry we take care of emails and phone calls. It’s really simple, really rewarding if you like cats—you just have to hope the clients are nice. Most of the owners are little old ladies, and it’s kind of hit or miss with their temperaments.” San beams at you, standing back after letting you wash your hands and borrow one of the many lint rollers. “So? What do you think?”

“I think you must be the most peaceful person on the planet, if this is your day job.” You respond, somewhat in disbelief at the calm atmosphere and the instant gratification of seeing all of your efforts be either appreciated or at the very least quietly tolerated by all of these cats. “But I was wondering how our schedules would work? Like would we swap mornings and evenings, or do you do full days?”

He passes you a towel to dry your hands. “Since right now it’s just me and the boss, we’ve been trading days. I do the first half of the week, we both work Wednesdays, he does the second half of the week, and we alternate so that we can have weekends off. If he likes you and hires you on, then we’ll have more flexibility, which I’m excited for.”

You can’t think of a single better place to work right now, where your still emotionally-reeling brain can take a break and get 6-8 hours of kitty love as your day job. “That sounds great. So, um…” You clasp your hands. “I guess you’ll call me, or?”

He flinches a little, like he totally forgot that you weren’t a done deal yet. “Oh, gosh, yes. Hold on.” He runs back to the desk and returns to you with your bag, passing it to you as he scribbles a note on his clipboard. “The boss told me if I like you for the interview and the rounds both to go ahead and invite you for the morning shift tomorrow. I get here at 5:30, drink my coffee, look at emails and the schedule for the day. You’re welcome any time between then and 6am. Just knock on the door and I’ll let you in. If he signs off on you by the end of the day, I’ll get you your own door code. This is my personal cell number in case you need to reach me, and the internal email address for employees.” He gives you the piece of paper.

You hold it like treasure, your hands shaking as you tuck it carefully into your bag and then double check that it’s safely inside one of the pockets.

“I say employees,” He laughs at himself. “Right now it’s just me and the boss. But we both check it every day, so don’t hesitate to email for any reason. I’m kind of a stickler for punctuality, so please shoot an email or a text if you’re going to be late for traffic or something. Sound good?” He sticks out his hand, and this time you’re greeted with a warm and friendly handshake rather than the tight ones that reek of hand sanitizer from all of the other places you’ve been to this week.

“It sounds great. Thank you so much for having me in, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” You’re practically vibrating with excitement. He sees you out the door and waves through the window as you head for the sidewalk, and as you all but bounce your way home, you couldn’t pry the toothy grin off your face with a crow bar.

You don’t go to your next interview.

Instead, you finally take the time to cook yourself dinner. The first real meal you’ve had since the night you got robbed at gunpoint by a strangely considerate criminal who bought you cake on your birthday. You actually use pans and cutting boards and the oven fan and an egg timer and by the time it’s done, your stomach is growling so loudly that it’s automatically the best food you’ve ever eaten.

You take the time to shower, and wash your hair and shave your legs and then moisturize your skin until you’re glowing and pink in the dingy light of your cramped bathroom. You’re five seconds away from tumbling into bed in a set of matching cotton pajamas and a microfiber towel turban and the book you’ve been dying to read but haven’t had the energy to even look at when your phone dings.

Your heart slams like a jackhammer.

What if it’s San? Or the owner of the cat hotel?

What if they changed their mind?

You can just see the text—’sorry, we’ve selected another applicant. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow.’

You snatch the phone off the nightstand, thumbing past the password and blinking hazily down at the dim screen. It’s not San, or anyone who works at Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

It’s Jake.

‘911—need to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

Your eyes reflexively well with tears, the raw edges of your heart still bleeding from the difficult emotions of breaking off your lengthy relationship, and you feel a clenching in your chest. Despite knowing that nothing Jake has ever thought of as urgent has ever been actually urgent, you glumly type back a response and get an address in return.

You blink at it in disbelief.

It’s that coffee shop.

The one in the parking lot that you got robbed in. The one in the parking lot that Jake left you in, with an armed robber. The one across from the McDonald’s where Jake tried to make you eat (and pay for) your birthday dinner. The one across from the movie theater where he made you feel like a child for crying through a sad movie on your birthday.

The one that Minho took you to and begged you to eat from after your heart broke into a million little pieces.

It doesn’t matter. Jake says it’s urgent, so you have to go. You toss back your covers, dig through your drawers for something to wear—and you’re far too committed to the comfort you’re currently wrapped in to go for any of the jeans, so you pull out your coziest sweats and swap one cotton set for another.

Shaking out your hair, scrubbing your fingers through the stringy wet tendrils, you fold it into the fastest, sloppiest braid you’ve ever embarrassed yourself with, grab your purse, and head out the door. Cool air wraps around your damp throat, digging fingers into your dripping scalp, laying it’s icy palm against your back where your hoodie is catching all of the water from your hair.

One hasty Uber and about twenty minutes of anxious hand wringing and mentally chanting reassurances to yourself, you arrive at the coffee shop with almost rock-solid certainty that you’re going to be able to face Jake without completely falling apart.

Yeah, you’re the one who broke up with him.

Yeah, he definitely had it coming, and you definitely deserve better.

But you’ve been with him for so long that sometimes you still feel like he’s missing from you, and to see him again after three weeks might just be the straw that breaks you. Running your hands over the awkward fly-aways that float around your hairline, already feeling the knobby lumps of your terrible braid but not wanting to prolong the inevitable by stopping to fix it, you make your way up the sidewalk, adjusting your jacket collar under the hood of your sweater.

In the darkening light of evening, the coffee shop glows a warm golden light out onto the sidewalk, and you take a deep breath to brace yourself. You can see him just inside, in a thin t-shirt and a pair of jeans that you’ve seen a million times before—clothes that he barely manages to drag on before going out in public without a care.

You feel just a little miffed. This meeting had better be an actual emergency if he pulled you out of bed to spend money on an Uber and didn’t even bother to dress appropriately for the high-dollar coffee shop.

A bell rings softly when you push the door open and step inside, instantly enveloped in a rush of warmth. The air smells like hot sugar and cinnamon and rich coffee, and your eyes automatically slide to the display case full of aesthetic cakes.

Even after your hard earned dinner, your stomach grumbles at the thought of that cake.

You make your way to the small table where your ex is seated, going around to stand across from him, one hand gripping the straps of your purse in a fist. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You didn’t realize your voice was going to come out with such a hard edge, but it’s too late to soften your approach now.

Jake looks up from his phone, brow furrowing at your words. “Can we talk?”

Frustration fills your entire chest cavity. “You said it was urgent. What’s wrong?”

He pushes his phone away and drops his hands into his lap, staring at you pitifully. “I just want to understand. I don’t get it. Why would you throw everything we had away like that? How could you do that? I thought we loved each other.”

You want to scream with disbelief and anger and the heartbreak that is rapidly evaporating to be replaced by incredulous resentment at the utter gall of this man. “What am I doing here, Jake? What do you want?”

He gestures for you to sit, and you stare at his hand blankly. “I need closure, babe. Please. I want to understand. I think we could give this another chance if we just talk about it.”

You slam yourself down in the seat and have to stop your body from lunging across the table and strangling the living daylights out of him. “You texted me 911 so that you could get closure? I was in bed, Jake. I have work in the morning—and don’t call me babe.”

His lips twist in confusion. “What work? I thought you got fired.”

You’re about two seconds away from having a psychotic episode in the middle of a coffee shop. “Yes. I got fired. Because you lied to my boss. And you expect me to come here and hold your hand?”

“I called your boss after you broke up with me. That’s not why you ended things. I want to know why. Was it the mugging? You know I called you all night long. I was worried sick about you, babe, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and you ignored me.”

All you can do is breathe.

Just keep breathing.

“I just think you could have at least talked to me before you ended it. I took you out for your birthday. I gave you a scarf, do you know how much that cost?”

“Yeah, about a buck fifty.”

He blasts right past the revelation that you somehow knew he thrifted it out of the clearance bin. “I was up the whole night just hoping you were okay, and the next thing I hear from you is a full 48 hours later, breaking up with me. How can you think that’s fair? How can you say I deserve that after everything we’ve been through?”

A waitress swoops by the table then, smiling sweetly at you. “Can I get you guys anything? Our cakes are incredible, or we have savory options as well.”

“Just a coffee for her, but I’ll take a slice of the chocolate cake, please.” Jake says softly, giving the waitress his most pitiful smile, and then fixes you with the same look. “Babe, please. Please, I just want to work this out.”

Your mind is so completely blown by everything that’s just happen that you can’t even pull a facial expression to reflect the shock consuming you. “What did you do?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“For the 48 hours. What did you do?”

Stammering, surprised by the question, he lifts one hand in a pointless gesture. “I…I waited around. I mean, I had to go to work, of course. And then I caught up with a friend for dinner, because they were going out of town the next day, but you understand that I had to go. But I waited around for you the whole time, just hoping. I couldn’t even sleep, baby, I was so worried.”

“You left me. You left me there.”

“The guy had a gun! Everybody makes mistakes. Not everybody responds well under pressure. I was stupid, and I regret it, and—oh my god I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

His gushing words fill you with revolted disgust. “Please stop.” Nausea floods your senses. “Seriously, just knock it off. We’re done, Jake. There’s no talking about this, there’s no fixing anything. I will never consider it okay, or just a mistake, that you left me with an armed robber in a dark parking lot. You left me there.”

You don’t say anything about the fact that you ended up feeling safer with the armed robber than you had felt with Jake in a long time, because that’s entirely beside the point.

He doesn’t need to know that.

“I would never do that again. I could never dream of leaving you. Please, baby, please, I swear—”

“So this is the jackass, huh?” Somebody slips into the booth next to you, and you’re startled to find a warm arm looping around your back, fingers tickling you where they brush softly at your sides. “He looks like an accountant.”

Both you and Jake turn to the newcomer, wide-eyed, but you recover first.

Minho is sitting next to you.

Minho, the armed robber who held you up on your birthday. Minho, who took pity on you when you cried your eyes out in the cold. Minho, who took you to this very coffee shop and bought you warm food and a warm drink (with your boyfriend’s card) and told you that you were worth more than he made you think.

For a second, your gaze snaps to Jake, terrified that your cover is blown and that he’ll only be further convinced that you and your mugger were in cahoots against him—when you remember. Minho had taken his mask off only after Jake had burned rubber out of the parking lot.

You recognize him.

Jake does not.

Your ex straightens, instantly offended by the cool smirk and downward gaze of the criminal who currently has his fingertips playing with the hem of your sweater. “Who is this?” Jake snaps at you, scooting his chair back. “You moved on from me already? You were cheating on me, weren’t you? Who are you—what the fuck are you doing with my girlfriend?” He’s practically combusting with derision.

Minho just blinks lazily up at him, reminding you of the way the cats from the boarding facility earlier calmly stared at you as you walked with San. “I’m the one who knows everything about you, and, may I say, this charming display is entirely consistent with what I’ve heard.”

You gawk at him, only managing to close your mouth and swallow your surprise when he gives your side a little pinch. Clamping your jaw, you let him tug you into his side and smile smugly at your ex as the other man sputters angrily.

“This is why you broke up with me? You had some fucker on the side?” He snaps at you, and you really wish you had an answer for him, but you’re just as surprised as he is.

“I never cheated on you, Jake, this isn’t—”

“I think you should leave.” Minho says simply, interrupting you. “You’re disturbing the customers here, and your voice irritates me.”

“You expect me to stand here and believe that this guy with his arm around your waist isn’t some secret boy toy that you’ve been screwing while I’ve been taking care of you? Do you know how hard I worked to provide for you? I was going to give you safety and security and—”

“And McDonalds every year for her birthday? That she pays for and you bill your company for?” Minho finishes lightly. His hand slides up your side to smooth over your shoulder and then drag back down to your hip. Every inch of his touch is possessive and unthreatened by Jake’s presence. “I think she can do better. Can’t you, jagi?”

Your stunned expression meets his cool smile, and he blinks at you in a way that somehow very clearly and very subtly tells you to stop your gaping and pretend that you’re comfortable in his arms. Strangling the part of you that wants to ask just as many questions as Jake is asking, you force your eyelids to lower to a normal degree and finally turn to face Jake again. “We’re done, Jake. You should leave.”

Jake bursts out of his chair with frenzied outrage. “I asked you here to give you another chance, but that’s over.” He snaps, jabbing a pointed finger at you.

Pressed against you, you feel the solid muscles along Minho’s side tense as he closes his hand firmly around your hip and narrows his eyes at your ex.

“Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t even fucking try to explain.” He yanks his jacket off the back of his seat and then slams the chair up so hard that the edge of the table thumps harshly against your ribs at the impact.

“Then stop throwing a fit and get on with it.” Minho says harshly. “And calm down before I make you.”

From anyone else it would sound like your average amount of masculine posturing, designed to make the other man uncomfortable and test the boundaries of respect, but from Minho—the man who spends his nights holding people at gunpoint—it strikes you as a sobering promise.

Jake shoots you one last petulant glower and then storms out of the coffee shop, slamming the door behind him.

The moment he’s gone, you twist yourself to face Minho, seeing the cool smile drop from his face as his arm slides away from your back. “What are you doing here?” You hiss. “What was that? Last time I saw you, you were robbing me. And now you’re pretending to be my boyfriend or some shit? Are you bipolar?”

His eyes are hooded, and he picks up the coffee that the waitress left for you and sips at it quietly. “So you do remember that night,” He says. “And do you happen to remember the part where we discussed getting rid of assface?”

Your mouth falls open. “Excuse me? The part I remember is you pointing a gun in my face.”

He rolls his eyes, leans forward, hooks his finger on the lip of the plate with Jake’s untouched cake, and drags it towards you. “Eat. I saw you eyeing the cakes when you came in here.”

You push the plate away. “Minho.” The name is hissed through gritted teeth.

He pops an eyebrow at you. “And you remember my name. I’m flattered, jagi, you’ll make me blush.” The smirk drops once again and he scoots the plate back towards you. “It’s nine o’clock at night and you look like you got your hair caught in the door of a car. Eat the cake and go home.”

“I don’t want to eat the cake. I want you to tell me what the hell you’re doing here—and how long have you been watching? What do you mean you saw me eyeing the cakes?”

“I’ll tell you if you eat it.”

“I don’t want to eat it. I don’t eat in public, remember?”

“You do with me.” He’s watching you, expressionless, firing back responses as quickly as you can scrounge up an argument.

“I was under the unique pressure of being held at gunpoint.” You snap under your breath.

“I wasn’t holding you at gunpoint when we had birthday cake together. Eat it while I’m still trying to persuade you unarmed.”

You grab the fork on impulse, a jolt of fear striking you before you realize he’s kidding. His eyes are tracing your face, reading the reflexive terror as it rises and then fades slowly, and he settles on a small smile when you breathe again. “I don’t feel like eating this here.” You tell him quietly. “I still have the—” You break off, filled with frustration. “Look, I’m already thrown off by you being here, sitting here, I don’t really want to feel even more vulnerable by eating in front of you, too.”

“I want you to. See? I can be vulnerable too.”

“Why are you being so damn pushy? Who cares about the cake? Why won’t you just tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

“Because you’re shaking. And you’re uneasy, and eating the cake will distract you. And you deserve it after that prick didn’t let you order one for yourself.”

God, how long had he been watching?

“That’s because it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s cute. Your face scrunches like a baby’s, like you’re afraid of what you’re eating but you want it anyway. It’s cute. Eat it, jagiya, I’ll answer your questions.”

You scoop a bit of the cake onto the fork and stare at him, heart pounding. “Are you sure?” Like you’re giving him an out. This fucking criminal who has inserted himself into your personal space and considered it a personal favor that he’s not pointing a gun at you while he’s doing it. There’s no reason for you to be offering him the chance to not be seen in public with you, twitching every time you take a bite.

“I’m sure, babyface, just eat it.”

You scowl. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then eat it.”

You do. Finally, after practically wearing yourself out arguing over your biggest, deepest insecurity, you begin to eat the cake, and do your best to ignore the warmth you feel when Minho’s arm settles against your back again.

“I was outside with…some friends, when I saw you show up. I recognized you, I got curious, and imagine my surprise when I see you meeting good ol’ assface for coffee, like we hadn’t already promised each other we were gonna break up with him.”

“We?” You mumble around the tiniest bite of chocolate cake. “I don’t remember us being in that relationship.”

“Tell me you haven’t been dating him all this time.” Minho leans back with a sigh, watching you pick daintily at the cake, his fingertips walking up your spine to tug at the lumpy, damp braid that’s still soaking through your sweater.

“I haven’t. He said he needed to talk to me. Said it was urgent.”

“It’s always urgent.” Minho mumbles, and you feel him picking at the end of your braid. Suddenly the elastic is gone, your hair stiffly unwinding against your shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t go back home to him that night.”

“I didn’t.” You twist your neck around to see what he’s doing, but he puts one finger to your temple and turns your head back to face your cake, and then continues unraveling your hair. “I went home. To my apartment. I didn’t talk to him for two days and when I did, I broke up with him. I didn’t even get my iPad back from his house.”

“Good girl.” He twists your hair into a firm knot at the base of your skull and fastens it with the elastic. “There. Try not to contract pneumonia next time you get played by your ex.” He pats your back firmly, and it’s jarringly platonic after the tenderness of his hands threading through your hair. He pushes himself to his feet and holds his hand out, palm up. “Come on. Bed time.”

“Bed time?” You repeat, absolutely stunned.

Whatever he’s expecting from you right now is nowhere near what you’re prepared to give to the man who has at one point pulled a gun on you.

He turns his hand and flicks your arm softly. “Stop your blushing. I know you took an Uber here. I’m taking you home. You said you have work tomorrow, so let’s go.”

You just blink at him. “I’m not riding home with you. You have a car?”

“Of course I have a car, I’m not destitute.”

“You rob people.”

“It’s really more of a hobby.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not going home with you.”

“Again,” He flicks your arm once more. “I’m not taking you home with me, I’m taking you home. Your home. Finish your cake and get up.”

Moments later, you are making the second inexplicably foolish decision of your life to follow Minho across the parking lot to the small gray car in the shadows. He opens the door for you, waits for you to get inside, and then closes you in to spend the next few seconds wondering if you’re going to survive the rest of the night.

Because there is stuff everywhere.

Purses. Backpacks. Wallets. A gun in the floorboard. A small document safe, busted open on the back seat. A crowbar. Numerous disposable masks. Multiple boxes of latex gloves.

The instant that Minho crosses around to the driver’s side and gets in, your fingers are grasping for the handle, seconds away from leaping out into the night. He frowns at you as he puts the keys in the ignition. “What? Where are you going?” As you gawk at him, terrified, his eyes skate the condition of his car. “Oh. Shit. Right, sorry.” He leans into your space, scraping up a handful of purses and wallets and tossing them in the back seat. He ducks back down one more time, grabs up the gun, tucks it in the glove compartment. “You can put your feet anywhere, it’s fine.”

You gape at him. “Minho, this is—”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a prude. I robbed you, too, and look at us now. I’m a nice guy, I swear.”

“Have you ever killed anybody?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Well, let me know when you figure it out, and I’ll give you my answer.”

He wheels the car smoothly out of the driveway, and when he asks for your address, it takes an infinity for you to decide to give it to him. You live in a nice apartment building, with good security, and watchful neighbors. Even if he’s been nice to you so far, possibly scoping you out and getting you to trust him, it should be difficult for him to actually gain access to your apartment later.

“Block his number.” He tells you quietly, one elbow propped up on the window sill. “Don’t go chasing after his 911 texts anymore.”

“Why do you care?”

Silence.

Streetlights and traffic signals shine into the space between you, flashing over his face and illuminating the quiet consideration that he wears in place of the smug expression he had only moments ago. “I care.”

“Why?”

“God knows.”

He drops you off at your apartment, peers at you quietly through the window as you back away from his car, your eyes dubiously fixed on him as you scoot backwards into the building, and then he’s gone, racing off into the night, and taking all the evidence of his transgressions with him.

By some stroke of cosmic grace you get yourself to bed and convince your brain to abandon all thoughts of Minho and get a bare minimum amount of sleep. By the time your alarm sings its obnoxiously cheerful jingle at you, it feels like you only just closed your eyes. But it’s 4am and you have a day of kitties ahead of you, so you put your feet on the floor and trudge to your bathroom to get yourself awake.

Two pieces of toast, the last of your Folgers instant coffee, and one glass of water, off-brand orange juice later, you’re bundled up in your favorite winter jacket, watching your breath appear in the dark of morning as you walk to the Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

By the time you knock on the warm green door and watch San’s head pop around the corner of the half wall, your nose is pink and your fingers are cold but it’s only served to get your heart pumping and your brain wide awake.

San approaches the door with a sauntering gait and a dimpled smile that is far too kind for 5:30 in the morning, but he unlocks the door and ushers you into the golden warmth of the facility. “Good morning!” He greets, standing back as you unzip your jacket. “You are prompt, right on time.” He holds out a hand and takes the garment, showing you to the storage closet where he hangs it next to his own jacket.

“I hoped you might be punctual, so I brought you a coffee. Cream and sugar on the side, you can fix it how you like. Is that okay?”

You’re warm all over. “That sounds amazing, thank you.”

He leads you back to the desk and pulls up your chair for you. “So right now I’m just going through emails—oh, here.” He passes you a blue paper to go cup and a handful of cream and sugar packets. “If all goes well today, give me your usual coffee order. The boss pays for coffees on Wednesdays to warm me up for when he comes in and extends the shift by two hours.”

“By two hours?” You repeat, popping the lid off and dumping four of the creamers into the dark liquid that smells about a thousand better than your Folgers instant. You’re halfway through wondering if you should be reassessing your excitement for this job, adjusting your hope for success today and a contract by evening, mentally filing through labor laws, when San waves your worries away with one hand.

“Accidentally. He doesn’t make me stay, but I usually stick around and do emails or laundry and it gives me two more hours on my time sheet, so who cares? If you work here, he’ll let you go home at your normal time, don’t worry.”

“How does he make it so much longer? Is he a slow cleaner or something?”

“No, no, not at all. He’s the one who taught me how to be as efficient as I am, and he can still clean a room about two minutes faster than I do. No, he runs an Instagram page so owners can see their kitties while they’re gone. So when he comes in on Wednesday, he takes all kinds of photos and videos—plus he’s a total lush for cats so he spends like ten minutes with each one, just hanging out with them.” He sips from his coffee and lets out a slow hiss as the heat hits his tongue.

“Oh.” You blink, pressing the lid back onto your cup. “That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, he’s really great. I think you’ll enjoy working with him, if you’re good with rolling with a wry, dry sense of humor. He’s super chill and easy going and even though he looks at you sometimes like he can’t remember your name, he’ll listen to anything—even if you’ve forgotten for the fifth time how to print out the daily schedule.”

“Is this…experience speaking?”

San chuckles, ducking his head and sighing at his keyboard. “Ahhhh, yes, unfortunately. I was so nervous my first day. I thought he hated me until I asked him my hundredth inane question of the day and he noticed how bad I felt about it and he just took the time to kindly walk me through it again.”

You’re a little nervous now, both about the complexity that the shifts must be if San was so psyched out about it, and about the apparently closed off demeanor of your potential boss. “So, he’s nice about it, though?”

“Oh yeah.” San clicked through a couple of emails and then leaned back in his chair, spinning it lightly back and forth. “No he will full on stare at you like you’re speaking another language and then just when you think you’re going to cry for being the dumbest person on the planet, he starts talking to you in this very sweet, like, don’t-spook-the-kittens voice and answers whatever you’re unsure about and then tells you that you aren’t completely hopeless.”

“Aw,” You’re laughing at the utter embarrassment on San’s face.

“I had such a hard first day. I was so nervous. So please, whatever you feel about today, barring a medical emergency, it can never be worse than mine.”

You’re at ease almost immediately after that, relaxing in your chair and sipping at your coffee as he chatters about the process of checking emails and showing you where the form letters for rote responses are, and showing you how to use the database to check the schedule and make bookings and check kitty records.

By the time 6am rolls around and San pushes himself back from the desk, he’s finished his coffee. He shrugs out of his hoodie and gets up, instructing you to start on one of the rooms while he gets started on the other. For the next hour, you clean kitty rooms, check the database for feeding and medicating instructions, refresh water bowls, and clean litter boxes, all the while getting positively coated in kitty affection.

San keeps up a regular dialogue, occasionally breaking off to laugh as you react to whichever cat you’re interacting with at the moment, from a couple of calico kittens who jump on your shoulders while you clean their litter box, to Kyong hissing at you whilst demanding affection, to a little old lady cat who meows at you like she’s been smoking for fifty years.

“Why don’t you go do the last room and I’ll start washing the dishes.” San suggests at some point around 7, gesturing for you to go get started on a little black cat named Jia, who has been not so patiently waiting for her turn to be fed since you started. He begins pulling on dishwashing gloves and setting to cleaning the previous night’s dinner dishes while you hurry to comply.

“Hi Jia.” The moment you open the door, the older cat scoots out into the hallway, winding around your legs, whisper-meowing up at you constantly. She follows you back into the room, pawing and headbutting you as you shake out her blankets and sweep the floor. It takes you a few minutes to clean little splatters of her drool off the floor and sift out the litter box, but finally you scoop her up in your arms and begin the less pleasant task of giving her her daily medications.

“This is gonna be so fast, baby.” You whisper, letting her lean her head back against your chest. “Just a couple of nasty pills and then it’s canned food galore, I promise.” She squirms and cries at you as you push the pills into her mouth, and in a matter of seconds she’s swallowed both of them. “See? You did so good, and now it’s all over. What a good girl,” You lean over and pick up her bowl of wet food before she can get too upset about swallowing the tablets. “See? There you go, pretty girl.”

You lean back on your heels and stroke her as she abruptly forgets all about the terrible medication and chirps her way through her breakfast.

“Look who the cat dragged in.”

Before you can shoot San an unimpressed look for his very unoriginal one-liner, you realize that that wasn’t San’s voice. And the not-San voice sounded very, very familiar.

You twist around, nearly falling on your ass in the middle of Jia’s room, to see fucking Minho staring down at you through the window in the door, that smug smirk on his face. His eyes glance to Jia, then around the room, then to you. “She’s sweet, isn’t she?”

Jumping to your feet, thoroughly appalled by his sudden appearance, you glare through the grate. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks at you. “I’m the owner.”

Your eyes fall back down to Jia. “Oh. Yes, she’s very sweet. She took her medicine very well and her appetite is fantastic this morning. Are you checking her out?” You don’t remember San saying that Jia was going home this morning.

Minho’s smirk widens. “Isn’t it cute the way she whispers?”

Your patience is thinning. “Yes, Minho. She’s very cute. Can you just take your cat and go?” You’re praying, hoping beyond hope that San or the boss doesn’t show up and watch you snarl at a client, but you cannot cope with running into your robber for the third time.

This is it.

You’re going to lose another job before you even get the chance to have it, all because of the same night that lost you the first job.

You hate him.

You hate Jake.

You hate Minho.

You hate everybody right now except for Jia, and the knowing look on Minho’s face is not helping matters.

It is too early in the morning to be playing mind games with a criminal.

“Why are you still here?” You hiss. “Why are you even here at all? If you want your cat, take your damn cat.” You see San approaching from behind Minho, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Maybe I just can’t stay away from you.” Minho raises an eyebrow at you, eyes trailing down your body to examine the long sleeve button-up and soft, stretchy slacks that you’re wearing whilst crawling around on your knees in cat rooms. “You’re just so damn enchanting.”

“Do not bullshit me right now—” Your hiss is broken off and transformed into a sweet smile as San sidles up next to Minho and smiles that cratered smile at you.

“Looks like you’ve met the boss, huh? She’s pretty great, right, hyung?”

Your entire body stops functioning. Minho’s lips are spreading into a cheshire grin, watching your face go through all the stages of grief, looking one hundred percent pleased with your sudden inability to form words.

“Like I said, I’m the owner.” Minho tells you. “Of Wayward Street, not Jia. Though she’s quite the little sweetheart. I could just take her home with me.” The significance of his words settles on you with horrible weight, and your mouth falls open.

“Right, right, yes, this is Minho, he’s the boss. Hyung, this is our new prospective worker. She’s already done half of the rooms by herself, and I gotta be honest, she just took the routine and ran with it. She’s got it down.” That means a lot coming from him, especially now that you know his first day had been an utter disaster.

“Is that so?” Minho’s humored eyes haven’t left yours. “Does she maybe want to let Jia eat her breakfast and come back to the main room now?”

You scramble to grab up your cleaning supplies, leaving the kitty with one final scratch between the ears, and follow the men back to the desk. Minho sits before the computer, glancing at the empty email inbox, and sets his own coffee down next to your cup. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come in at 6 this morning, San, I had a task to do. Looks like the rooms are already done?”

San nods proudly. “All done. I just finished dishes and I was about to fold the clean laundry. Other than the floors, we’re pretty much good to go.”

Minho glances to the schedule. “Any appointments this morning?”

“Dakho and Hei are going home at eight, Ppang goes home at ten, and we get Mihi into room 4 at nine thirty.” San rehearses easily. “I’ve got Dakho and Hei ready to go, and I just need to prep Mihi’s room.”

Minho glances between you and San, San who is eager to get through the rest of his tasks, and you who is both too mortified and too frustrated to meet his eyes. “Alright, teach the newbie how to get Ppang ready to go, and show her how to reset room 4 for the new one. Then have her greet clients with you.” His eyes settle on you. “You can stand there and listen, just let him do it and pay attention.”

You nod quietly. “Will do.”

“Alright. You two get to work and let me know if you need anything. I’ll be reaching out to upcoming reservations so just give me a yell.” Minho meets San’s gaze, ensures that he’s been heard, and then shoots you another sideways glance. That same wicked smirk plays at the edges of his lips as you turn to follow San to Ppang’s room, your shoulders hunched almost painfully.

So much for your fresh beginning.

So much for your new start.

So much for Minho being an isolated incident—or even two isolated incidents.

You spend the rest of the morning shift doing exactly as you’re told, expertly finagling Ppang into his kitty carrier—a skill you acquired at the vet’s office and impressed San with when you completed the task with a few soft words and firm hands and got away without a single even attempted scratch. He chit chats companionably as you clean the room and start a load of laundry with the old blankets and beds that Ppang had used, washing the dishes and sanitizing the entire room from floor to ceiling.

Minho’s eyes can be felt on you as you move back and forth from the sink and the supply closet to Ppang’s room, hurrying to do San’s bidding, careful not to disturb any of the other cats with any clanging noises or anxious energy. The two of you handle both of the kitty pick-up appointments and Mihi’s intake, settling her into a freshly prepared room and leaving her to hide under her blankets until she feels comfortable enough to come out on her own.

When the shift is finally over, Minho dismisses San for the day and then turns to you with a levelling stare. “While I admit that we have a rather unconventional relationship that we just can’t seem to get away from, I want you to know that your performance is being fairly assessed.”

He’s giving you the courtesy of professionalism (sort of), so you relax into the role of prospective employee and fold your hands in front of you. Even so, you’re not entirely sure that you’re hoping you get the job anymore. While the work is simple and the cats are thoroughly enjoyable to be around, you can’t see yourself reporting to a known criminal every day.

That’s not ethical, right?

Shouldn’t you report him?

“Wayward Street is very important to me.” Minho says solemnly, eyes hooded as he speaks to you in a lazy drawl. “I won’t have some stranger come in and automatically be given trust over my cats without consideration for her existing or non existing ability to properly care for them.” His eyes scan you again. “No matter how intriguing I may find her to be.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and you look away. It bothers you that he’s speaking so frankly, but you’re not decided about your plans for the job yet, so you don’t say a word.

“I’ve arranged for San to take the evening shift off so that I can watch you work more closely. Come back at 3:30 and be prepared to take the reins. I’ll be available for any questions you might have. It’s not a trap, the work is just as straight forward as you’ve seen so far. I want my cats and my people and my company to be cared for. Do you understand?”

You nod soberly. “I understand.”

“If your work tonight satisfies me, I will be happy to offer you the job.” He leans forward in his desk chair, the cunning gleam finally disappearing from his eyes. “I also want you to understand that you can choose not to take it. It will not be offered with some kind of implicit agreement that you are expected to keep silent about my extracurricular activities. If you choose to go to the police, then so be it.”

You’re surprised by the sudden claim of accountability. Perhaps it’s some form of manipulation, that he’s wanting you to shirk away from accusing him while he’s being so kind to you, or that he thinks you’ll take pity on his boarding business and save it from going under if he were to go to jail. Either way, you’re now watching him with guarded interest.

“Additionally, if you choose to take the job and work here, with me, you can consider our previous interactions a wash.” He observes the slight confusion on your face and taps his fingers on the desk. “My behavior towards you to this point, extracurricular activities notwithstanding, would be inappropriate for an employer to express towards a subordinate. I will not be pursuing any kind of dynamic which might make you uncomfortable. Do you understand?”

You feel strangely calmed by this. “I understand.”

He leans back in his chair and slides his eyes back to the computer. “Come back at 3:30. Dress for comfort and utility. This business casual get up you’re wearing now is fine but it’s unnecessary. San prefers to work in a t-shirt and joggers, as the job requires us to be down on the floor quite a lot. You’ll see me in jeans most days. Please represent my company appropriately and choose attire that reflects self-respect, and that will suffice. Do you have any questions?”

He’s not looking at you, not smirking at you, not even treating you like he’s witnessed you bawling your eyes out and being humiliated by your ex boyfriend. “I don’t.”

“You can go, then. I’ll see you this evening.”

You check your watch. It’s only 10am. With hours of 6am to 10am and 4pm to 7pm, you have a good majority of your afternoon to do with as you please. You collect your things from the closet and head out into the bright, sunshiney morning.

When you return for evening shift, you’ve changed your clothes. Minho lets you into the facility with a quick glance at your cotton sweatshirt and breathable pants and gives an approving nod. “Did San show you how to answer emails?”

You nod.

He gestures to the desk. “Go ahead and start there. Ask me if you have any questions.”

You sit at the desk and spend half an hour shooting back emails, updating bookings, making reservations, and filing vaccination records. He watches in silence, occasionally spending time on his phone to give you space. When you finish, he follows you as you begin the rounds. He lingers quietly, doing little tasks like refreshing water and handing you supplies, but he lets you take the lead.

When clients arrive for pick-up and drop-off appointments, he chats with them pleasantly but lets you discuss care instructions and payment info on your own.

At seven o’clock, you’re standing in front of him, hands clasped once again in front of you, surprised to find yourself hoping that he’s pleased with your work. He sits at his desk and pulls a few pages off the printer. “I think the first thing we should talk about is whether or not you want this job.” He says quietly. “I think we’ve assessed each other fairly well today, don’t you?”

He’s right. His constant presence today has been one of steadiness and stability, not at all someone that you were worried to turn your back to or feel nervous questioning. He had been polite, unassuming, helpful, and temperate all day—excluding your brief fiasco with Jia.

“That depends.” You hear yourself say softly.

“On what?” His eyes are gentle, wondering, searching.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

A light smile plays at his lips. “You’ll trust my answer?”

You will. He can see that on your face.

“I’ve never hurt anyone. I swear on my cats.” The words are delivered with a playful smirk.

You take a deep breath. “I don’t appreciate your extracurricular activities.” He watches your eyes dart around the desk, watches your mouth form the words. “But I do love your business here. I think I demonstrated a fair command of the work today, and if you’re willing to take me on, I would be grateful for the opportunity to be employed here.”

Minho grins at you. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He slides the pages from the printer towards you. All of a sudden you’re signing your contract, setting up your banking information, receiving a door code. He discusses a schedule with you, and the next time you meet his eyes, you have a job.

“Thank you, Minho.” You tell him quietly.

“I’m glad you want the job.” He responds. “I liked the way you handled Jia this morning.”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “The way I handled Jia?” Trying to think back to the moments before he made his presence known and made you assume he was here to take the little black cat home, you struggle to come up with whatever he’s referring to.

“She gets nervous when she knows the pills are coming. You were sweet with her, and she recovered with no hurt feelings. You’re good with them. You’re kind. I want someone like that taking care of my guests.” He leans back in his chair and places his palms flat on the table. “Now, if you’ll walk me out to my car, I’ll let you get home and we can start over again in the morning.”

You balk immediately. Follow him out to his car? What happened to him not trying to make you uncomfortable?

He sees the apprehension in your eyes and he gets to his feet, a chiding expression on his face. “Don’t look so scandalized. You’re safe with me. I just have something of yours in my car.” He scoops up his keys and tosses his jacket over his arm, gesturing for you to follow. “Keep your distance if you must, but it’s really no big deal.”

Resentfully, you follow him to his car.

He digs around in the passenger seat for a minute and then turns back to you, producing a familiar purple case. It’s your iPad. The one you had left at Jake’s house and never gone back to get. You gawk at him, snatching the device from his fingers. “Where did you get this?”

“You don’t want to know.” He’s smirking again.

“You robbed him? Again?”

“Shhh.” His eyebrows lower, glancing around the dark sidewalk. “I’d rather not announce it in front of my place of business.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help the grin that tugs at your cheeks at the thought of him breaking into your ex’s house and robbing him without a care. “Thank you, Minho.” You shouldn’t be thanking him. You really, really shouldn’t be thanking him. But god, does it feel good to be holding your iPad and knowing that it’s only back in your possession because a smarter man than Jake got it back for you.

Minho struggles to control his own smile, forcing an aloof shrug. “Couldn’t have you coming up with any more excuses to see the assface again.” He shuts the passenger side door and moves away from you, around to the driver’s seat. “Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You walk home with the iPad clutched to your chest, shocked and a little disappointed in yourself that you’re actually excited about how the day turned out, despite everything that’s happened to try to persuade you otherwise.

The next few weeks are spent accompanying San and Minho on their shifts, working under their supervision while they finish training you and getting a solid feel for your ability to manage the dynamic workspace and client concerns. San grows fond of your presence rather quickly, and soon enough you’re often getting lunch together after your morning shift.

Minho maintains a strict air of professionalism with you. He’s gentle, available, and cautious about your space, and it doesn’t take long for you to all but forget about the strange way in which you first met him.

Finally, at long last, you’re given your first independent schedule away from both San and Minho. It’s your first weekend by yourself, and the facility is yours to run and enjoy in solitude. Everything goes peacefully and beautifully well, until Sunday morning, when you step into your last room of the shift, and little Jia doesn’t wake up.

Your heart shatters.

You call San first, weeping over the phone in garbled words that he barely understands, until suddenly he gets the gist. “Calm down, it’s alright. I’ll call hyung, and I’ll be over there in two minutes. It’s alright. It’s not your fault, alright? I’ll deal with it. I’ll come deal with it. Sit down at the desk and wait for me.”

Less than a minute later, the phone rings, and it’s Minho. You answer in a storm of tears and apologies, your heart breaking into a million pieces over the phone. “I’m going to call the client,” He tells you. “I’ll handle it. I’m a little farther away than San is, so wait for him to get there. Just sit tight and wait, okay?”

You can’t stop crying. You can’t stop apologizing.

“Just wait for San. I’ll call the clients.” He hangs up the phone.

San arrives shortly after and finds you slumped over the desk, pouring out your tears into the keyboard, fighting the memory of discovery. He immediately shrugs off his jacket and pulls you into his embrace, letting you fling your arms around him and cry. “She was an old cat. She was old, it’s not your fault.” He holds you tightly, rubbing your back, letting the moments pass slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

It doesn’t help.

You know you didn’t do anything wrong, but it doesn’t help.

The little bell chimes and quiet footsteps approach the desk, and then San is easing away from you. You lean your weight on the counter and try not to listen to him telling Minho that he’s going to go back there and take care of Jia so you don’t have to. The next thing you know, Minho is kneeling in front of you, tapping your hand lightly with a finger. “Hey. I talked to them.”

You turn your eyes to his and find him tense with anger, and your heart sinks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Minho, I don’t know what happened.” The clenching of his jaw and the tightening of his fists fills you with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong. You hear me?” He covers your hand with his. “The client told me that Jia’s been sick. She got a new diagnosis about two months ago, and they chose not to take her in for the treatments. They said they didn’t expect her to last until they got back.”

His words feel like a punch. “They knew she was going to die?”

“They left her to die with us.” He confirms. The outrage on his face makes more sense now, that it’s not directed at you, but rather at the negligent owners who preferred to send their cat away to live the rest of her weeks with strangers and keep their vacation plans. “You did nothing wrong, okay?”

Your head droops, tears rolling down your cheeks, and he tilts your chin up with a finger. “You hear me, jagi?” The words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t have a chance to apologize or take back the endearment that he promised he wouldn’t use anymore, because you’re blinking at him tearfully. “Can I not be your employee?” You ask brokenly.

He blinks, disappointment flooding his expression.

“Just for a second?” The rest of your sentence breathes past your lips.

Now more confused than anything, Minho’s brow furrows in consternation. “Okay.”

In the next second your arms are around his neck, your face buried in his shoulder, clinging to the comfort of the person who chose to comfort you when he was supposed to be robbing you; searching desperately for the man who protected you from your ex instead of just leaving you where you stood.

Minho returns your embrace without hesitation.

He holds you so tightly that he pulls you out of your chair, falling to your knees on the floor in front of him, trying desperately to close your ears to the sound of San taking care of Jia. “It’s alright.” Minho murmurs. “It’s okay.” But he’s fuming. He’s on fire with rage, mind racing through a dozen plans to access client records and track down their address and make them regret ever doing such a cruel and calloused thing, and leaving you to deal with it.

It takes a few minutes for you to pull yourself together, awkwardly shuffling out of the half-in-his-lap position that you’d fallen into and seating yourself back at the desk. He kneels on the floor and remains quiet as you wipe at your face, sniffling pathetically into your sleeve. “I’m sorry.” You say again. “I’m so very sorry, I know that this weekend was my first time in the hotel by myself, and I know it was supposed to be an exercise of trust and faith and everything went wrong—”

“Jagi.” Minho lifts himself on his knees so that he can better look you in the eye. “Everything didn’t go wrong. Something happened that was out of our hands before you ever got a job here. Don’t put this on yourself.”

Your eyes close painfully. “Minho, you trusted me with your cats and one of them died. Tell me you don’t have even a second of doubt about trusting me.”

“Not a second.” He says immediately. He takes your hand again. “Not even a second.”

“You don’t know me.”

Minho’s gaze traces every inch of your face, slides down the shaking length of your arms, watches your fingers clench into fists on the surface of the desk. “I do now.”

“Here you go, girlie.” San puts your usual coffee order down on the desk in front of you, pulling up a chair to peer at the computer with you. It’s been just over a week since the incident with Jia, and you’ve finally managed to come to work without feeling heart-shattering panic every time you approach any of the kitty rooms. You smile at him, accepting the hot beverage with grateful hands.

“Thanks San, I’ve been jonesing.”

“I can tell, your foot is doing that twitchy thing.” He rubs your shoulder and props one elbow on the desk. “We busy this morning?”

“Looks like five appointments, most of them pick-ups. We’ll have a lot of rooms to clean.”

“I’ll help.” The voice is succeeded by Minho’s sudden appearance around the corner of the half wall, carrying a pink donut box. “We’ll get it knocked out in no time.” There’s a second of shuffling papers and office supplies around so he has a place to set the donut box, and then he comes around behind your chair to peek at the screen.

You fight a shiver as his breath hits the back of your neck.

“Oh, Ara goes home today.” He murmurs, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “I’m gonna miss her.”

You’ll all miss the tiny Russian Blue who stares at you patiently as you clean her room, and then makes her request with a single, kitten-pitched chirp so that you’ll pick her up and let her snuggle her little head into your throat and purr all your troubles away.

“Have a donut, girlie, he got your favorite.” San picks up an old fashioned cake donut wrapped in a napkin and passes it over to you.

You accept the pastry in silence, feeling Minho’s eyes on the side of your face as you pick crumbs off of it and try to nibble as minutely as you can manage. “Looks like we also have a cat named Bong coming in at eight.”

“Bong’s a sweetheart, he sits on my lap while I do emails.” San says, glancing at you right as you take a small bite and feel your cheek twitch involuntarily. He gives a soft snicker, mouth opening immediately to comment on it, but he never gets the chance.

“Do me a favor and go get started on food prep, would you, San?” Minho requests abruptly.

Glancing at his watch in surprise, San lifts his eyebrows and stands slowly. “Sure thing. Don’t eat all the donuts.” He grabs his coffee and disappears to the front of the facility, leaving you with Minho at the computer.

The boss comes around to sit in the seat that San had vacated. “Can you print the client info for Ara?”

“Of course.” You click around the screen to do as instructed. It’s easy now, navigating the database and booking system, and San regularly complains about how much faster you picked it up than he did. “He wasn’t laughing at me.”

“Sorry?” Minho’s voice is a light hum, but he knows what you’re referring to.

“San. He wasn’t laughing at my face. He knows about the twitch. You’re not the only person I’ve ever eaten in front of.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you?”

You meet his eyes, surprised. “You are special. In an armed mugger kind of way.”

He nudges his knee against yours, jabbing a finger into your ribs at the risk of your voice carrying to San at the front of the room. “Would you shut up?”

“So sorry, boss, I thought you wanted to feel special.”

He frowns, rolling his eyes at you and focusing on the printout you’ve given him. The displeased silence is rolling off of him in waves of tension, striking you with sudden realization.

“Oh my god.” You utter, gaping at him. “You want to feel special.”

He scowls, closing off his expression entirely. “I want to feel like you’re about to get up and do your job.”

The interaction sticks with you for the rest of the shift, tumbling through your thoughts at every turn. No part of it is a surprise or revolutionary in anyway, not after he called you jagiya five minutes after meeting you, or after he basically took you on a sorry-your-boyfriend’s-a-douchebag-but-I-can-do-better date on the night of your birthday, and then he strongly suggested and fully intended for your ex boyfriend to believe that he was your new boyfriend.

No, his attentiveness and interest and softness towards you, while inexplicable, is not a surprise.

What is a surprise, however, is the girlish fluttering happening in your chest at the realization that this man, dubious morals or not, just became flustered in the place of business that he owns because you teased him.

An entire world of possibilities opens up to you.

Possibilities that will come with a very firm, very condition-heavy conversation, but exciting possibilities nonetheless.

Your entire demeanor shifts by the time evening shift rolls around. Punching in your door code, already knowing that San won’t be here since most of the appointments are already done, you shuck your coat and bag into the supply closet. Minho is already here, you can tell by the scent of his laundry detergent and subtle cologne, and for a minute you wonder if he ever left after the morning shift.

He’s in the back with two white kittens named Choco and Nabi, sitting cross-legged in the floor and letting them scamper all over him with frenzied energy.

“Look how cute.” You ease yourself down to the floor next to him, wiggling your finger at Nabi and smiling as she immediately engages in a series of pounces.

“Good evening,” Minho greets flatly, once again maintaining his detached mannerisms.

Your shoulder brushes his as you lean forward to play with the kittens, and you feel him immediately move away from you.

“You can go ahead and get started on rooms whenever you’re ready.” He says, and moves to get up.

“Oh, sure, but, Minho?”

When he turns around, he finds you looking up at him, hand extended for him to help you to your feet as well.

“What?”

“Help me up?” You smile at him, eyes wide and innocent.

He frowns at you, begrudgingly stabbing his hand out to hoist you upright. “Let’s get our work done quickly, I have some things to do tonight.”

“More people to rob?” You chirp cheerfully, like you’re asking him if he’s going to run to the grocery store.

Minho’s expression flattens into severely unimpressed. “Are you never going to let that go?”

“Are you never going to stop mugging people as a hobby?” You grab the broom, dustpan, and trash can, and move into the first room to begin cleaning.

“My personal hobbies are none of your business.”

“They became my business when you held me up on my birthday.”

“I didn’t know it was your birthday.” He steps into the room, leaving a bowl of food for Eun, a big brown tomcat who immediately bumbles over to bury his face in the dish. “And I didn’t mug you.”

“You did, too.” You fire back, sifting the litter box.

“I stole the assface’s company credit card, bought gift cards, and used them to buy kitty litter and latex gloves and cat food. Fucking sue me.” Minho takes the water dish and dumps it, filling it fresh from the tap.

“No, you robbed me, too.” You flash him a sweet smile as you move from Eun’s room to the next one, saying hi to Bobae as she stretches and comes out from her covered bed.

Minho’s face appears in the door window, frowning with confusion. “I’ve never taken anything from you.”

You fake a gasp, pressing one hand to your chest like you’ve been emotionally injured. “You stole the very thoughtful and expensive gift that my loving boyfriend gave me for my birthday.”

There’s a second of recollection before Minho rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Fine, you can have it back.”

You immediately hold out your hand expectantly.

He just gestures to the supply closet. “It’s in there. We use it to clean the litter boxes.”

Your mouth falls open, shocked laughter bursting from your lips. “Oh my god, you’re so bitter.” You turn back to Bobae, kneeling down to run your hands over her white coat. “He’s so bitter, Bobae, baby.” She blinks one blue eye and one green eye up at you. “I think he’s jealous of the assface.” Bobae purrs loudly, bumping your hand with her freckled nose.

“I am not jealous of the assface.” Minho’s voice comes from the front of the room, and then he’s grumpily bringing a bowl of Churu for Bobae. “Here you go, sweetheart, don’t listen to the bad lady.” He scratches her between the ears, shoots you a surly look, and leaves with the water bowl.

“I think he is jealous.” You continue, shaking out the blankets. “Big bad Minho couldn’t even point a gun at me without feeling bad about it, Bobo.”

“Stop lying to my guests.”

Your voice lowers into a sweet croon. “He bought me cake and coffee, and called me cute names, and he told me I deserved better than the sucky boyfriend who forgot I existed.” You pause in sweeping to scratch Bobae’s back. “I think he’s secretly a softie, Bobo.”

“Are you done being delusional?”

“And right when I thought I was never going to see this insane psychopath again, Bobo, you’ll never guess what happened. Guess what happened? That’s right, he found me in trouble again, and jumped in to rescue me again. Does that sound like a big bad man to you, Bobo? I don’t think so.” You get on your hands and knees to run a sterile wipe over the floor, keeping Bobae up on her shelf while it dries.

“Do you mind not feeding your lies to my innocent cats?” Minho glares at you as you exit Bobae’s room and step into Kyong’s. Past the lowered brows and clenched jaw, you can see a flush of heat tingeing his ears a delightful pink.

The big orange cat immediately jumps off his shelf to greet you, no longer hissing his empty threats as he winds around your legs and demands affection. “You would probably understand him better than anyone, wouldn’t you Kyong? Why would a big bad mugger have mercy on me and choose to keep helping?”

“Maybe because he’s used to pathetic charity cases and can’t help himself.”

You start the cleaning process on Kyong’s room. “Why do you think he insisted so strongly that I get rid of my ex boyfriend? Huh, Kyongie? Do you think he likes me? Do you think maybe the big bad mugger Minho likes me just a little, teensy, weensy bit?”

He’s had enough of your ribbing, all delivered in a condescending baby voice for the sake of your adoring kitty guests. Minho opens Kyong’s door, drops off a bowl of food, and stands there, glaring at you. “Are you done making a spectacle of your boss, or are you going to keep talking your way out of a paycheck?” His ears are bright, flaming red.

You turn your back on him, shrugging innocently. “I’m just wondering when my big bad boss is going to go back to being the guy with his arm around my waist who called me jagi like he couldn’t remember my name.”

Utter silence follows in the wake of the bravest thing you’ve ever said to another human being—who carries a gun.

You’re too scared to let the silence fester. “What do you think, Kyongie, do you think he doesn’t like me anymore? Did I put my big fat foot in my big fat mouth? Wasn’t that silly of me? Yeah, I think it was—woah!” You’re halfway through bending down to scoop Kyong up off the floor and set him on his shelf when a pair of hot hands land on your hips, yanking you backwards away from the big orange cat.

The hands slide to your waist, spinning you around, and then you’re pressed into the chest of your boss, who is both entirely fed up with your patronizing crooning and just barely containing his evident excitement at the words that you’re saying to the cat instead of him. “Say that again.” It’s almost a whisper, breath tickling over your cheekbones, arms circling your waist like he doesn’t actually need you to say whatever you’re supposed to be repeating.

“Say what?” You can’t speak, you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything but the hard lines of his body pressed against the soft ones of yours, and the frantic slamming of your heart.

“The part you didn’t say. The part you implied. The part that makes me think that this is exactly what you wanted to happen.” His eyes are darting back and forth between yours, hooded and piercing as they search for the words you haven’t had the guts to say directly.

“I think you like me, Minho.” Somehow you manage to peel off your latex gloves without ruining the moment, resting your clean, bare hands against his chest and breathing in the scent of him, feeling the hammering of his heart against your chest. “I think you like me, and I wish you would stop trying to make me comfortable and just say it.”

His arms tighten around your waist. “And if I say it?”

“You can’t mug people anymore.”

“What about really, really bad people?”

“You can’t be mugging anyone.”

“What if the person is the assface and he definitely deserves it?”

“Maybe I make an exception for the assface.”

“And if I stop mugging people?”

“I’m serious, Minho, I’m not going to jail for aiding and abetting or harboring or whatever crime I automatically commit by doing this.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.” His hips are pressed into yours, his face so close to yours that you’re breathing the same air, and you’ve only got a few more seconds of strangled focus before he completely breaks.

“I’m really, really hoping that the guy I like won’t make me kiss an active criminal.”

You can feel when his heart starts thudding infinitely faster. “No more mugging.” He breathes.

“Just like that?”

“Nothing bad will ever happen to you because of me, jagi. Just like that.”

This is nothing like how you thought this would turn out. You thought you would test the waters, see if your assumptions were correct, spend a little time teasing him and see if you could get a reaction. You never thought you’d lay him bare to a bunch of cats and wait for him to shut you up. You never thought you’d be crushed to his chest, breathing him in, watching his molten eyes burn into yours.

“Are you going to keep distracting me from Kyong or are you gonna do something?”

He kisses you. Hard and feverish, tugging you impossibly closer, his hands gripping your waist like you’re about to slip right through his fingers. Your hips feel like they’re going to give, your knees pressing together to keep you up. This is everything you never thought it could be.

Your hands go around his neck, letting him drag you up against his chest. His mouth presses and sucks and moves against yours, closing around your bottom lip, pushing at your top lip, and when he pauses to see just how badly you regret teasing him, you chase him.

He’s walking back, hitting the wall, fingers kneading at your hips, uttering a low groan as your teeth scrape his lower lip.

“I hope you don’t treat all of your employees like this,” You gasp when you break for air, your body leaned against his and his hands holding you securely by the waist.

He smirks that cunning, catlike smirk at you. “San doesn’t usually pressure me to kiss him this much.”

You scoff, smacking a hand against his chest, only to bite your tongue as he ducks in for another kiss, stealing your breath away. “Just let me do one more job.” He whispers against your mouth.

Your brain physically blinks. “No, Minho.”

His nose pushes at your cheek, lips littering kisses across your jaw. “Please. I promise they’re really sucky people.”

“No, Minho.”

“I’ll bring you back something pretty.” His lips latch to your throat, tongue tickling your skin as you beat lightly at his chest in protest.

“No, Minho!”

“What if they’re really, really sucky people?” He’s making his way down your throat, back up your throat, across your jaw. “What if it’s something really, really pretty?” His lips seal over yours again. You melt into his touch, wishing it didn’t absolutely reduce your brain to mush to be kissed and held by this relentless deviant, but you are completely enchanted by the heat of his touch.

“No more mugging.”

“God,” He kisses you again. “Fine. No more mugging.”

“Are you going to let me finish Kyong’s room?”

“Kyong can wait five more minutes. I’m not done with you yet.”

< part 1

bonus feature banner because I probably won't write a separate cat cafe Choi San fic but the vibes are too good:

tag list : @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @dreamingartist13 @ebnabi @bangtan-sonyeondamn8 @lemonn015 @thepoeticpurplepotato @brbwritingfanfic @skzlover24 @stephanieeeyang @my-neurodivergent-world @xgridx @igotajuicyass @annovaz @robinnotgood24 @butterflybananabread @tirena1 @nougatjade @wickedbutlovely @justiceforvillains

#skz #stray kids #lee know #lee minho #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #skz x you #stray kids x you #lee know x you #lee minho x you #crack horror #choi san #ateez #san #minho #fluff #angst

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stromuprisahat · 1 year ago

Note

If Zoya is so stupid and useless, why was she chosen as one of the Darkling's main people?

Where?

Because in books, she was strong, yet ordinary Squaller. Perhaps promising, but hardly highly ranking, no matter what she likes to believe.

“You look amazing, Zoya! How are you?” gushed Marie. “We missed you so much!” squealed Nadia. “I missed you, too,” Zoya said. “It’s so good to be back at the Little Palace. You can’t imagine how busy the Darkling’s kept me. But I’m being rude. I don’t think I’ve met your friend.”

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 11

What stings, is that everyone knows it. It shows, when Zoya attacks Alina. If she were SOMEONE by herself, wouldn't at least one person note that?

to Ivan “... Please tell me you were there when he [the Darkling] told Zoya she’d be leaving Os Alta.” “I was.” “And?” I urge as we head down the hill to the birch grove. I’m a greedy thing, but how can I be expected to resist this gossip? Ivan shrugs, scowling. “He just made it clear that she’s replaceable and Starkov isn’t.”

The Tailor

Marie rolled her eyes. “She can’t bear the idea of anyone being the Darkling’s favorite.” I laughed and then winced at the stab of pain in my side. “I’m hardly his favorite.” “Of course you are. Zoya’s powerful, but she’s just another Squaller. You’re the Sun Summoner.”

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 11

She's rash, and to lead or bear considerable amount of responsibility, she'd need to unlearn that, start thinking about others and most importantly about impact of her (in)action. It might be why she was stationed near the Fold. I've theorised about it a few months back- it's the ideal position for her. She's (partly) answerable for the skiff and people on it, but danger comes in predictable form of volcra. It's the perfect place to learn what she's lacking.

She's barely out of school, she lacks experience- why would the Darkling give her important position, when he has hundreds of people to choose from? What's "main" about the person, who's driving a skiff?

Now where did the notion she's the Darkling's super special girl come from?

“Zoya Nazyalensky, who was one of the Darkling’s most favored soldiers.”

Yuri Vedenen; King of Scars- Chapter 9

That's an information coming from religious fanatic, several years after the Darkling's death AND merry application of current regime's propaganda.

Have you ever noticed how there's not a single mention of Ivan post-his death? We don't even know his surname. Aside from him, there's not one (1) named Grisha from his side.

It's easy to be remembered as the favourite, when you erase existence of anyone else.

Even in her memories, she's among the promising ones, yet not favoured, not hand-picked.

“... I was the youngest of the group and so proud to be chosen to go. I was half in love with him already. I lived for the rare moments he appeared at the school.” She shook her head. “I was the best, and I wanted him to see that … The older Grisha were all in contention for the amplifier. It was up to them to track the tigers and see who would earn the right to the kill. ...”

King of Scars- Chapter 27

The interest is one-sided, Zoya draws the Darkling's attention by stealing three amplifiers from other Grisha, her recklessness and short-sightedness, not her capability.

The closest we get to some sort of recognition, is in Aleksander's chapter in RoW, when he points out her deficiencies and admits some of it made her work hard.

And if Zoya ever learned to harness the power she’d been given? She was still vulnerable, still malleable. Her anger made her easy to control. When this war was done and the casualties counted, she might once more be in need of a shepherd. She had been one of his best students and soldiers, her envy and her rage driving her to train and fight harder than any of her peers. And then she’d turned on him.

Rule of Wolves- Chapter 26

I have one (rather big) objection- Zoya has never been a good soldier. She failed twice on rather important occasions- the amplifier and Alina incidents-, proving her self-control is lacking. That rage he's for some reason praising here, makes her dangerous to those peers she's trying to outdo.

But hey- he barely crawled back from the dead, his mental skills won't be at their best- why would he plan to manipulate Zoya without a single mention of Juris? The Saint isn't gonna disappear any time soon (if ever), and he's hardly Aleksander's fan.

#reply #Grishaverse #Zoya Nazyalensky #The Darkling #grishanalyticritical #S&B Chapter 11 #The Tailor #KoS Chapter 9 #KoS Chapter 27 #RoW Chapter 26 #books #quotes #Leigh Bardugo #anti Zoya #ish #Sure #she likes to believe herself important #but who doesn't?

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facetimebuddies · 1 year ago

Text

"After more than half a century of occupation, dispossession, oppression and apartheid, the Palestinian people’s cries for justice have been heeded by an eminent organ of the United Nations.

Today, Israel stands before the international community. It’s crimes against the Palestinians laid bare. Since October last year, the people of Gaza have been the victims of bombardment and strikes from land, sea, and air. Homes, refugee camps, and entire neighborhoods have been destroyed and not even schools and hospitals and religious places have been spared. The people of Gaza have been deprived of electricity, fuel, food, and medical supplies.

According to the United Nations, more than 25,000 have been killed during Israels war with Hamas. And we hold the view that this has been collective punishment against Palestinians in the Gaza strip. Among the dead are relief workers, United Nations staff who have died in the hundreds as well as generalists who have also died in the hundreds. More than 16,000 of the dead are women and children. In October 2023, the United Nations Children’s Fund said “Gaza has become a graveyard for thousands of children, born and unborn.” According to the United Nations, thousands of children were killed in just the first 3 weeks of the current conflict.

As South Africa argued in it’s application to the International Court of Justice, the high civilian death toll and the sheer scale of the devastation that has resulted from Israel’s response to the 7th October attacks is vastly disproportionate to any claim by Israel that it has been acting in self-defense."

Statement from South Africa's President - His Excellency Cyril Ramaphosa

------

Thank you South Africa. Thank you for standing up for the people of Gaza, the Palestinian people, and oppressed people everywhere. This will go down in History. ❤

#free palestine #free gaza #icj hearing #icj case #south africa #international court of justice #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #yes i was listening to the response to the ICJ hearing and typing this out while at work #i'm sitting here just in shock that the ICJ did not call for an immediate ceasefire but the response from South Africa is amazing

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drawing-prompt-s · 2 years ago

Note

Any updates?

Not any good ones.

I didn't want to flood you guys with the Salem post and I've been a bit off since starting my new medication. I had a few doctor visits in a day that were really throwing me for the loop.

Salem is still missing and i'm reeling because it has been over 2 months now. 2 and a half.

I have gotten no new leads. The most I keep hearing from people is "Oh, someone probably picked her up and is keeping her" - which, why would people keep telling me that like it's a good thing?

Someone keeps ripping her posters down at the post office - not the workers - so I keep putting that back up.

I have been wanting to do new poster designs and put up a cash reward for a few hundred, but I am unable to do so, becuase I am already very short on rent. I don't make that much paycheck to paycheck as is and push it. So this is just - it sucks.

But I have been unable to really look for her these last two weeks. My job is based on task availability - it's how I get my hours. It is a first come, first serve kind of deal. Which is usually not an issue. But it is an issue when the job itself isn't uploading any tasks into the system for about two weeks.

I've been so focused on that because I am already barely skimming by. And right now my paycheck is about to be a couple hundreds short, so fuck me. Sorry for the language. I am looking for another job by the way, I just haven't been getting any responses to my applications.

And today is worse because apparently the WiFi got knocked out while I was taking a nap???? my phone data is not unlimited, this is not gonna last. Which means i can't work much or at all today either. Until they fix it, which likely won't be until later tonight. Because my apartments slack on everything and then still turn around and charge my $700 in rent money, that I'll barely be making a dent in.

I'm gonna reblog the cat post and link it here for any donations or just if anyone has missed what has been going on with Salem - paypal is best at this point becuase GoFundMe takes a hot minute.

-- Prompt prophet

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novaalexander · 3 years ago

Text

Swinging - Chapter Two

MCU!Peter Parker x Reader

chapter one

everything novaalexander

Synopsis - A rocky friendship between Peter and Y/N didn’t end smoothly. So when Peter comes back into y/n’s life in full swing, Senior year becomes a lot more than just college applications.

Before you read - kinda lazily written. im very tired so apologizing in advanced

Word Count 1092

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh. Fuck off.

I tried to mask the fact that I was more than worried about the state of Peter’s body, allowing myself to relish in the selfishness — mind drifting to how I would rather lay back in bed than open my window. But I knew how this went. The second I pulled his heaving body through the small open square in my room, I’d be rushing to patch up every torn inch of his skin. I remembered the hundreds of times I’d done this before, the first being the night Peter told me he was Spider-man. It was a memory I would always go back to if I thought about him for too long, but a feeling I felt only in my nightmares now.

It took me more than a few seconds to shake off the feeling of seeing Peter on the fire escape again, but before I knew it I made quick work of the window latch, throwing myself onto the metal landing. I didn’t have time to assess the damage before I started hoisting him into my room with his arm wrapped loosely around my shoulders, keeping my grasp on his torso tight.

“Hey Pete,” I whispered as my feet hit my room’s hardwood floor, “Pete… Can you stand?” His response was barely a shake of his head, followed by a wince that meant he probably gained a headache along with the cuts scattered on his body. “Alright Pete, I’m gonna need you to kick your legs over the window sill, I have you from there.”

His arm was still draped around me as he slowly moved to bring himself through the window. “Atta boy, you’re doing good.” Every sudden movement made him wince, and every wince of pain pushed his body weight further into my shoulders.

Once his legs dangled over the small white ledge under the window, I moved between his legs. “Okay Pete, place your other arm on this shoulder,” I patted my left shoulder, his left arm still pressed heavily on my right shoulder. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to lift him fully, I opted to lower him onto the ground. I placed a hand on his back to guide him off the window sill, letting him place all of his weight on me. I felt the warmth of his breath as he finally stood slumped in front of me, his tall height shortened while he hunched over holding his ribs.

I managed to bring his half-limp body to my bed fairly quick, letting his body fall backwards as I searched for the first aid kit—reminded of a time that even after Peter and I stopped talking, I still made use of the red bag under my bed. Nights he would land on my fire escape and let me bandage him up wordlessly, leaving the way he came the second I placed the last bandage.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, do not go through that window,” I urged. I watched Peter realize that I had spoken directly to him, and he froze.

At this point, Peter and I haven’t spoke in six months, but our nightly doctor appointments stayed constant. It was wordless, a quick patch up, then over before any conversation started. August before junior year did away with civil communication between us, so bandages were our libretto.

I didn’t have to speak again, he knew the question that was itching my throat, and part of me already knew the answer.

“You’re the only one who knows, you know that.”

I was the only person who knew, the day I found out was similar to this one. Yet for some reason, the feeling that he was lying stuck.

My stare made him uncomfortable, he gave that away as his hunched body straightened and he rocked this feet on the ground.

“I think it’s better if you don’t come to me for this sort of thing anymore,” I breathed out slowly, waiting for him to finally look at me. “You don’t speak when you’re here, you don’t speak to me at all actually. Why don’t you ask Liz for help, since she seems to know you so much better than I do,” I wasn’t whispering anymore.

“Shut up, y/n.” He looked at me. For the first time in what had been months, his eyes met mine for more than half a second as he made his way towards my seat on the bed. “She doesn’t know me better than you do and you fucking know that. You think I’d tell her about this?” He pushed his mask into my chest, letting it fall from his hands into my lap. “Maybe if you knew how to stop being so fucking jealous all the time, things could have stayed the way they were.”

I looked at the floor, grasping the fabric between two tight fists, before holding it out in front of me with one hand. I didn’t bother to look up, “Just go, Peter.”

After grabbing the medikit, I finally let my eyes trace over his ripped apart suit. Blood had dried around three large gashes on his stomach. The bruise on his left cheek had already yellowed, and the cut just under it had dried to brown.

Unlike our final six months, I filled the quiet air with silent praises towards Peter as I pushed disinfectant into his wounds. I’d never seen him look like this. I wasn’t able to unzip his suit, so I had to make do with the access the tears in the red and blue fabric allowed.

Peter barely moved aside from silent flinches as I applied pressure to his wounds. Even then I had to check his pulse what felt like every few seconds, convincing myself that I imagined the subtle movements and the boy was laying dead in the same place I’d once seen him sleeping next to me.

I did imagine it, lucky, but by the time I patched him up to the best of my ability, he was completely asleep. His lower half laid hanging off my bed, and it took the little energy I had left to make sure his body was completely under the covers of the queen sized mattress.

I looked at the clock on my phone to see ‘3:32′ in bold white before shutting it off. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep on the couch without prompting suspicion from my family, I opted for a few blankets on the floor. Using two hoodies from my hamper as DIY pillows, I fell asleep sprawled on the hardwood.

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A/N short short short chapter because I want to get to writing a second part to Grew Apart, but also need to grind out a college personal essay And portfolio so you get a little glimpse into the past with this. :D

#peter parker #spiderman #peter parker x reader #spiderman homecoming #mcu!peter x reader #mcu!peter #mcu!peter parker #spiderman x reader #tom holland!peter parker x reader #tom holland spiderman #mcu!spiderman x reader

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himbo-beel · 4 years ago

Text

His Hands, in Yours

Idle hands led to idle thoughts, and Barbatos’ thoughts traveled endlessly as he moved about the kitchen with little purpose. Breakfast had been made and served and brought back down again; the counters had been wiped down, the dishes stacked in the sink, and the next meal’s courses planned out. Until the young lord’s responsibilities required his assistance, whether it be an energizing cup of tea or motivating catch of an eye, his duties were to him and him alone.

A rare treat, if he considered the many things he had left untended the previous week. The flowers in the garden were in need of a trim and the decor outside the castle’s walls rearranged to reflect the upcoming holidays. Lucifer had yet to turn in his reports and if both legwork and time could be limited by Barbatos’ assistance, a walk to Lucifer’s office along with a small detour to a tea shop for a sample he had eyed earlier in the week could be of us.

Barbatos’ growing list of activities was halted in its work at the press of something cold and sharp against his thumb and he glanced down, blinking as future thoughts returned to the present to widen at the sight of a blade of a knife not yet put away pressing a crease into his glove. Carefully, Barbatos and moved to take it from the handle instead and bring it to its companions in the sink. The flowers could wait a moment longer, enough to finish up here, and then he could -

He froze, back stiffening and lungs heavy with the breath he could not exhale as water hit his hand. A mountain, ice at its top, a river at its bottom, cold and fresh as it flowed yet warm where it ran between his fingers to splash against the dishes. A pair of hands, not his own, fitted the sink into the kitchen and Barbatos turned the tap off. He turned his hand over and he finally breathed, shaky, at the sight of a thin sliver of skin between the split seam of a glove.

Another breath, a long, deep sigh filled with more than just mere memories but of future events, too, passed between thin lips and he slowly peeled the glove off. Such powerful magics so delicately torn by the snapping of the thinnest thread. It would need to be repaired.

His young Master would not be pleased. Yet, there were worst fates he knew. He knew well.

Barbatos knew many things. He was aware of his power, of its potency and its latency. Small fragments of its application were useful to keep an eye on the castle and it’s occupants, to prepare for an event of any size or any reason. Devastation and chaos was merely a second away, whether it came in the form of a misspoken word or a missed step or a misplaced item, none of which would escape his eye in neither past or future. Productivity and contentedness came with a perfectly timed warm drink and easily reached new pen, all opportunities that came to mind as naturally to him as they did magically.

He had no choice, no say, now in how or when or which he could perceive, and Barbatos’ steps were slow and hesitant as he made his way through the castle to Lord Diavolo’s study, flashes of each blinding him with each blink of his eyes. A thousand lights, a thousand worlds, behind closed lids and none born simply of the imagination but of choices and possibilities and Barbatos stumbled the final step, a hand strecthing out to support him as he reached for the door.

A soft sound of surprise, of regret, of hurt, hissed through pursed lips as bare skin latched onto cold brass. Just as dozens, hundreds of other hands before. Barbatos saw them, one atop the other, an array of shakes and sizes and he pulled back, holding his wrist and tucking his fish against his chest as if burned.

The door clicked and he took a step back, brows lifting in wonder if he had opened it, if another had, if the future had, and wide eyes lifted to meet Diavolo’s own.

The surprise reflected in them did not dim and Barbatos cursed himself for not being as prepared as he should have been. This was not a new situation. This was not an unavoidable situation. It would not be the last, either, he knew, and yet he could not shake the weight of unfamiliarity and dusting of uncertainty that settled upon his shoulders. Not in time, at least, for Diavolo to see it.

“Come in.”

No order could be refuted from his young lord and Barbatos stepped inside. He kept his hands close to his sides. “My Lord-”

“What happened.”

Barbatos spread his hands, his gloves held in them, one sliced along the edge, the other blotched with a singular stain of dark pink. Guilt stayed his words and uncertainly locked his lips and he lowered his eyes to them rather than the growing look of concern on his young lord’s face. Such a gift, so ruined. Such a miracle, so tarnished. His fingers curled around the fabric and he could feel nothing but the lingering warmth of them.

“I apologize,” he managed. “I was careless when cleaning-”

“Are you hurt?”

Barbatos held his hands out, turning them over for display before tucking them back to his sides. The small cut had long since stopped itself, no need no concern neither now nor later. It was not for his skin, he knew, that Lord Diavolo asked of himself, but it was the only truth he could assure him of.

Barbatos ducked his head under Lord Diavolo’s frown. “I need only a new pair before resuming my duties.”

The creak of the study’s chair echoed in his head. “I can give you a new pair, of course, but I doubt about your duties. New gloves are easily enough acquired but the spell put on them to limit your powers needs time.”

Barbatos could not move, not to nod at his master’s words or turn from the truth or suggest another course of action. There were many others, of course they were, Barbatos could see them all whether he wished to or not. A day spent in agony as he waded through timelines or one spent in darkness as he hid from himself. One spent under the care of his young Lord, suffocating under guilt and false reassurances and a careful eye. One, worst of all, spent outside, unable to enjoy the freedom of a day off given to him. Others and more flooded across his eyes, blocking the sight of the desk and the demon that sat behind it, could not see his hands type furiously on his phone, could not see him rise from his seat in a panic to cross the room, until Barbatos could see nothing but his own swimming vision.

“Barbatos.”

“My Lord.” He could see him now, golden eyes and a clenched jaw, his hands curled tight around his wrists. He could feel the tease of magic bury itself under his skin and keep his own at bay. The same spell imbued in the threads of his gloves now coursed through his veins and shame was buried beneath relief as his head cleared.

“Lucifer has something similar to your gloves in his room to use in the meantime. He’ll be bringing it over as soon as he’s able and we can prepare another set. A second one, too, in case this happens again.” Barbatos nodded, eyes slipping closed and reveling in the simple darkness behind them. “Stay here for now. I-”

“My duties, my Lord-”

“Can wait. You’re in no shape for more today.”

The words brook no argument and defiance filled him nonetheless. Confidence born from the moments of relief urged him to decline. “They are simple but important matters.”

“That can be done later. Or tomorrow, even.” Barbatos opened his eyes to give him a level look. “A cup of tea would be nice, I’ll admit.”

“At once, young Master.”

The tea was brought. The floors were also swept. Lunch that had been previously prepared was taken out and furniture was dusted and silverware polished. Sweat beaded Barbato’s brow. His feet dragged across the floors. His teeth ground against each other as he moved from task to task, visions of times that had happened and not yet come overlaying one on top of the other with each new duty. Diavolo’s spell had long since faded and only rising anxiety made his skin crawl in place of the magic that had soothed his being.

It could not stop him. It would not stop him. Had he forgotten what he once was? Who he currently was? He had all of time in his hands, the memories of broom or the future of an apple were mere sparks of his abilities.

Dozens of such sparks were growing to be too much, by the end of the day, and Barbatos leaned against the wall, shoulders heaving with the effort of holding himself up against the timelines that flowed through the halls and threatened to pull him under.

“Barbatos!”

Was it his young Lord calling for him? Or was it his Father? Lucifer? Which version? His head swam as he tried to place the sound of the voice that called him and tried to recognize the face that neared him at a quick pace.

It was neither, not Lucifer, not Lord Diavolo, no demon at all. It was you.

Was Lucifer too busy? Had you come to break the news to him that, he, too, held no hope for him this day? Your face would not be enough to ease the helplessness of such a turn of events but it would be some comfort, at least, to hear your voice break through the noise that filled his head.

Barbatos stood up straight, ready for whatever words you brought.

He was not ready for what you did.

His eyes widened as he took a step back as you neared, arms raised. He could not think to touch you, not like this. How much he wished to. How much he wished to be enveloped in your warmth and your comfort but how much, too, he wished for you and only you. Not your pasts. Not your futures. Only you.

And yet you came, still.

Arms raised.

Hands against his face, palms cupping his cheeks.

And he felt your heat. He felt the silk of the gloves you wore on your hands, a familiar magic sown into the stitching and a magic that only you and your presence could provide.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me barbatos #obey me diavolo #obey me mc #gn!mc #my writing #wow this is hot garbage but at least i finally wrote it #it didn't come out anything like i wanted and i'm a little frustrated by it #but at least the beginning is good #maybe i'll rewrite this later

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moonchildstyles · 5 years ago

Text

chiaroscuro

chiaroscuro part one: y/n needed a job, but this place is strange and the owner is even stranger

wordcount: 10.5k+

—————

(Y/N) was broke. Like, really fucking broke.

Rationally, she knew that life as a fresh college graduate wasn't going to immediately fall into place, but she thought—maybe—the new credentials might actually help. But she's three months out, and no one has bothered to even give her a call back about any applications she's sent out and she's so broke. Just to add to the stress, her roommate—Charlotte—had broke the news to her the other day that she was planning on moving in with her boyfriend. (Y/N) could barely afford the apartment with the double income, but she knew she definitely couldn't afford it now. She does admit it was kind of dumb to have prematurely quit her job the weekend after graduation, but she was so excited to start her life, really start it. Now, with less than a hundred dollars in her bank account, a flat she was fully responsible for, and no job offers, she's panicking. She spent all her time on indeed and other sites trying to find any kind of listing she qualified for and applying to anything she might even have the slightest shot at.

It wasn't until her fifth day in a row looking nonstop, during the late night hours (early morning at this point) did she find a listing that she actually got excited for. It definitely wasn't her field, but the benefits were everything she was looking for. The listing called for a "Housekeeper/Sitter For Sprawling Manor". It seemed easy enough, with pretty good pay for the work, and it was a live-in position so she wouldn't have to worry about rent. The owner of the manor was rarely ever home, as the listing quoted, so it would be like being paid to live alone. It also helped that whoever wrote the listing seemed to have high energy, an affinity towards exclamation points, and pointed out more than once that no experience was needed just "enthusiasm and the willingness to learn!!"

Googling the manor—Styles Manor—brought up artistic shots of a truly sprawling mansion. The building separated into two wings, converging in the center with a rounded bulb making the roof. It was beautiful, and definitely not the kind of Gothic, decrepit castle she was expecting when reading through of the owner's "eccentric taste" in decor. With no hesitation, she filled out the automated application and attached her resume before pressing submit. She sent out all the good vibes and prayers and anything that could possibly manifest for her to get this job. Then, she proceeded to fall asleep in the blink of an eye.

She didn't even realize how long her "nap" was until she woke up at 3:30 in the afternoon from the buzzing of her phone. She didn't bother to look at the caller ID, tapping the green button and rolling over before pressing the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she said groggily into the receiver. She fought to keep her eyes open as they kept sliding shut from exhaustion.

"Hi! Is this (Y/N)?" an excited Irish accent sounded through the phone, "My name is Niall from Styles Manor."

Shit.

She bolted upright, now fully awake. "Oh, hi! Yes it is! Uh—Thank you so much for getting back to me so soon!"

"Of course." She could hear his smile through the speaker, infecting her as giddy nerves passed through her body. "I saw your application this morning, and I was wondering if you could come in for an interview tomorrow?"

"Yes! I mean of course, what time were you thinking?" She basically bounced off the bed, pacing her room to let out the energy in her body.

They ironed out the rest of the details, (Y/N) agreeing to any of his suggestions. Once bidding their goodbyes, (Y/N) can't help but prance around her apartment. Finally—finally—someone got back to her, and it wasn't a degrading, minimum wage, retail job! Niall sounded so nice, she couldn't imagine any problems she could have working for him. She sent out the same good vibes and prayers as she had before (they seemed quite effective at this point), then proceeded to stress about what to wear tomorrow.

Not only did she need this job, she actually wanted it. She had a really good feeling about this one.

—————

It was 11:23–seven minutes early—when (Y/N) pulled into the long, gravel driveway of the manor. She had texted Charlotte all about the opportunity the day before, quickly snapping a photo of the building and sending it to her before collecting her things. She took three deep breaths, centering herself before she exited her car. She stepped up the bundle of steps leading to the door, feeling incredibly small as she stood in front of the mansion.

She knew it was large, but seeing it in person was a whole other beast. The house felt like it's own entity almost; no wonder the pay was so good, it'd take a week to clean the whole place only to have to start over again on Monday. Just as she raised her hand to knock on the elaborately carved double doors, they swung open. A man with bright blue eyes, dark brunette hair, and a bright smile greeted her in the threshold of the door.

"Hi, I'm Niall!" he introduced, sticking his hand out for her to shake, "You're (Y/N) I'm assuming?"

"Yes, I am," she continued, gently bouncing their hands between them. "It's nice to meet you."

Niall reciprocated the gesture before ushering her inside. "Let's go to the study. We'll do the interview there, yeah?"

She agreed with a nod of her head, following him inside as he closed the heavy door behind her. He started walking through the foyer, leading her to the study. (Y/N) followed behind, her eyes trained on the decor and overall intricacy of the furnishings. While the outside seemed more like a lavish, English mansion on the countryside, the inside spoke a story similar of that to the Palace Of Versailles. The color palette widely utilized whites and golds, detailed frescos stretched across the ceilings, and carved frames held just as elaborate paintings on the walls. It all screamed excess.

Niall slowed in front of her, stopping by a set of double doors similar to the carved ones that welcomes her in. He flashed her another bright smile as he turned to speak to her, "What do you think? It's pretty intense, huh?"

Once he had the door open, he stepped aside, gesturing for (Y/N) to go ahead first. The walls were piled high with shelves upon shelves of books, all the bindings seemed to be faded, having been cracked open hundreds of times and showing the wear and tear. The flooring matched that of the rest of the home, marble beneath her feet with dark oak cases holding the books.

"I wouldn't say intense," she started, "Definitely nothing I've ever seen in real life before, but it's like something out of a storybook. It doesn't belong in this century."

Niall let out a small laugh at her words, leading her to a large desk sitting in front of a sprawling warped glass window. "You could say that," he joked, a smile on his face like he knew something she didn't. He pulled out the seat in front of the desk, gesturing for (Y/N) to take a seat before moving around to the other side and claiming his own chair.

"So, tell me about yourself."

The rest of the interview proceeded as if she wasn't sitting in what she was sure was a multimillion dollar mansion. He asked the handful of basic questions she'd heard at other interviews previously, seeming to be pleased with each of her answers if his kind smile was anything to go by.

"How do you feel about living here alone? It's really an independent job, so we would trust that you would actually do the work and earn your keep," he asked, branching off into more specific questions.

"Yeah, of course! It'd be like taking care of your own home, I'd think. Obviously, if you had any preferences about how the manor is kept, I'd stick to those rules and anything else you'd like," she explained with a smile. Hopefully, that was the right way to answer; she just wanted Niall to like her.

"Oh no, I'm not the owner. This is actually my friend Harry's home. He's away at the moment, and trusted me to find his housekeeper."

"Oh," she exhaled, slightly embarrassed at her lack of awareness, "Sorry, I had no idea! If I were to get the job, would I meet Harry—er—Mr. Styles? I know the listing said he's not here often."

"It's okay, I should have let you know," Niall started, his smile never faltering. "You would at some point, but he's not due back for another month or so. When he is back in town, though, he usually prefers his housekeepers to be out, or find somewhere to stay for that time frame. He enjoys being alone."

Niall rolled his eyes at the end of his statement, clearly unapproving of his friend's preferences. (Y/N) couldn't help but be a little surprised at that. Especially with a home this extravagant, wouldn't the owner want to know who's looking after everything? Even with her small apartment, she wouldn't hand it over to just anyone a friend picked. It's just a little odd, she thinks.

"I'd give you a notice of when he's coming, so you'd have time to make arrangements if need be," Niall continued. (Y/N) nodded her head, ready to ask another question about this Harry, before Niall hurriedly checked the time on his watch before running a hand through his hair. "I actually have another meeting in a half hour, so I'll give you a call later today to tell you your start date and everything else you'll need to know. Is that okay?"

He was already collecting himself, stepping away from the desk and towards the doors they entered through not even a thirty minutes before. (Y/N) stumbled behind him, taken aback by the implication of his words.

"I got the job!?" She gasped, a large smile stretching across her features. Her hands worried the strap of her bag. She couldn't believe all it took was applying to this one job, for her search to be over in less than twenty-four hours.

"Yeah, I get the feeling you'd be good for this place." He gestured her ahead of him, opening the carved door for her. (Y/N) bounced through the threshold, giddy over his words.

"Thank you, so much! I won't let you down, I'm so excited to start. Please let Mr. Styles know that I really appreciate this opportunity, and it means a lot," she gushed, following him out to the foyer they started in.

"Of course, of course," he prattled, checking something on his phone. "Go on home and start packing, I'll call you soon."

He ushered her out with the same bright smile on his face. She called out one more declaration of her appreciation over her shoulder before she felt her bicep bump against something. It was firm and unmoving against the force, causing (Y/N) to stumble back a step. When she looked, she had bumped into the arm of a tall, lean man with shoulder length hair. His face was stoic not giving away any of his emotions. He was dressed immaculately, like he fit in with the rich surroundings of the mansion. But the thing that struck (Y/N) the most was the pale grey, almost white irises of his eyes. Next to him was a dark-haired woman with a much gentler expression, but the same dove grey eyes.

She tried her hardest to hide her shock at his appearance, keeping her face as neutral as possible. "Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going," she apologized, shooting him a quick, forced smile before hurrying towards her car. As she climbed in, she could hear Niall greet the pair, inviting them in. When she looked back, she didn't see Niall's previously bright blue eyes. His irises were replaced with the matching dull grey of his companions. His smile faltered when he saw her looking at him, the sea glass blue of his eyes returning in a blink as he waved her off.

Even after he closed the door behind him, (Y/N) couldn't help but sit in her parked car for a beat longer. She didn't like to judge anyone, but... that was fucking weird.

—————

Only hours after the interview was rushed to an end, Niall called (Y/N) asking her to start the following Monday. She felt a shot of excitement run through her after the call.

Finally—finally—she had something to look forward to. And it was an actually good job. On the phone, Niall had ran through all of the benefits again, her starting pay, and what to expect, and she just couldn't believe her luck. It was almost too good to be true; there had to be something wrong. Nothing's that perfect without a catch.

She and Charlotte spent their last day in the apartment together packing up all of their things. They had moved their shared furniture into storage, some going up for sale on different sites while others were to be kept until one of them had the space for it. The last portion of the day was spent saying a tearful goodbye to the apartment that got them through their university years, and to each other. They parted ways with a promise to see each other often, and to text each other at least once a day. (Y/N) really would miss Charlotte, but she couldn't wait to get started on this new chapter.

The next morning, the Monday she was set to start her new job, (Y/N) woke up early with a bounce in her step like a kid the morning of a fieldtrip. Once she arrived at the manor, Niall met her outside. His bright blue eyes (she had convinced herself that it had just been a trick of the light that made his irises look funny the week before) and familiar smile greeted her as she exited her car.

"Morning!" Niall called, bouncing down the steps at the base of the manor, "I wanted to help you move in if that's okay?"

(Y/N) eagerly nodded, popping her trunk where all her clothing and other keepsakes were bundled. She and Niall made small talk as they brought her few bags in, handled in one trip. He led her down the decadent hallways, and up a flight of curving stairs before stopping in front of a door. He twisted the gold doorknob, pushing the door open wide with a flourish as if presenting the space to her. She took a step inside, immediately in awe of the surroundings that now made up her home.

The room was topped with high, over-arching ceilings, decorated in a fresco of a heaven-like scene. The rest of the room was coordinated in a palette of whites and golds with accents of an earthy green. A large, four-poster canopy bed sat as the centerpiece of the room; white and gold bedding, green throw pillows adding color to the lavish bed. The posters of the bed boasted carvings of angels and vines winding up the dark wood, converging to a trellis like grid above the mattress where a breezy white curtain veiled the bed. An ornate, marble-topped vanity sat by a large window, the mirror framed in a gold plated ribbon as if it really were a portal to another dimension. A large wardrobe filled a space right next to the door to which she assumed the bathroom was. It was a room fit for a princess; something she remembers dreaming of when she small.

"Do you like it?" Niall interrupted her fawning of the room. He placed her bags next to the door before leaning against the frame with a smug smile on his face.

"Its—It's beautiful," she breathed. "I know I've said this before, but please, please tell Mr. Styles that it means so much that he's allowing me to stay here, and just, this opportunity means so much to me. Thank you too, for picking me for the position."

"Of course; I told you I think you'll be good for this place, so you don't need to thank me," he beamed. He checked something on his phone before typing out a quick reply and looking back to (Y/N). "I've got some things to do today, so I'll let you get settled in. You've not got to start working or anything today, just take today to get familiar with the house."

(Y/N) stepped forward, an appreciative smile on her face still. "Thank you anyway," she said, her fingers playing with one another, "It means a lot."

Niall shot her a smile before saying his goodbyes and leaving down the hall. She spun around, looking at all of the intricacies that surrounded her in her new home. She sighed and fell backwards atop her plush bed.

She could get used to this.

—————

It only took (Y/N) a few hours to put all of her things away. Her clothing hung up in the wardrobe, the rest folded in the chest of drawers at the foot of her bed. Her toiletries found a home in the equally as lavish bathroom, with her vanity table now decorated in her beauty products and skincare. She littered her keepsakes around the room; framed photos of herself with family and friends propped up on the side tables, sentimental ticket stubs bundled together on her vanity, and a soft, pink cat shaped pillow on the center of the bed. Aside from all of the foreign furnishings, the room was beginning to feel like home to her.

With her headphones in, listening to her favorite album of the moment, she decided to go about exploring the rest of the manor.

She tried to remember the very limited tour Niall had given her while he led her up to her room. Now without giddy, first-day nerves coursing through her, she was able to appreciate the artwork hanging along the walls and decorating the ceilings. In quick passing, the canvases depicted divine scenes, some showing angels, others showing tranquil landscapes. But now, with the time to examine the paint strokes closer, she noticed the pieces are kind of... off.

In the landscape scenes, trees held the faint features of distorted faces screaming in agony with their eyes wide in deep trepidation. Swirling pools of once peaceful ponds, now showcased inklings of blood dripping in at the edge from an unknown source. In the angelic paintings, (Y/N) noticed the subjects had no pupils or irises to their eyes. It was as if the sclera encompassed the entire eye, leaving an expressionless gaze on the small, blushing cherubs. The angels in some and humans in other's, all held the same white eyes, while some had sharp smiles. Some of the subjects even had eerily placed dots of blood on their clothing or in small spots surrounding them. A translucent shadow lurked in the background of many of the scenes; in some, the shadow stayed to the back, shading different areas of the painting. While in others, the shadow hovered around the foreground of the different scenes. They almost seemed vampiric with the placing of each of the elements. Demonic even.

It was... eerie.

But, art is art right? Some people like darker expressions, and who is she to judge?

She continued wandering through, trying not to focus too much on the artwork anymore. She found her way to the kitchen in her wing (there's four kitchens! Rich people, huh?). She began looking through the cupboards and fridge, looking for something to make a small lunch for herself.

The cabinets were clumsily stocked, full of odd selections of food (four jars of peanut butter sat on one shelf, and a random stalk of celery was placed on the top shelf all alone). The fridge was stocked full of different cuts of raw meat flanked by wedges of cheese she's never even heard of. Whoever had done the shopping must have been the middle of a bout of weird cravings, and put everything away in a chaotic rush. But, it's food, so she isn't going to complain.

She made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before retreating to her room. She pulled Netflix up on her laptop, finally settling down and relaxing. The past week she feels like she'd been going nonstop, riding a wave of giddy energy ever since she got the first call for an interview. It wasn't until she finished eating and got halfway through a Scooby-Doo movie did she realize just how tired she was.

Just as it started misting rain outside, (Y/N) fell asleep.

—————

(Y/N) lazily blinked her eyes open in the dark of her new room as she awoke from her nap. She blearily looked out the window, seeing the moon now high in the sky. Drops of sprinkling rain trickled down the panes of glass, creating small distorted rivers in her line of sight. A light fog draped across the grounds outside, making the night seem even darker.

Wait... night?

She didn't mean to sleep so long; usually she wakes from her naps after an hour or so, not five. She swung her legs over the side of her king sized bed, shocked at the chill of the marble floor beneath her toes. She padded out of the room, trailing down the hall and tracing the now familiar way to the kitchen. She poured herself some water, peeking out of the window above the sink to the backyard. A thicket of trees fenced the grounds, all bare of leaves from the cold seasons. The fog seemed thicker out back than it had in the front lawn that she could view from her room.

Just as (Y/N) took her first sip of her water, a shadow materialized in the fog. The shadow seemed human at first, the condensation fuzzying the edges of the form. The shadow began moving forward, and she then realized that whatever was out there, was definitely not human.

The shadow was large, tall like the spindling branches it had emerged from. The creature boasted large, gnarled shoulders whittling down to bone thin arms that stretched so long that the hands drug on the ground beside its feet. The outline of the torso looked almost lumped, like it's organs laid out atop the bones instead of caged in by its ribs. The legs were just as grotesquely thin as the arms, the knees crunching at an odd angle with each limping step it took.

What the fuck.

A shocked gasp stole all the breath from her lungs as she stumbled back from the window. She scrambled to get away from the pane—from the creature—as fast as she could, fearing it would see her and find its way inside. In her panic, she forgot about the cup of water in her hand that had clattered to the floor beside her when she lost her grip. The noise seemed to be amplified by the electricity in the air, causing another wave of panic to run through her system. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit streamed through her head, hoping that the creature hadn't heard her show.

She shakily took a step forward, daring to peek through the now tainted window.

It was gone.

The fog was gone, the rain even ceased. The moon shone over the grounds, lighting up each crevice and shadow the creature could hide. It was like it had never been there at all.

(Y/N) couldn't help but question herself; had she really seen anything at all out there? She'd never admit it out loud, but, sometimes, Scooby-Doo gave her childish nightmares from their mystery solving, and maybe she wasn't fully awake. Maybe, she was still stuck in her hazy dream phase having been so freshly awake. Or, what if she had focused too long on the trees lining the area, causing herself to make a creature out of the branches? There was no way she saw an actual zombie in the backyard of a multi-million dollar manor.

(Y/N) sucked in a deep breath, trying to settle her shaking hands and twisting stomach. "It's nothing, it's nothing," she whispered to herself, the mantra a way to comfort her scrambled thoughts. She proceeded to clean up the spilled water on the floor, giving her anything to focus on in favor of the nightmarish images tainting her thoughts.

Once the kitchen was cleaned, she padded back to her room, much quicker than when she left as she was unable to shake the feeling of being watched. She huddled under the plush duvet, veiled by the canopy draped across the frame as she pulled up another movie on Netflix to occupy her thoughts.

It's okay, it was nothing, it's okay, streamed through her mind as she slowly drifted back to sleep.

But was it?

—————

It had been a week since (Y/N) spotted the creature in the garden (or thought she had anyway), and she'd practically washed it from her mind. She was happy with the explanation that she hadn't really seen that zombie-like creature, and just imagined it after a dream heavy sleep. She didn't want to think about what it would mean if she accepted the fact she had actually seen something so obviously inhuman.

She was really settling into the work. It was easy, and she enjoyed working on her own, at a pace she could manage. It was a truly gorgeous place to work, too, and she took pride in taking care of it all. She couldn't wait for Mr. Styles to return home and see the attention she'd put into taking care of the manor.

The flowerbeds plotted around the perimeters of the mansion were her favorite to care after. The snowdrops, primroses, pansies, and rose bushes brightened her cold mornings when she went out to water them. There was even a landscaper—Adam—who she'd work with on a weekly basis to take care of the expansive grounds; he was nice to talk to and a needed break from her own isolated thoughts.

Maybe, this job really could be perfect, and all the things Niall had promised it would be.

—————

Days later, (Y/N) was in the middle of cleaning one of the en-suite bathrooms (there's ten) when Niall texted her. It was short and direct, leaving nothing up to interpretation.

Niall Horan

Harry is coming back tonight, you need to find somewhere to stay until Friday. I'm sorry for the short notice, but he just let me know he was on a flight back.

She dropped the cloth she was using to clean the mirrors as she read over his message again. She had expected that Niall would give her more than an eight hour notice of when she would need to emergency evacuate her new home. She had already told Charlotte when she took the job that she would need to randomly have to leave sometimes, so she knew she had a place to stay for the next couple of days, but she felt bad springing it on her. But, what else was she supposed to do?

She sent back an okay, thanks! to Niall before quickly collecting her cleaning supplies. She piled them back into the closet she found them, before making her way to her room to pack an overnight bag. She rushed her packing, wanting to get out as soon as possible. As much as she wanted to meet her employer, if he was so adamant about no one being home while he was, she didn't want to test it.

She took her time after packing to make sure the house looked immaculate, like she hadn't been there at all aside from the evidence of her clothing and other possessions littered in her room. She wanted Mr. Styles to be pleased with her work performance, and hopefully warm up to the idea of possibly meeting her. When it finally met her standards (and hopefully his), she tugged her bag over her shoulder before locking the doors up behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the front of the manor, checking the flowerbeds for weeds and the lawn for anything out of order. Everything looked perfect, just the way she wanted it to be for him.

As (Y/N) pulled out of the winding driveway, she passed a black, clearly expensive car. Through the windshield, she saw the driver; a man with dark curling hair, bright green eyes and his pink lips set in a scowl. Her eyes followed the car behind her with the help of her rear view mirror, watching as it pulled onto the same driveway leading up to the manor. That had to have been Mr. Styles, and he didn't seem too pleased to be seeing even just her car on his grounds.

She sped up as soon as he was out of view.

—————

After three days of sleeping on Charlotte's couch, (Y/N) finally received the okay text from Niall. She was ready to move back into the manor, having felt bad to already be crashing at their place before even a month had passed. She was quick to pack up, and say her thanks for their hospitality (Charlotte insisted it was what friends were for but (Y/N) still felt bad) and was on her way.

Once back at the manor, it was like no one had been there in her absence. Nothing at all seemed lived in, to have changed at all. It was as if new dust hadn't even settled on the various surfaces. She knew for a fact that her kitchen was the only one that had food, and when she rifled through the cabinets for lunch, nothing was missing or moved. Sure, Mr. Styles could have had take out each meal, or gone out every night, but not even a glass for water or anything had been used. Everything was exactly the way she left it.

The only thing that wasn't exactly how she remembered she left it was—oddly enough—her room. If she hadn't known any better, she wouldn't have even noticed the wardrobe door that was cracked open. But, she never liked leaving the doors open, especially after the night she dreamt up that awful monster in the backyard. It was a childish fear, a monster in the closet, but it was something she knows she wouldn't have forgotten to take care of in her leave. She peeked inside the wardrobe, wanting to see if anything else was out of place.

In her scan over, everything seemed to be in order until she noticed something was missing. A basic cream sweater with rainbow stitching down the arms, her favorite, was nowhere to be seen. She knows for a fact she hadn't packed it with her, remembering the flash of color out of the corner of her eye as she closed the wardrobe door.

Mr. Styles wouldn't have gone through her things, right? He had no need to be in her room—or even her wing for that matter. He had no purpose for a worn sweater when he so clearly had money to burn.

What if that... creature found its way inside her room and took the shirt from her? Took the shirt and her scent with it.

No, no she told herself. There was no way a monster from her dreams sprouted legs and walked it's way into her room just to steal a sweater. It's not even real for Christ's sake! She probably just misplaced it, and it would turn up in the next laundry cycle she's sure. She shook the intrusive thoughts from her mind, starting laundry on the clothes she had taken to Charlotte's. She just wanted to get back to work, start cleaning to take her mind off of the eerie feeling that's been hovering around her since she returned.

She absentmindedly sorted through the mail, surprised to see the overflowing pile that collected in her absence. Had Mr. Styles even been at the manor? All signs have pointed to the fact that he had nothing to do with the place while she was gone. While doing so, she sent a text to Adam, the landscaper, letting him know they could resume their work and Mr. Styles was off the property (if he was even on it to start with). She dusted through the living areas, playing loud music through her headphones to fill her thoughts.

She decided to tackle the farthest wing first, where Mr. Styles' room was. There, she was sure she would find evidence of him being in the manor. It was the darkest of all the rooms in the mansion; no sprawling windows decorated the wall the same way the others had. The color scheme shifted from the creams and golds accented by a comforting green in her wing, to a stark white with red and black detailing the furnishings. The art changed direction as well, becoming more obviously scary than that of the other pieces littered through the home. She didn't like spending time in the halls, feeling like the eyes of demons and their victims following her every move. Once inside Mr. Styles' bedroom, her hopes of evidence of his being there were let down.

The bed was perfectly pristine; bedding tight and unmoved from when she had made it earlier in the week. Everything lacked the warmth of a person having previously occupied the space. Just like all the other rooms before, it was like no one had been there at all.

She shook her head at the perfectness of the room, moving on the bathroom. She had assumed there would still be no sign of her boss's presence, but was surprised at what she found instead. In the basket that sat beside the sink, the hem of a towel peeked out from under the lid. (Y/N) had quickly pulled the towel out, shocked that he had spent the most time in the bathroom in comparison to everything else she found (or didn't find, really). Instead of the dampness from water she expected the find, the tail end of the towel was stained a bright crimson. She jumped back and dropped the cloth in surprise. A gasp left her mouth as the realization of what it was came to mind

Blood.

She tentatively peeked inside the basket, finding four other cloths stained the same way with a lacy, white (or it should have been) blouse crumpled underneath it all. Each one was completely ruined with matching blood stains, the shirt having the deepest stains, almost black in the saturation.

Holy shit.

(Y/N) felt panic skitter up her spine and bile rise in her throat. That's a lot of blood. He had to have hurt someone badly with the amount of blood that saturated through each of the crumpled items, if not killed them. She practically sprinted out of the bathroom, and out of the wing entirely. She stumbled several times down the curving stairs, having to catch herself each time on the railing. She couldn't run fast enough.

Holy shit, holy shit, I work for a murderer. He only wanted me out of the house so he could kill people, and he's probably going to ki—

She stumbled back as she ran into a wall of a chest. In her panic, she didn't realize Niall was standing in the landing of the staircase. His brows furrowed in concern as he righted her with his hands on her biceps.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong (Y/N)? You look like you've seen a ghost," Niall's words dripped with concern as he gently guided her to one of the ornate couches she once admired.

"Niall, we have to leave—we can't be here—he's—," (Y/N) couldn't form a coherent thought as she tried to voice her panic. Niall tried to push her to sit on the couch cushions, but she fought back placing her hands on his chest to push him towards the front door. They couldn't be here, they needed to tell the police and take evidence and—

"C'mon, love, breathe. You're scaring me," Niall tried again, standing firm against her pushing.

"There was blood in the bathroom! I—I think he killed someone, or—or hurt someone really bad, we have to tell the police," she rushed again, just wanting Niall to listen.

For a second, something flashed over Niall's face. The concern he once held in his eyes disappeared as the sea glass blue hardened for a moment. Just as quickly as it was there, the expression vanished, resuming his worried expression.

"Will you show me what you found? I think I might know what it is."

She shakily led him back to the now tainted bathroom. She pointed at the bin that held the clothes, with the one she had picked up laying limply just outside of it. Niall confidently strode over to the sullied fabric, picking it up with no hesitation. (Y/N) watched on with horror in her eyes, scared to see Niall so comfortable with the possibility of his best friend being a murderer.

Niall shook his head as he examined the mid-sized towel, his back to (Y/N) before he turned around. He had an easy smile on his face, not a concern in his demeanor at what surrounded him.

"This isn't blood, silly. It's red paint."

What?

"Harry's a painter, and he's never been an organized one. He's spilled more paint mixes than I can count, and he's shit at cleaning it up," Niall joked, "You alright, then?"

"But—... it's red paint?" (Y/N) asked, skeptical of his explanation. Niall took a step towards her, one of crimson towels in his hand.

"Yeah, look. You can see where he mixed some orange in." He held out the material to her, fingers pointing to a streak where a lighter orange stained the fabric.

She guessed it could be paint. And that would explain why the dots on the shirt were so dark; as he got too into it he accidentally splotched himself. It was kind of him to have tried to clean up after himself...

"I'm so sorry, I probably look so crazy accusing your friend of something like that," (Y/N) apologized, cheeks flaming in embarrassment of her reaction.

"No, you're perfectly fine. It definitely isn't the most pleasant sight to find when cleaning a bathroom," he laughed, trying to ease the tension as best he could, "How about you go get yourself some water and relax for bit, yeah? I'll take care of this for you, love."

"Thank you, Niall," she breathed. She padded out of the room, quick to get to the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of water.

She braced herself against the counter for a moment, trying to find her head again. She's got to shake the eerie feeling that's been following her these past couple of days, since she saw who she assumed was Mr. Styles on her drive out. She's going to drive herself crazy if she doesn't relax. She took in three deep breaths before moving out to the living room where she heard Niall's voice.

"H, you're getting lazy. She found the shit in your bathroom and had a breakdown right in front of me." He paused for a moment, (Y/N) figuring he was on the phone from the lack of audible response from another voice. She rounded the corner into the living room, staying behind the couch with Niall's back facing her. "You have to be more careful now that you have someone else living here. You fucked up."

Niall turned on his heel, a deep furrow in his brow as he talked to the phone pressed to his ear. Once he caught sight of (Y/N) nervously shuffling around just feet away from him, he changed.

Suddenly his tone and expression take a turn, shifting back into the easy and comforting Niall she's known. "I'm glad you're having a good trip, H, just be careful with the paint next time. You almost gave our (Y/N) a heart attack."

He dropped an eyelid in a wink at her. He quickly ended the phone call after that, beckoning her over to him. She followed his direction, fingers prattling in front of her torso.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she apologized, a half smile on her face as she remembered his harsh demeanor before he noticed her.

"It's fine, love. I was just telling Harry that he needs to be more careful, and to let me know at least if he does make a mess so he doesn't send you to an early grave," he teased, coaxing (Y/N) away from her unraveling thoughts.

Niall's comforting smile and soothing tone reigned in her doubts. Of course it was just paint, she'd just been on edge lately and assumed the worst. Now she just felt silly for reacting the way she did, and the fact that Niall told Mr. Styles of her freak out made her cheeks burn in embarrassment.

"It really is fine, (Y/N). Harry wasn't upset, and neither am I; it's okay," Niall pressed, a gentle smile rounding his cheeks. A buzz came from his phone, causing both his and (Y/N)'s attention to shift. Niall checked the notification that came across, raising his brows before meeting her gaze. "I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, so how about you go to the market yeah? Get yourself whatever you'd like and stock up the kitchen again. Here," he stretched his hand out, a black card in between his fingers, "Came by to give this to you, actually. H said you can use it for any expenses for the house."

(Y/N) reciprocated his smile and said her thanks as she took the card. There was a heavy slam of a door closing from the foyer, causing Niall to begin ushering her out much like the way he did the day of the job interview. With a hand on the middle of her back, he guided her alongside him to the front doors. Waiting at the bottom of the staircase she stumbled down not even twenty minutes before, was the odd couple she had seen in the weeks previous. Both were immaculately dressed like the last time, and their eyes just has hauntingly pale. The woman offered a kind smile while the man stayed stoic, watching on as Niall led her out.

"I should be finished before you get back, but I'll lock up behind myself and everything," he continued, acting as if the pair wasn't intently monitoring the interaction.

"Oh, okay," she stuttered, barely having time to grab her bag and keys while Niall pulled open the carved doors, "Thank you again, Niall, and sorry about earlier."

"It's fine, (Y/N), really," he said before gently coaxing her out the door with a soft hand on her arm. His being so adamant about her leaving every time he had a "meeting" with these people, caused a flare up in the nerves he had calmed not too long ago. The fact that they all happened in Mr. Styles' manor also gave her an odd feeling. Why couldn't Niall hold them at his own home?

She called her goodbyes to him as she exited down the bundle of steps leading to the front door. Niall barely reciprocated before he closed the door.

This morning has been... weird.

—————

A month later, (Y/N) really couldn't be happier. There hadn't been any incidents with last minute arrangements needing to be made on account of Mr. Styles returning to town, and Niall hadn't come by to kick her out for anymore so-called meetings. She felt like she was being paid to live alone; her duties mostly taking the form of signing for packages and sorting mail, paying bills, cleaning and any other mundane task Mr. Styles needed taking care of. She also hadn't had anymore lingering thoughts of that creature, having the ordeal almost scrubbed from her mind after casting out the childish fear of it stealing her sweater.

Until tonight anyway.

(Y/N) woke with a start in the middle of the night from a dead sleep. The limping creature plagued her dreams for the first time in so long, this time it's stringy arms reached out and caught her with spindly fingers wrapping around her throat. She physically felt her airflow become cut off, causing her to break herself from the nightmare. She awoke with the canopy veiling her bed billowing open from the sweeping of cool air coming from an open window. Her bedding was kicked to the foot of her bed in her sleep, leaving her exposed to the gusts of chilling wind filtering through the room. She shakily crawled off her bed and shut her window, now noticing the freezing rain that accompanied the wind. Suddenly a flash of light struck through the clouds, quickly followed by a crack of thunder. The sound made her jump, feeling like her whole bedroom was full of eyes watching each of her movements and reactions. She needed to get out of here.

She wandered out of her room, heading towards the kitchen in search of cold water to calm her anxiety. The hallways were dark as she tentatively walked through them, not having turned on the lights in her rush to get away from the feeling of being watched. The windows that lined the hall offered dim light from the new moon in the sky. Random flashes of lightning momentarily brightened the familiar path.

And the man standing at the end of the hallway.

The bolt of light illuminated his broad form for just a second before plunging (Y/N) back into darkness. She stopped dead in her tracks, icy fear wrapping around her throat and stunning her limbs. No one else was supposed to be here; no one had been here when she went to bed.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, streamed through her head, a kind of panic she'd never felt before shuddering up her spine and clouding her thoughts. Niall never said Mr. Styles was due back tonight, letting her mind wander into the possibilities of a break in. A break in that could go wrong. She left her phone in her room when she left in her haste, leaving her with no option to call the police. She tentatively backpedaled, hoping the man hadn't seen her and she could slip into her bedroom and place the call.

The plan went to shit when another strike of lightning showed that the man had most definitely seen her, as he was now right in front of her. The shock of the proximity and how he moved so silently and quickly made her stumble back. Her foot caught on a rug underneath her, causing her to fall backwards and land on her butt. Small flashes of light from outside lit up the side of the man's scowling face. His brows were deeply furrowed and his lips twisted in a snarl. She could feel the heated anger radiating off of him.

"What are you doing here!? You're not supposed to be here!" He raged, his voice deep and rumbling. The room reverberated at the volume of his tone, shaking (Y/N)'s already nerve shot body. Her voice died in her throat unable to come up with an adequate answer for the man. He menacingly stepped towards her, his demeanor growing deeper with fury. "What. Are. You. Doing here?! Answer me!"

"I—I—who are you?!" her voice wavering and breaking under the weight of her fear. The man's presence dominated the hall, crushing each bit of calmness she once had and any semblance of sanity. Who asks a murderer who they were?!

An exasperated sigh left the man, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I'm Harry Styles. Why are you in my house?! I know Niall told you of my rules."

This was Mr. Styles? This isn't quite how (Y/N) imagined meeting her boss for the first time.

His voice was now at a normal volume, but his words seeped a rage deeper than he had before. (Y/N) sat still on the ground looking up at him, mouth open like a stunned guppy. She broke from her stupid, scrambling trying to get to her feet. All the while, she could feel his fiery gaze bore into her clumsy form.

"M-Mr. Styles, I'm so sorry. I promise, I had n-no idea you would be here. Niall never told m—."

"Shut up," his deep voice cut her off, an annoyed expression taking the place of anger from moments before. "Just... stay in your wing and away from me."

(Y/N) opened her mouth to talk again, stopped short by the glare Mr. Styles shot her. He obviously had no interest in her apologies and explanations. He stood unmoving, towering over her form, waiting for (Y/N) to make her leave. As soon as she was steady on her feet, she scurried to her room. The dream that woke her up in the first place forgotten as a new fear took precedence in her mind.

She cowered under her thick duvet, pulling the opening of the canopy closed around her. The deep gravel of his tone echoed in her ears, she saw the fire in his eyes every time she closed her own.

And she could have swore, for just a moment, his eyes were a blank white. Just like the paintings.

—————

(Y/N) had been cooped up in her room since the night she met Mr. Styles. She barely left her bed, let alone passed over the threshold to the hallway. She knows he said to stay in her wing not just her room, but the fear of running into him again kept her from daring to venture any further. The only times she allowed herself to leave her self-designated prison was when she needed to eat; she always chose to eat a big breakfast early and hold off her hunger throughout the day until late at night when she assumed he was asleep. Her nights were the hardest, filled with restless half-sleeps.

Any fleeting moment of true, deep sleep was quashed by unsettling dreams she wasn't able to shake. In the middle of the night, she could swear she saw Mr. Styles standing at the end of her bed, peering through the gauzy canopy at her sleeping form. As soon as she would blink her eyes awake, he would be gone causing her to assume she'd just begun dreaming of the man who struck such a fear into her. It wouldn't be that far off anyway, what with her vivid nightmares of that monster and now her boss. The dreams went along with odd noises she would hear in the night, causing a haunting feeling to wrap around her anytime she wasn't occupying her mind.

Her alarm set off at six in the morning, alerting her of her chance to eat before she would confine herself to the same two movies on Netflix for the rest of the day. She scuttled out of her room, checking over her shoulder and around each corner for the man she had been avoiding. She entered the kitchen, feet padding over the immaculate floor tiles. Atop the granite island was a small folded piece of thick card stock. Her name was written elegantly in swirling cursive on the front, calling for her to open it. She tentatively picked up the paper, unfolding the crease to read the curling letters.

(Y/N),

I have gone. You may now roam the manor and resume your duties.

Relief filled her like a breath of fresh air. The tension that had locked her muscles for the last three days finally released, the stiffness in her body going lax. While she knew this really isn't her home, she did live here and it wasn't a pleasant feeling walking on eggshells in the one place she should feel like herself. Exhaustion crashed through her, finally feeling her anxiety dip. She could sleep. Really sleep without feeling like she should have one eye open in case she made a mistake that brought Mr. Styles'—or H's—attention to her.

She didn't want to eat she just wanted to go to bed and wake up at a real hour, not six a.m. She went to toss the paper away, but just as it was to slip out of her fingers and into the bin, she caught herself. She couldn't figure out why, but she wanted to keep it. As a reminder to keep on her toes? To show her that this wasn't her place to be comfortable? She didn't know why, but she knew what she was doing when she instead placed it in the far drawer of her vanity. She didn't spare the note another thought as she jumped into bed, not bothering to pull the canopy closed before she was already snuggled beneath the covers.

Mr. Styles' ghost was absent from her dreams.

—————

Weeks later, (Y/N) woke to the sun lighting up her bedroom. The hazy film the canopy gave her allowed for a romantic filter to distort the scene before her. This is how she imagined princesses waking up in storybooks; a grand room, warming sunlight, and the promise of a happily ever after. She had long forgotten her interaction with her boss (more as a way of coping than that of it being forgettable). She hadn't had a single dream about him since he left, and had seamlessly fallen back into her work routine. She felt refreshed.

Today she was going to work in the gardens, tending to the rose bushes in the back as her first task of the day. While the sun was out, the weather still called for a jacket with the morning chill lingering in the air. She filled a bright red watering can in the kitchen before lugging it outside.

She knelt down in front of the flower beds, gently sprinkling water over the leaves and over the soil. She caressed the petals of a dying red rose, pouting as she saw another of its siblings wilting. Maybe the cold was affecting them more than she thought; she'd have to ask Adam.

"You're not watering the roses enough."

(Y/N) jumped when she heard the all too familiar voice of the one person she wanted to forget. He now spoke in a level tone, soothing in the way the words were deep and slow. Well, until she processed the fact that he was there.

She popped up to her feet, the watering can left at her feet. She turned to see him standing behind her, arms crossed, a billowy white shirt almost fully unbuttoned with his chest on show. The shirt was tucked into a pair of flare pants, the material growing more and more sheer as it approached his feet. Wasn't he cold?

"Mr. Styles! I'm so sorry, Niall didn't tell me you were coming back today. I can go, I promise I had n—."

He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. He held a hand out in front of him, palm open and facing her. She very quickly took the cue and ceased her talking.

"Don't bother," he drawled, "I've already seen y'more than I intended."

She felt a pang in her chest at his words. She knows he doesn't mean it in any other way than the fact he didn't want to see any of his help around the house, but it was just so mean. She opened her mouth to speak, but one glare from him had her closing her mouth and forgetting whatever it is she wanted to say.

He brushed past her, walking up the elaborate stairs to the patio. He stopped and talked to her over the railing, eyes squinting in the morning light (or maybe at her).

"Finish watering the roses; they'll need that whole can. Afterwards, you may go about the duties y'had already planned for the day. All I ask is that y'please be quiet, and that y'refrain from being in the same room as I." His voice was clear and commanding, showing that he wasn't really asking that of her, he was telling her.

"I—Okay... thank you, Mr. Styles." She wasn't really sure what she was thanking him for, but she'd say anything at this point to get into his good graces.

He didn't bother to respond, continuing up the stairs with his ring-clad hand running along the railing. At the top of the case, he stopped suddenly. His back faced her as he spoke to her over his shoulder.

"I am having company over tonight. Do not leave your wing, or bedroom at all if y'can help it."

And then he was gone.

—————

(Y/N) had heeded Mr. Styles' advice, keeping herself in her room since she finished her chores. Around ten o'clock was when she heard the heavy front doors open and close several times, indicating the arrival of guests. She could hear the low chatter of conversations happening in the floor below her. She tried to go to sleep multiple times, but the hum from downstairs and the knowledge that the star of her bad dreams was just below her stopped her every time she tried to drift off.

By the time it neared midnight, (Y/N) realized she hadn't left her room since lunch. Her tummy growled, mixing in with the chatter from the floor below. She didn't want to leave her room, Mr. Styles' words echoing in her head, but she couldn't take it at this point. She just wanted a grilled cheese, what's the worse that could happen?

She silently slipped out of her room, padding down the hallway with her pajama pants sweeping the floor. She was hyper aware of the voices that floated through the corridor, trying her best to gauge their distance. She quickly got to the kitchen, digging out the ingredients to make a grilled cheese.

Only ten minutes later was the sandwich plated with (Y/N) ready to scuttle back to her room. She stopped on the last floor tile before entering the corridor, realizing that she hadn't drank anything since lunchtime as well. Downstairs, she could hear a lull in the conversation. She figured she had time to get some juice at least, everyone seeming distracted enough to spare another few minutes out of the safety of her room. She was quick to fill a glass with some apple juice, her distracted mind causing her to overfill the cup. Just as she brought the full glass to her lips, a loud bang sounded from down the steps. It made her violently jump, her entire body on edge and ready to flee at a moment's notice. The combination of her jump and the slippery glass caused her to lose her grip, the cup shattering across the tiled floor at her feet.

"Fucking hell," she whispered, hoping whatever had been going on downstairs would cover up her own noise. She shakily bent down, beginning to pick up the shards surrounding her.

She tried her hardest to be careful, the warnings of cutting her fingers ringing through her ears in her mother's voice. Due to her shaking hands, she wouldn't be so lucky. One of the larger shards sliced across her finger, sending a stinging shock through her body. She hissed a swear, quickly discarding of the pieces before examining the cut.

Suddenly, a shift filled the air, the way it does when a person enters an otherwise empty room. (Y/N) looked behind herself, already expecting (and dreading) to see Mr. Styles. Instead she saw an eccentrically dressed blonde man, his eyes trailed over her body and focused in on the hand cradled to her chest. He had the same pale grey eyes as the ominous couple she'd seen before. His, however, held malice and a predatory hunger.

"Aw, did you hurt yourself?" He feigned a mocking pout, arms crossing over his chest as he took a cocky step towards her. (Y/N) spun herself around, fully facing the man. She took a cautionary step back as he drew closer. "Well, aren't you a pretty little thing; not like Harry's usual chew toys."

His voice sunk deeper and deeper as he kept talking, still striding towards her through the kitchen. (Y/N)'s back hit the marble counter of the island, leaving her stuck between the breakfast bar and the man that now looked at her like his next meal. He closed the space between them in one large step, trapping her between his hands on the counter. Her finger continued to bleed, her other hand that held it now slick with the red liquid.

"I can help you with that, you know," he dipped his head, nodding towards her hands, "I won't tell Harry, if you don't."

"No-No thanks. I'm just his housekeeper, I—I'm not even supposed to be out here." She tumbled over her words, stuttering and stumbling through any excuse to get away. "I need to go, but thank you."

She side stepped, hoping he would get the hint and let her leave. His forearm stayed firm like steel, truly caging her in. He let out a humorless chuckle, ducking his head down to be eye level with her.

"Nu-uh, darling, you're gonna stay right here."

The once grey irises that colored his eyes were completely wiped away. No pupil or iris were found on his now blank, white gaze. His skin tone rivaled that of his eyes, draining to a shocking off-white. The veins in his neck turned black, his lips doing the same just as the points of two of his teeth peeked out from under his top lip.

She's sure her terror was painted on her face as he smirked at her. The small amount of attention she was still giving her sliced finger now diminished, her hands falling from her chest and instead bracing herself against the counter behind her. She made one more feeble attempt at escape, trying to duck under his arms and slip away. He breathed a humorless laugh at her attempts, nonchalantly grabbing the back of her neck and pulling her up. He ducked his head down, his face by her neck. His chilling breath swept across her skin, a layer of goosebumps erupting on her skin. Just as (Y/N) let out the most pathetic whimper, her eyes falling closed as she knew she had no way out of whatever this man—this thing—was going to do to her, his body was suddenly pulled away. The trapped feeling that had been crushing her only seconds before disappeared, causing her eyes to snap open to see what had happened. Mr. Styles now stood between her and the blonde man, his back to her. He stood firm, his body seemingly broader and stronger than this morning.

"What do you think you're doing, Magnus?" Mr. Styles addressed the opposing man, his voice deceivingly calm as it dripped with malice. (Y/N) felt a shudder run down her spine at his dominating presence, fearing him although his rage wasn't directed at her (this time anyway).

"C'mon, H, you always let us have turns with your toys. She's bleeding already anyway, I didn't see the harm," the man, Magnus, drawled. His eyes had returned to the grey, and his complexion now a healthy color.

"You bit her?!" Harry's voice boomed, seeming to shake the room under the volume. He took a menacing step towards Magnus.

The blonde man held his hands up in surrender, rolling his eyes at his friend's reaction. "Jesus, Harry, calm down. She cut her finger, I was just going to help." He peeked around Harry's shoulder, flashing (Y/N)'s cowering form a pointed smile. "Why do you care, anyway? She's just one of your toys, you've never minded before."

"She's not a toy, Magnus. Leave." He took another step towards him, hands clenched into tight fists beside him. Magnus went to speak again, eyes lingering on (Y/N)'s form. He was quickly caught off by Harry's threatening tone. "Leave!"

He heaved an annoyed sigh and left the room, shooting (Y/N) a look over his shoulder. Something akin to a growl erupted from Harry's chest, tearing through the room as he caught the look as well. Magnus left the room with a chuckle.

Now alone, Mr. Styles slowly spun around to face (Y/N). Both of her hands were decorated in her own blood, but the cut on her finger was long forgotten. His brows furrowed as he examined her shaking form, slowly and deliberately stepping towards her.

"You alright?"

(Y/N) really did try her hardest to focus on his words and come up with an answer. But she couldn't when her vision started to blur and her legs gave out from beneath her.

The last thing she saw before she fell unconscious was Harry's blank, white eyes.

—————

chiaroscuro is a technique that uses intense shades of dark and light to dramatize a painting

hi guys thank u sm for reading!! this one has been in the works since i started posting my last series and i hope its worth the wait!! i havent revealed what exactly it is thats “off” ab harry but im sure u all have ideas and theories and have probably figured it all out anyway ojnfkdjfkdj this whole piece checks in at 60k+ words so there will be a few more parts after this!! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and if u have any requests, theories, ideas about what’s next please send them here!!

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heyheydidjaknow · 4 years ago

Text

Why do I not have the option to copy and paste formatting? Why is that an option I am not given? Who thought that I wouldn’t need that when I’m on my phone? Screw that guy, who I am arbitrarily calling Adam. If anyone knows how to do that, please tell me.

Chapter 6 Pt 2

“There is no fucking way you got a date with her.” Raphael does not even look it up. “No way in hell.”

“And yet the flow chart worked.” He laughs from his lab, shutting off any excess equipment as to not overwork it. “It worked like a charm and she asked me to go to her place so ha.”

”You didn’t show her the chart, did you?”

“I did not.”

“Well, there you go.” Leo looks back at him from his seat on the couch. “What time?”

“Seven o’clock.” He slides the door closed. “But I’m planning on being there at six fifty-five so that she knows I value her time.”

“Does the sun set that early?”

“Why do you even ask?” Raph turns a page in his once periodical periodical. “You know he looked it up.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Forgive me for also valuing preparedness.”

“Nobody likes a know it all.”

He grins smugly. “That’s where you’re wrong. See, I,” he gestured to himself, “have a date with a gorgeous girl tonight, one where she has already invited me into her home, and you,” he gestured to Raphael, “are reading a magazine from a company that went out of business two years ago alone.”

“Donnie, don’t be a jerk.” Leonardo looked back at the television. “Raphael brings up a valid point; you tend to act like you know everything, and the actual request wasn’t for a date.”

“How else can I interpret one on one time with her?”

“Well,” he counters, “how do you interpret one on one time with us?”

He blinks. “Wait, so you’re saying she’s… how do you put it?”

“Nah, I don’t think she’s friendzonin ‘im.” Mickey looks up from his drawing. “Think she’s sending signals she doesn’t mean to.” He sets his half-shaded piece aside. “Think about it; she said she’s been all stressed out, right? She died like two weeks ago.” He shrugs. “She’s probably just lonely and needs the company.”

“That’s… actually really insightful of you.”

He grins. “What can I say? I’m a modern McPherson.”

Raph snickers at that. “Donnie is more of a McPher—how old is that movie, anyway? A hundred?

“Hey!” He shoots a glare at his brother. “Respect the classics.”

“Not to interrupt your riveting intro to film class,” Donnie interjects, losing his shit, “but I really need to know what this is before I go, and it’s already fifteen ‘till.”

“Look, maybe she’s interested, maybe she’s not.” Leonardo’s eyes are back on the screen. “Just try to tread carefully and you’ll probably be fine.”

“Probably?”

“Again, Raph had a point.”

He groans, walking to the entrance and exit of their home. “You guys aren’t helping.”

“Not our job.”

Leo calls after him. “Be home before six!”

He turns the corner, cradling his head in his hands. ‘I am totally and thoroughly fucked.’

GoodFellas.

Of all the movies in the world, that is the movie you have decided to use to explain these concepts. This is the example piece that you are going to show to the vigilante. All you know is that you had started watching the Phantom Menace and had decided against explaining the concept of racial coding and this is the only other movie that you can think of right now. You have decided to commit, and you are already regretting it, but you decide to figure it out as you go.

You set the pizza on the coffee table, throwing a bag of popcorn in the microwave to pop. You do not expect Donatello to be late, so you decided to start now so that they could get started right away. You start walking to the window, stopping at the mouth of the hallway. You look yourself over one more time in the bathroom mirror despite yourself. You do not exactly know why you care so much; this was not a date, and you had not advertised it as one. Still, impressions are important, and the last thing you need is for him to not listen to you because of it. That is what you are telling yourself, anyhow.

You hear knocking against the glass. You check your phone for the time. ‘Five minutes early.’ You smile softly. ‘How responsible.’ You open it up, smiling at your guest. “Welcome, Donatello.” You take a step back. “Please, make yourself at home.”

He barely makes a sound as he steps off the windowsill, looking around your apartment, fully illuminated, for the first time.

After about thirty seconds of his investigation, you clear your throat. “Donnie?”

He snaps out of it. “Huh?”

You smile gently. “You wanna sit down? I bought pizza.”

“Uh, yeah.” He nods, sitting down and facing the television screen. “I like your place.”

“Thanks.” You sit down next to him, tucking your feet under you as you flip on the television. “How do you feel about gangster movies?”

“Gangster movies?”

“Yeah.” You list a couple on your fingers. “Scarface, Godfather, all that jazz.”

He shakes his head, brow furrowed in confusion. “How can you make gangster movies legally?”

“That is a long answer. The short version?” You lean forward, taking a slice from the box. “The police are kind to those who cooperate, and people think their stories are fascinating.”

“So they’re documentaries?” He mimics you.

You shrug. “Sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. You want something to drink?” You hear the microwave beep as you stand up.

“Water?”

You nod, walking over to pull the popcorn out of the microwave and grab your drinks. “I trust the walk wasn’t too bad?”

“Not at all.” The small talk is torture. “Getting to your window was a bit of a challenge, but it wasn’t anything too bad.”

“That’s good.” You pour him a glass. “I’ll have to get something for that; maybe a planter or something, so you have a bigger ledge.”

“It’s alright.” He taps his fingers against his knee. “It’s wide enough to stand.”

“Still.” You place his cup on the counter, dumping the kernels into a large plastic bowl. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if one of you guys got hurt trying to come in through the window.” You grab a can of soda out of the refrigerator, sitting down and handing him the glass.

He smiles slightly. “You’re really sweet sometimes, you know that?”

You grin. “I try,” you hum, starting to pull up the movie. “I think you’re pretty cool too, Hamato.”

He chuckles. “You make me sound like I’m fifty.”

“Oh, totally.” You nod in agreement. “You’re an old soul.”

He blinks. “Old soul?”

“Mature, I mean.” You shrug. “I mean, handling the stuff you do with any degree of tact, to me, displays a great maturity you don’t see in most teenagers, myself included.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

You get back up for napkins and plates. “Not at all.” You hand him one of each. “It’s an admirable quality, though not one I particularly envy.”

“You think?” His hands linger for a moment longer than typical as he took them.

“Yeah. You want me to turn down the lights for the movie while I’m up?”

His face goes red. “I-I mean,” he stutters, “if you want to.”

“Then I will; shows the image better when it’s dark.” You walk to the wall, flicking off the lights and sitting down next to him, setting your slice on your plate as you turn on the movie.

Your reactions to it are different.

He does not seem what you would call disturbed, but he gets grossly invested in the story extremely quickly. He is noticeably more interested in watching you watch the movie, but he studies the plot intently, noting the more domestic plotline between the lead and his wife in particular. His reaction to the violence is strange to you; he is not aloof, so to speak, but he does not flinch much until the fighting is between Henry and Karen.

You have seen this movie what feels like a thousand times. Whenever you think it applicable, you lean over and whisper to him about the directing, the script, the plot—it is supposed to be a lesson, after all. But you realize that your attention, every so often, shifts to the bed, to your pillow with the knife underneath it. The violence of the movie makes you edgier than you are used to.

About halfway through the movie, you move closer to the boy sitting beside you. You lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you listen for cues for comments. You don’t notice his reaction, but you do notice how his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You do not object; you were the one who initiated, after all.

“Here’s a psychology relationship thingy you can tell your family about.” You cringe at that poor little girl standing in the hallway. “’That’s all in your head’ is classic gaslighting. I dunno if that’s really your area or not.”

“Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.” He fiddles with the cloth of your jacket absentmindedly. “It’s kinda hard for me to wrap my head around, people staying like that. I mean,” he clarifies, “I get why, but—”

You both tense up as a young man on screen is shot dead by Joe Pesci’s character.

You exhale. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” You shrug. “But folks get scared, ya know? In her case, she doesn’t want to break the family apart, and she’s really into him.”

“What? No way.”

“Yes way.” You look up at him. “What can I say? We fall into infatuation so fast with bad people who say what we want to hear.”

“Don’t you mean fall in love?”

You watch as Lorraine Bracco holds a gun to her husband’s face. “Nope. Love is entirely different.”

“Yeah?” He glanced down at you.

“Apples and oranges.” You gesture to the television. “Love is supplementary, a beautifully imperfect connection between people.” Your voice becomes smoother, airier. “It’s a bond built on trust and respect. Infatuation is more of an addiction than anything.” You sigh as Liota meets to discuss his relationship with Sorvino. “At least I think so. That’s why love at first sight is a bunch of bullshit; you can’t have that kind of profound trust with someone you just met.” You shrug, looking back up at him. “Then again, what do I know? I’m an inexperienced, fifteen-year-old girl.”

“That makes a lot of sense, actually.” He looks back down at you. “I get what familial love is, but whenever Master Splinter talks about his wife, he has a hard time putting what he means into words.”

You hear their guilty verdict. “Totally get that. Articulation is not easy to do.”

A few minutes go by.

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

You watch as a man drags his wife out of a Christmas party. “This movie is exactly why I don’t ever want to learn how to do the stuff you do. It changes you, all that violence; desensitizes you.” You bring your knees to your chest. “Especially Raphael. I swear, that shift was as dramatic as his, at least at this point in the flick.”

He pauses. “Please, tell me you’re kidding.”

You close your eyes, breathing slowly. “I’m going to try my best,” you swear, “do everything in my power, to see to it that you guys don’t experience more than you have to.”

You mean it. He can tell.

You two are quiet for the rest of the movie. You explain why certain directing choices were made, connect the beginning with the end, talk about the theme, all while you two watched their fall from grace. When the movie ends, you realize how tangled up in him you are; your head on his chest, legs draped over his with his arms around your waist. You feel the icy air against you, as if his skin attracted it to you. You push the hair out of your face. “So,” you stretch, turning the light back on, “do you wanna see another movie, or do you have a curfew?”

He pauses. “I should honestly probably get home,” he sighs. “If I’m not home early they’ll start getting ideas.”

“Oh, yeah.” You nod, completely understanding the reasoning. “You can take the leftover pizza home if you want; the guys’ll probably eat it before I do.”

“Mikey’ll be on cloud nine.” He picks the box off the coffee table. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” You stand at the window, opening it for him.

He climbs onto the windowsill, looking down at you from his perch. “I had a good time.” His face flushed. “We should do this again.”

You nod in agreement. “Definitely.” You rub the back of your neck. “I’ll pick a lighter movie next time.”

“Alright. It’s a plan.” He gives you a thumbs up.

You steal yourself, cupping one side of his face and kissing him gently on the cheek. “Goodnight, Donnie.” You smile. “See ya tomorrow.”

You are a bit concerned he’s going to fall off the windowsill. “Y-Yeah,” he grinned, words slurred. “See ya later, Y/N.” He waved, climbing up and out of your window.

You smile softly, sigh. You flop back on the bed, rolling over. You have not been this at ease since you died.

‘I really like that guy.’ You close your eyes. ‘I really, honestly do.’

You drift off to sleep, dreamless for the first time in too long.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 6 Part 1

Chapter 7

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bookwyrminspiration · 4 years ago

Note

WAIT. I'm late to the party but I just remembered all those anons were sending in "why I send you asks" and their reasons and I actually really want to participate, so I hope you will accept late applications?

The reason I send you so many asks is because you've just...built such a nice feeling that anything can be discussed, and it's never too niche or cringy or boring, and that's really relieving and amazing.

I'm sure you (along with many others) have realized by now, but I suffer from....really bad anxiety, both social anxiety and just in general, and it very often gets in the way of my life. Because of this and past experiences, I'm always very scared and hesitant to talk about my interests and my thoughts on anything.

But every time I've sent you an ask, even if it was, in retrospect, probably really annoying to read through the one hundred "sorry"s and "my bad"s, you've always been nothing but kind and interested in my ideas, and that was just...so surprising. Because I never really knew anyone who was willing to talk about anything, and it was just...really amazing to meet someone who was! Especially because I love and am interested in so many different things and kind of need someone to bounce ideas at. And it was really cool to see someone that was unashamed of their own interests and thoughts, but didn't make others feel bad for having different ideas.

Every time I send you an ask, you always have something interesting to say back. Something I hadn't thought of or considered, or a query that would make me rethink my own theories, or just a very well-thought-out answer to a question. I remember sending in tons of asks about the wings AU before it was released, and writing those was probably the highlight of my day, because I knew you'd take them and run with the ideas, and do your best to match my energy, and I was really grateful for that. And you were always willing to dig deeper, to think "but what if there was more?" and that's just...incredible! I don't have any other word for it!

I love sending you asks because you don't dismiss an idea or deem it as stupid, and you're just...such a kind and wonderful person that can make even the most obscure subject infinitely more interesting than before, and you never fail to make me consider things again, to expand my thoughts and views, and I'm really grateful for that.

So, because it should definitely be said by now, thank you!

And, well, that's why I love sending you asks :]

- pyro

there is no timeline so there's no way to be late! and I'm answering this a few days after you sent this, so if you believe yourself to be late then we can both be late together :D. you are fully welcome to participate if you want to (which you said you did)! it was mostly just a random question I had because i'm just as analytical with myself as I am with keeper, and knowing how other perceive and think of me is helpful for that--and I was curious about how i'd aquired so many asks so quickly, and then you all just turned it into complimenting quil hours for some reason !! (but on to your ask before I get even more distracted)

(note from a quil who has answered all of this: got very long so that's why there's a readmore! i love you /p)

this means so much to me--specifically your use of "built" because I do try pretty hard to maintain a positive atmosphere and welcome everyone in and treat everyone with the same attention. it didn't just fall into place, i try to be encouraging to everyone and support all the amazing work--art, writing, ideas, etc--I see from people. (note: i've been wanting to do a thing where I ask for fic/art/other recommendations from others (can be friends or their own) so i can go through and reblog a bunch of them with comments and the like, I just want to get through more of my asks before I start something like that). But you're right--nothing is too niche! there's so many details in the story it's impossible for one person to notice anything, so people bringing up the obscure and their own thoughts makes the story richer and more fleshed out for everyone else! and i think it's really cool to just see what other people focus on (like I said, my analysis isn't limited to characters, but I'm not like dissecting you all to understand each of you in a creepy way or anything. I just like to get a better sense of someone so I can respond in a way more tailored to them when we interact)

anxiety can really suck, so as someone who also has anxiety i am giving you a comforting hug if you'd like one. it genuinely impacts everything you do and think about, rewriting how you experience life. a single, inconsequential experience to someone else can literally change major aspects of how we think, which makes interactions so scary sometimes. i remember things people said years ago and still base my actions around them, but those people have absolutely no recollection of ever saying it, but just the fear of having done something wrong once permanently altered my thinking. (this is not to make this about me, I'm just trying to show I understand by sharing an experience of my own).

reading through all your "i'm sorry"s and "my bad"s wasn't annoying and never will be. you have never had anything to apologize for, and I know that sometimes you feel you need to enter a conversation and first apologize for being there, but I'm thrilled to have you here and always love seeing you in my inbox. I don't know how to articulate this properly, but I'm going to try. i saw your apologies and your apprehension as...a puzzle? that's absolutely not the right word but I can't think of the right one so please let me explain (I don't mean to imply you're like something to be solved or a problem in any way. words can be difficult and I'm trying to describe something very intangible rn, so I hope this doesn't sound bad). I didn't see it as annoying (you're never annoying), I saw it like it was something to work through, and while it's not my job or anything to help other's with their personal problems, it was like if I could just provide one space where I could encourage you (not just you, but anyone) as a friend to try shifting your language and start thinking of yourself more positively, then I wanted to give that.

because I am interested in your ideas! and I want to be kind and welcoming to you! but I also want you to be kind to yourself, so any impact I've had to give anyone a safer, less scary space is really cool. I don't know if that made sense, but I'm not trying to talk down to you or anything or be like I'm this high and mighty figure harboring lost souls or something, just that connection is important and I like being there for people. kinda worried that sounded bad because it feels worded strange but I'm trying to reciprocate and say i appreciate you and am happy to talk about anything!

i love bouncing ideas back and forth and you are more than welcome to say anything and everything you're thinking about. talking to you is always an absolutely joy and I get so excited when you send me an ask and when you're reading my response, because it often feels like this like...buzz? like we're just vibing on this frequency and it makes it so much fun to throw ideas back and forth and just listen to each other talk. i am very glad to have surprised you and met you! I don't know a lot of people like myself either, so having someone like you interact with me and just go all out on these little things and what we personally like about different parts of the so much fun. a lot of the other people I know irl feel like they just scratch the surface, they say things just to get credit for it and to appear like they know what they're talking about while ignoring all these other things that have such an impact, so it's amazing to have found someone else who looks at everything and anything like I do. my brain really is "a little bit of everything all of the time" so knowing you have so many different interests too is really cool. i am giving you an internet high five and pretending you aren't so far away.

I spent so much of my life being quiet when I had so many thoughts, so now that I have this kind of outlet I just! want to say everything I can! i want to look at everything from every perspective possible! the world is a huge collection of things tied together and I love following the strings to find the connected pieces! but I think that's a way of approaching the world not a lot of people share (I could be wrong), so it's really cool to hear you think my thought process is interesting!! my brain is practically composed entirely of questions. any subject at any time of the day and nearly all of my thoughts are just wanting to know more and trying to understand things, so having that opportunity to ask further questions and just learn things (about what other's thing, how things work, etc) is so much fun. you might've seen me ask some questions of other's in a few of the asks I answer, but those barely scratch the surface of just how many I have. my handle is in_quil_sitive (inquisitve) on nearly every social media platform (except for this one) for a reason.

I remember some of your asks from before the wings au was published, too. those were absolutely incredible, and I got a rush of excitement every time I saw you sent another. those were the the highlight of my week, too!! your enthusiasm and excitement for something I hadn't even posted yet gave me so much motivation to continue and you helped me think through so many future ideas and consider things from new perspectives. i know i specifically wrote that you inspired one chapter in the notes, but you've had an impact on every single chapter of this story/ it wouldn't be what it is without you, and I mean that with complete sincerity. you were the one who made me think "what if there was more" so I could make this au even better and work towards something bigger. I just have so many thoughts about everything all of the time, I can't go more than a few minutes without being distracted by a different train of thought, but knowing there was someone who would want to hear all the weird, disjointed ideas i'd strung together and composed into a more cohesive format was so cool. there's just so much to think about!!

I probably sound repetitive at this point but I love answering your asks because you're so receptive to the way i say things and it's like you're actually listening and want to hear what I specifically have to say, not just the general ideas. you want to know my unique, personalized opinions and perspectives and don't just dismiss them when they're not what you expect to hear or aren't generic. you're incredibly kind, too, I hope you know. I love the description of how I can "make even the most obscure subject infinitely more interesting than before." that is such a meaningful compliment to me. I just keep thinking about this line over and over again and it just...it really means a lot. because you're saying it's me that interests you and not just what I talk about. I could talk about anything and you'd still want to interact with me and that's so fucking nice. I hope you know the same goes for you. we can challenge each other's thinking together and make things even deeper and more complex before together <33.

thank you for being here and being my friend, pyro. talking to you is always one of the highlights of my day and gives me a very positive feeling that I carry around for a while. I do this thing sometimes where I film myself to later observe my behaviors in the middle of intense emotions to understand myself better (back to that whole analysis thing again), but it's not just negative things, it's also when I'm really excited or pleased with something and jumping around and stimming and all that, and some of those are from when I interact with you. that might sound a little weird but I mean it positively, as in talking with you makes me ecstatic.

I have said. so many things. so I will stop (for now). but I really appreciate having you in my life <33

#this response is 1757 words long i--#i have written shorter essays for my college classes #pyro this better convince you that i care about you #you're one of my favorite people #just in general #i really value our friendship #and hope none of this sounded weird #i tried to articulate it but some of the concepts didn't want to become words #so please know this is meant to be loving and supportive of you #in all aspects #i wrote so much and still didn't say everything I wanted to #you should be asleep when I answer this so hopefully this is something nice to wake up to #still don't feel i've articulated myself fully #but I have tried #worried about that puzzle part but I'm trying to say I want this to be like a safe space of kinds #where I can support you and encourage you to stop apologizing when you don't need to #and do that without judging you #ah anxious about that #if you cannot tell I don't want to mess this up and am worried I will #hnnnng #if I said something weird please let me know so i can fix it #quil's queries #pyrokinetic-loser #nonsie love #long post

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obaewankenope · 5 years ago

Text

The Second Life of Sandu Shengshou

Thanks to a dream I had several nights ago, I ended up writing this. It’s the beginning of a Multi-chaptered fic that can be read on AO3 here. I’m not even remotely sorry for this.

Not in the slightest.

One

The day Sect Leader Jiang dies is a day that the entire cultivation world remembers. For them, the passing of the Jiang Sect Leader is an event not to be ignored or celebrated. It is a day to remember his amazing deeds; losing his entire Sect to the Wen and then rebuilding it from the ground up; becoming a living legend during the Sunshot Campaign; fighting and killing the Yiling Laozu; raising the son of his beloved A-Jie into a fine young man who took the mantle of Jin Sect Leader well; being part of revealing the truth of Jin Guangyao’s deceit to the entire cultivation world; fighting fierce corpses and holding demonic cultivators to account for their crimes.

The day Sect Leader Jiang dies is one to remember his deeds and those of his brother, the last of his family beside the Sect Leader Jin.

For Sect Leader Jiang, it’s just another day of enduring a tired soul and a damaged heart, pasted back together with anger and grief. He expects the day to end with his finally seeing his family and those of his Sect who died in the Wen attack, again.

He closes his eyes, takes his last breath, and lets go. The heavens greet him and Jiang Cheng sees his family once more.

He doesn’t expect to take another breath until his next reincarnation which will hopefully be happier than his current one has been.

Jiang Cheng does not expect to cough dusty air from his lungs and open his eyes to the sight of a fierce corpse intent on killing him.

Instinct honed by battle and years of training serve him well as Jiang Cheng kicks out at the corpse, sending it careening back with an application of spiritual energy. His hand scrambles for his sword, for Zidian but finds only dirt. He has no weapon but his body and his core.

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth. So be it.

He jumps to his feet, stumbling when the strength of his core seems greater than his body can handle, but recovers well enough to drop into a open-handed stance. The corpse moves toward him at speed and, just as it is close enough for Jiang Cheng to strike, somebody slams into it and away from him.

In the moment it takes Jiang Cheng to register the identity of the person who just barrelled into a fierce corpse, a half-dozen purple-robed cultivators appear from the darkness of what he realises are trees. He’s in a forest. The humidity in the air tells him its a Yunmeng forest, but figuring out where he is suddenly isn’t important anymore when he gets a glimpse of some of the faces of the cultivators.

_He recognises them. _

Shidi’s he’d seen slaughtered by Wen-dogs. His disciples, his responsibility and here they are; coming to his rescue like he was a child again.

Is this his heaven?

Jiang Cheng looks around. He’s in a small clearing, ground recently disturbed by what he assumed had been the fierce corpse rising. A glimmer of silver on the ground reveals Sandu’s location and he immediately picks it up, relieved to have it in his grip again.

Everything is easier with Sandu.

“Drop it Corpse!”

Jiang Cheng looks in the direction of the fierce corpse that had attacked him, expecting it to be holding something, but it was down on the ground, pinned by a very, very familiar blade.

His father’s.

That was his father’s sword. That meant-

“I said, drop it!” Someone shouts. Fifth shidi, Jiang Cheng guesses, judging by the tone.

He looks at the children he’d seen die once, and realises, with a jolt, that fifth shidi is talking to him!

“What? I’m not a corpse!” Jiang Cheng exclaims and then almost let’s out a surprised shout because his voice—his voice.

He sounds like a child!

Jiang Cheng looks down at his hands gripping Sandu. Those are not the hands of a Sect Leader of one-hundred-and-three years. Those are- those-

“A fierce corpse cannot speak.” His father’s voice, the voice of Jiang Fengmian. “My son is dead, who are you to use his body so?”

Pingheng glows a pale violet in his father’s grip and Jiang stares at his father, open mouthed.

“What?”

Jiang Fengmian’s face looks like it’s carved from ice with no emotion to speak of. He looks more like Hanguang-Jun than the father Jiang Cheng remembers.

It’s incredibly disconcerting.

“I’m not- but- what!”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand what is happening. If this is heaven for him until he reincarnates then it sucks.

“Who are you?” Jiang Fengmian’s voice grows as cold as his expression and Jiang Cheng realises that it wasn’t just his mother that he got his temper from. His father’s is colder, but no less intense.

“I’m Jiang Cheng!” He is and he doesn’t understand what is happening but he’s not going to be anyone but himself. But that doesn’t mean he can’t improvise.

A childhood spent growing up with Wei Wuxian and then being the youngest Sect Leader during a war taught Jiang Cheng a lot. Mainly that he can bullshit just as good as his brother is he really, really needs to.

“I have- I’ve been sent back!” He exclaims, holding Sandu and pushing his spiritual energy into it to make the blade glow a deeper purple than his father’s blade. “I have come back from the heavens to protect the Sect! I swear on my sword and my core!”

Wei Wuxian would be proud of his attempt to not get attacked by his own father and shidi’s. Speaking of Wei Wuxian…

“Why should I believe you?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t splutter in shock but it’s a near thing. He has no idea why his father should believe him be abuse Jiang Cheng doesn’t actually know what’s going on but he doesn’t want to die in the afterlife. That would just be embarrassing.

“I don’t know!” Jiang Cheng exclaims in frustration. “You never paid me any attention when Wei Wuxian was all you ever cared about!” There’s a ripple of surprise in the group of disciples and even his father’s face shows a crack in the stone facade at the jab at his father’s favouritism. “Honestly, I’m over it! But it’s not like you know enough about me for me to give you a reason to believe me in the first place!”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Believe what you want, I don’t care.”

He has spent literal decades coming to terms with his father’s lack of favour for him and his mother’s general disappointment in him. He’s over it.

“A-Cheng.”

Pingheng drops to the ground and Jiang Cheng finds himself wrapped in an embrace he barely remembers. His father is real and solid and clinging to him with the same kind of desperate relief that Jiang Cheng clung to Wei Wuxian all those months after Lotus Pier was destroyed.

It’s the kind of embrace that is full of emotions that can’t be said aloud.

He doesn’t drop Sandu—he’s not his father and he fought in a war, he won’t drop his weapon—when he wraps his much smaller arms around his father’s chest and clings right back.

Jiang Cheng has no idea what’s going on but his father is weeping silently as he holds him and Jiang Cheng can’t remain emotionally distant from that. He just can’t.

Apparently, this afterlife has him dead as a child and his family and Sect have mourned him. What this means, Jiang Cheng doesn’t know, doesn’t really care, because right now he’s in his father’s arms for the first time since he was a small child and that’s more important than figuring out what the hell is going on.

One thing Jiang Cheng knows is a priority however is to find out where his shixiong is. Wei Wuxian will have some idea of what is happening; he always does.

Although he’s expecting it, the sight of Lotus Pier as he remembers it from his childhood is disorienting enough that Jiang Cheng wobbles on Sandu as they come in to land. His father reaches out to steady him, close enough to do so with ease and he’s been hovering around Jiang Cheng since he accepted his son is somehow alive again.

Jiang Cheng steadies himself and dismounts Sandu smoothly, and looks around his home with a more open expression than he intends to have judging by the look his father is giving him. He would hide it, the emotions he feels looking at Lotus Pier as it was before the Wen attack, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t want to. He’s spent one lifetime hiding his feelings, he refuses to spend another doing the same.

Not when he understands how precious this time is.

Of course, his emotional journey at seeing his home unharmed is ruined by the sound of his mother’s voice, loud and very angry-sounding, rapidly approaching.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t sigh because he loves his mother, he does, but she was such a bitter, angry woman who had taught Jiang Cheng to fear showing his soft-side to those who mattered most to him. The Madam Yu, Jiang Cheng remembers was one consumed by resentment toward her husband for bringing home an orphan that was the son of two people her husband loved. After raising his nephew, Jiang Cheng can’t accept his mother’s behaviour as anything but motivated by spite and hate. Perhaps pain.

Whatever this afterlife is for him, it’s giving Jiang Cheng the chance to right wrongs to his family and his brother then, by the heavens, he’s going to take it!

“What do you think you’re doing, Jiang Fengmian: leaving me with that child! He’s useless!”

Jiang Cheng has no clue what his mother is angry about precisely but he knows exactly who she’s talking about. Wei Wuxian. And where his shixiong is, his A-jie isn’t far behind.

It’s unbecoming of him to break into a run, leaving his father and shidi’s where they landed, but Jiang Cheng’s priorities are his siblings. Seeing his mother would be nice in that distant way seeing someone he once valued the opinion of, but he’s lived so long now without her that Madam Yu is less a priority than his siblings.

That’s probably an uncharitable thing to think about his mother but, well, Jiang Cheng won’t lie about the fact that A-jie definitely did more mothering of him and Wei Wuxian than Madam Yu ever did.

Resenting your children because you resent your husband is definitely not a sound basis upon which to build a family, let alone a Sect. Jiang Cheng can admit that, even if it’s only to himself.

The sight of his mother heading straight toward the landing point is a nice sight nonetheless. The last he saw of his mother, she had been fighting Wen Zhuliu with the fierceness she had shown all Jiang Cheng’s life. Seeing her in her prime is something he wishes he’d treasured when he’d had the chance. He has the chance again.

“Mother!” He exclaims, smiling in a way he hasn’t ever smiled at her before. He loves her still; she’s his mother.

His smile is ripped away when Madam Yu let’s out a cry of what sounds like horror and Zidian arcs out in a crackling purple chord that smashes into Jiang Cheng and sends him crashing into boxes of lotus seeds.

Shaking the dizziness from his head, Jiang Cheng realises that if his father thought him dead then it would stand to reason that his mother would have too. His mother of the Meishan Yu. He’s lucky he still has his head_ attached to his body_.

“Ziyuan! Stop!” His father shouts and Jiang Cheng looks up to see his mother with her blade drawn moving toward him with deadly intent.

Right. The whole ‘dead thing’.

“He’s alive! A-Cheng is alive!”

Madam Yu’s approach falters at those words but there are tears in her eyes and a determined, grief-stricken expression on her face that tells Jiang Cheng that his mother is not going to stop.

She must think he’s a conscious corpse like Wen Ning!

Talking to his mother when she’s like this is about as useful as talking to Wei Wuxian into not abandoning him for the Wen remnants had been. So Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother.

He vaults up from where he’s still sort of kneeling among broken boxes of lotus seeds, drawing Sandu and parrying Zidian as it tries to throw him off his feet again.

Jiang Cheng focuses on his mother to the exclusion of all else, though he doesn’t lose the awareness battle dried into him of his surroundings. He needs to fend his mother off and falling into the lake would not help with that.

Fighting his mother is a little bit like the one time Jiang Cheng spared with Nie Mingjue but without the pressure of not making an utter fool of himself. No, the pressure here is not having his head separated from his body by his mother.

Jilie, his mother’s sword, is as fierce as its master, but Jiang Cheng has more years of battle under his belt than his mother and father both. Sandu was more than a match for Jilie but Zidian was still a problem.

Parrying her attacks, Jiang Cheng focused on defending himself rather than attacking his mother; distantly registering the sound of his father calling for his mother to stop, for Jiang Cheng to stop.

Jiang Cheng will stop when his mother stops.

The problem with fighting his mother is that Jiang Cheng has grown used to fighting with Zidian, not against it, and it makes it difficult to handle both Jilie and Zidian at the same time. Eventually his luck at dodging Zidian will run out, he knows that.

When it does, he’s not surprised. Jilie and Sandu are locked and Jiang Cheng can’t disengage fast enough to avoid Zidian arcing around to slice into his neck. The only thing he can do is let it injure his arm instead.

The spark of pain from Zidian wrapping around his forearm is enough to have Jiang Cheng curse and snap at the spiritual weapon with his own spiritual energy.

He doesn’t expect Zidian to unfurl from his arm and instead settle around his wrist, violet sparking disappearing as the weapon goes inert.

That, more than anything, has both his mother and him stop dead.

Jiang Cheng stares at Zidian wrapped around his wrist. “What the fuck?”

In hindsight, saying anything was probably a bad idea but swearing was the worst idea ever.

Madam Yu and Jiang Fengmian both state at him with near identical looks of disapproval at his profanity which is just hilarious, really. Jiang Cheng’s entire political history is cursing, shouting, threats of violence, and profanity.

Still, he is somewhere around twelve and twelve-year-olds do not battle their mothers to a stand still and curse. But, this is Jiang Cheng’s afterlife so he can do what he wants, parental disapproval be damned.

Whether it’s his swearing, his father’s words finally penetrating his mother’s battle focus, or the fact that Zidian has in fact decided Jiang Cheng is fine, Yu Ziyuan pulls away from Jiang Cheng and studies him with a more open expression than he’s ever seen on his mother.

“Jiang Cheng?” Hearing his mother say his name so tentatively, sounding so uncertain, is just another surprise on top of more surprises.

He nods warily, unsure if his mother will start shouting at him for swearing, fighting her, or whatever other reason madam Yu can no doubt think of. Jiang Cheng certainly doesn’t expect his mother to drop her sword and drag him into a hug.

He can literally count on one hand how many times he’s been hugged by his mother. This makes hug number three; and he’s including the hugs from his previous life too.

Madam Yu doesn’t cry like Jiang Fengmian did but there’s a slight shaking to her shoulders that tells Jiang Cheng that she probably would if she ever allowed herself to be that emotionally vulnerable. His father approaches carefully, as mindful of his wife’s temper as ever, and gently joins the embrace; an arm around his wife and Jiang Cheng each.

This, this Jiang Cheng has never experienced. Both of his parents embracing him at the same time. The dashed wishes of the child that Jiang Cheng was long ago rise up and have him clinging to his parents with a desperation he doesn’t expect of himself. He’d reconciled his parents memory with his own failings long ago; he doesn’t need this from them but… It’s nice.

Jiang Cheng deserves nice things after all the crap he’s lived through.

The reunion with A-Jie and Wei Wuxian is either going to be wonderful or possibly worse than his mother realising he’s not dead. Jiang Cheng honestly doesn’t know which it’s going to he but he strongly suspects it’s going to involve a lot of shouting and crying at the least.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t pride himself on being right about things like Wei Wuxian always had, but he’s a little proud of himself for guessing rightly about the shouting and tears. He’s less proud when the source of shouting is his sister and tears is his brother.

Mostly because he doesn’t know how to handle either of those things separately, let alone at the same time.

Jiang Cheng feels perfectly justified in mumbling the same excuse he gave his father to A-Jie as she gives him the same look Madam Yu always gave him; expectant. At least, Jiang Yanli expects an explanation whereas his mother expected perfection.

Wei Wuxian is, in comparison to A-Jie near catatonic, clinging to Jiang Cheng the way he used to whenever someone mentioned dogs or he saw one. It’s terror and fear and a desperate, desperate need for comfort. Jiang Cheng, after literal decades spent trying to be less emotionally constipated, complies readily and pulls his shixiong into a hug that buries Wei Wuxian’s head against his chest.

Jiang Cheng used to do that with A-Ling all the time when his nephew was young and needed comfort after a nightmare. The experience comes in handy with his brother.

“I’m sorry, A-Jie, I didn’t plan on dying in the first place, let alone being thrown back by the heavens to protect the Sect,” Jiang Cheng says and there’s more sarcasm to his words than there should be considering the way his sister actually glares at him. “I’m sorry for hurting you all.”

A-Jie’s glare softens at those words. Jiang Cheng means them for a lot more than just being dead in his afterlife here. He means them for failing his sister and her husband, for not being a better uncle, for pushing Wei Wuxian away, for being so ignorant that he didn’t even realise his core was actually his brothers…

Jiang Cheng is sorry for a lot of things.

“You are forgiven A-Cheng,” A-Jie tells him, smiling at last as she joins Wei Wuxian in hugging Jiang Cheng. “Do not do it again.”

“I definitely don’t plan to, no,” Jiang Cheng promises, smiling despite himself because he has his siblings again. They’re alive and safe and though they’ve been grieving him, he knows they’ll be happy again soon enough.

And he’s going to keep them that way. Even if he has to go and kill Wen Ruohan himself at the tender age of twelve. Possibly Jin Guangyao- wait, it’d be Meng Yao still. Su She too, maybe.

Jiang Cheng sighs into his siblings embrace. He’s going to have to write a list.

The years of being a Sect Leader with no family and a newly rebuilt Sect will come in handy now that Jiang Cheng is going to have to single-handedly organise protection of Lotus Pier and possibly kill several cultivators without getting caught. He can do it, he’s of Yunmeng Jiang, but it’s going to be annoying with Sect Heir duties.

Judging by the hair pierce and robes Wei Wuxian wears, Jiang Cheng figures his father made him the Sect Heir after Jiang Cheng’s… Demise. Of course, Wei Wuxian would be a wonderful Sect Heir and Leader for Yunmeng Jiang, Jiang Cheng has come to accept this about his shixiong and not resent him for it. But Jiang Cheng gets the feeling that Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to be Sect Heir instead of Jiang Cheng.

Considering that Wei Wuxian had become Sect Heir thanks to the Wen attack, Jiang Cheng trusts that his brother has been carrying out Sect Heir duties just fine. The admission by Wei Wuxian that he has in fact been completely useless in the week since Jiang Cheng’s death is… Surprising.

But it’s not, not really, when Jiang Cheng thinks about it. Wei Wuxian loves him—he hasn’t shied away from this fact for three decades, he’s not about to start shying away from it now—and Jiang Cheng himself had been pretty useless those first few days after the Wen attack and then Wei Wuxian’s disappearance. He understands.

“You’re meant to be the next Sect Leader, anyway,” Wei Wuxian mumbles into Jiang Cheng’s robes.

“Maybe, but you’ll be my Sect Heir when I do,” Jiang Cheng replies, calmly staring at Wei Wuxian’s shocked expression. “I’m serious. A-Jie will marry and leave Lotus Pier, but you’re Head Disciple and will become Sect Heir when I take over from father.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him. He looks a bit like a koi fish.

Jiang Cheng kindly does not tell him that.

“But- Madam Yu-“ Wei Wuxian splitters and Jiang Cheng cuts him off.

“Mother is not Sect Leader or Sect Heir,” Jiang Cheng says firmly. “It is not her decision who I have as my heir. I love her but you are my brother and I will not allow anyone to treat you like you are unworthy of being treated as my brother. Not even mother.”

It seems that Jiang Cheng can reduce Wei Wuxian to speechless by a) dying and reviving, and b) declaring him his brother and being willing to fight Madam Yu about it.

Considering Jiang Cheng has already fought his mother today, he’s relatively confident he could beat her if it came to that; even if he’s twelve. He’d rather it didn’t but Jiang Cheng has learnt to plan for contingencies as a Sect Leader.

You never knew if you were going to reveal a major plot to undermine the Great Sects and frame your brother for crimes he didn’t commit, after all.

Speaking of contingencies, Jiang Cheng wonders if it would be wise to reach out to Gusu Lan earlier than the Disciple Exchange in three years. The Lan would be able to offer assurances to the other Sects that Jiang Cheng really isn’t dead, and it would afford him the chance to introduce Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian sooner. Whilst he’d much rather gouge his eyes out than witness his brother being so shameless with the Second Jade of Lan, Jiang Cheng remembers how happy his shixiong had been with Hanguang-Jun and Jiang Cheng will do whatever he has to, to make sure his siblings are happy.

Even if he has to endure shameless flirting and truly obnoxious displays of affection.

He’ll have to figure something out regarding the peacock for A-Jie too. Jiang Cheng sighs. The things he does for those he loves.

#The Untamed #Jiang Cheng #Wei Wuxian #Jiang Yanli #Jiang Fengmian #Yu Ziyuan #Kat writes

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aestheticwritingz · 5 years ago

Text

Time of Our Lives (5SOS) part 1

PLEASE READ:

Hello guys! I’m back with this short story series. For the sake of the story, the “Y/Ns” are not the same person, considering there will be “different” ones for each guy - but I write them like that so you guys can enjoy as you would in regular fics. I picture this type of story like a movie, so I tried to write it so that you can imagine the setting and situations very well. warnings: ashton smut here; dirty talk, choking, quickie & more Enjoy reading & send feedback! Part 2 coming sooner than you think.

Saturday, 6:17 AM, the morning after

Calum woke up under the bleachers, barely able to move any part of his body. The sun rose over the nearby hills, hitting his body sprawled over the grass. He rubbed his eyes, trying to comprehend what happened the night before. This morning, even.

“I’m never drinking again.” he thought, trying to lift himself off the damp grass. He tried to reach for his phone, that was supposed to be in the pocket, but sadly, that wasn’t the case. Instead, he found a small piece of paper that had a few random drawings on it, but a written sentence beneath, that said:

“And she held the cup. 49832″

“What does this even mean?”

As he was trying to process things that were happening around him, he noticed two people laying far away from him. One of them was a girl for sure, considering she wore a skirt, and she had really nice legs as Calum thought. The other was a guy, still holding a can of beer, but Calum couldn’t figure out who they were, yet. He at least hoped he would find his wallet in the other pocket, but rather found it on the ground near him. Calum checked if anything was gone, but the only thing he noticed missing was a condom.

“Did I have sex last night?”

And then, it started coming back to him.

But, let’s go back a couple of days first.

Thursday, 11:14 AM

“Do you sincerely think your plan will work? Like really, think about it.... like really.” Michael exclaimed, running his fingers through his hair. “First of all, it’s our plan. Second, I got it all set, have you not been listening to what I was saying?” Calum said, closing his locker as they started walking to their class, meeting Luke and Ashton on the way.

“I can’t wait to tell them the plan,” he said, referring to the other two guys coming their way. “Let’s ditch this class either way.”

Paul’s Diner, 11:37 AM

“So..if I got it all clearly,.. you want to ask the principal of school to make our senior party in school tomorrow night, since tomorrow is the last day of school..ever?” Ashton said, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Mhm,” Calum smirked.

“..And spend the night of the last day of school...in school?”

“I told you so Calum, this makes no sense-” Michael stressed, but Ashton cut him off.

“Awesome! I love it! When are we going to talk to the principal?”

“What?” Michael said confusingly.

“Damn right, Ashton’s on board!” Calum rubbed his palms together, and snapped them on the table of the old diner they decided to spend their 3rd period at.

“What about alcohol?” Luke said, knowing that anyone in school won’t actually let them drink on their watch. “We will sneak it in, that’s not a problem. I talked with the girls earlier, they have few ideas already.” Calum said, talking about their friends, who got in trouble but had so much fun with the boys every single time.

“What about music?”

“DJ that played Michael’s birthday party. I got it all covered guys. You just have to show up, and make me persuade the big guy to make this happen.”

“Sounds like a plan to me then,” Luke smiled and Calum could do nothing but jump on the top of the seat and clap his hands. “Alright, so this is how we do it.”

Principal’s office, 12:11 PM

"Let me see if I understood you clearly. You want to throw a party in school tomorrow night?”

“How many times am I going to be asked this question today?” Calum muttered to himself, proceeding to roll his eyes. “Yes. We would like that so we can spend the last time in school being around classmates and having fun. Dance a little, and stuff like that you know,” Calum laughed and principal gave him a confused look.

“You see, what Calum wants to say, we want to leave a school with a bang.” Ashton continued, and it obviously made the situation way worse.

“Sir, is it possible to have a party here at such a short notice?” Luke interrupted, trying to make the whole conversation at least sound better, in order to make Mr. Simmons even think about the idea. “Well, it is a short notice, but I guess we can work it out. However, there are a few things you have to respect in order to make this happen. We can’t spend any more school budget because of the trouble at prom that happened, that cost this school a lot and- I won’t even talk about it,” “That was funny, though,” Ashton laughed, Calum following shortly behind him, as Michael hit the both of them on the arm.

“Anyhow, you are on your own about that. School will allow if you students would like to raise some money for music, decorations, snacks and drinks but no alcohol. If anyone breaks these rules, even though the school is over, it will go to your records and affect your applications to college, and I promise you this.” Simmons said sternly. “And also, the party could only last until 11 PM.” “What?!” Calum yelled and after trying to make Mr Simmons rethink his choices, it was in vain.

“You are known in school as troublemakers. Don’t make me change my mind. You have one day to plan everything.” And with that, they left the office.

“Good thing my parents leave tomorrow morning for a business trip, huh?” Calum smirked, leaving the boys in shock. “And you didn’t think to mention that? Why should we even hang out in school in the first place?” “I will explain everything... when it’s the right time”

The guys entered the school radio room and notified everyone there will be a party, where to give as much money as they can and when the party will be held. Not much to their surprise, everybody was down to go. They organized a bunch of friends to raise money, pick up the drinks and food and girls to decorate the gymnasium. Calum’s house, 3 PM

“Don’t you get it? This doesn’t change anything. The only reason I wanted to make that party happen is to distract the guards, shut off security cameras and leave the door of the fields unlocked, so we can go there before the sunrise.” Calum explained. The thing with this was, once a guy who knew a guy who knows a guy told Calum that someone was caught on the field in the middle of the night after some senior party, then got arrested for trespassing and couldn't get into college that year. Hence, they set up the cameras, and Calum wouldn't let his senior year be over before spending the last sunrise on the benches or in the middle of the field drinking beer, just like his older sister and generations before did. On the other hand, they couldn't do it during the day, there were no distractions and everyone working in the school were there. “Either way, party at my house will start at 11PM, so boys get to tweeting and sending messages about the party.”

"About the wild plan to shut off security cameras..Do you realize that’s illegal? How are even going to do that?"

"Here's how. Picture it."

Ashton’s garage, 9PM

Opening the last beers they had, Ashton, Michael, Luke and Calum talked through the plan they had. The sun was beginning to set in the suburbs, creating a nostalgic feeling in each one of them. Even more so, as they talked through memories they made in high school and how everything will be different once the summer ends. They tried not to get too sentimental, considering all the other things they had to make happen.

They knew this was more than just an occasion to drink and dance. They knew that after this, they wouldn’t see some people for a long time, so this was an excuse to get a proper goodbye.

“So, about the house party, what do we need?” Ashton broke the silence between them.

“Well, as usual. Drinks, cool lights, sound system, music. Chicks,” Calum laughed, although he wasn’t far from the truth.

“I have good lights, I will bring them first thing in the morning, after your parents leave. Mikey, how are we on the speakers?” Ashton said.

“Will be delivered first thing in the morning as well.” He responded, taking a big gulp from his beer can.

“Yes, sir. I will make a good playlist of party songs, about one hundred. Enough to play until everybody gets drunk. Then, we play it all again, people won’t even notice.” Calum added.

“Hook up rooms?” Luke asked.

“My room is off-limits for anyone except us, as always. Master bedroom, Mali’s old room, and the room in the basement, they are all available.”

“Cool. What about the drinks, though? How are we on money?” “Should we get beer, vodka and tequila? Those are the usual, and tell people to bring some of their own and we can get some snacks, is that cool?” Michael said.

“For sure, sodas and maybe orange juice. Lemons for tequila shots too.” Calum added.

“So we got it all set. Get to texting people boys!” Ashton exclaimed, picking up his phone.

The night was wearing off and the boys decided to head home. Getting on their bikes and skateboards, they said goodbye to Ashton and rode off. That’s when he got a message.

Y/N’s POV, 9:41PM

“I wanna see you.”

I had to text Ashton. I knew that he wanted to see me just as much as I wanted to see him. It’s been a while, too much for the both of us. After we decided to take a break, it wasn’t really going as we planned. Occasionally, when we saw each other at a party for instance, we would hook up and ignite the sparks again, making it harder to move on. We knew very well we could never take a break for good, there was just something between us. Sparks, fire, desire - you name it. He knew I was his always, but I knew that he was mine as well. Hence, the text.

“I want to see you too.” He was quick on response, and that’s all it took for me to get dressed and sneak out of my house.

Not long after, I was in front of Ashton’s garage, throwing small rocks at his window above. Light turned on and I saw a silhouette of his naked torso, but soon he disappeared as he went for the door. He quietly opened his back door, motioning with his hand towards him - a sign for me to come inside even more quietly.

“I don’t think my parents are asleep yet, I can hear the TV-” He started but I cut him off as soon as I stepped in. I attacked his lips hungrily with mine, and we started our make out session filled with fire and desire right there in his kitchen. He pulled away quickly, realizing someone could hear us.

“Let’s go upstairs.” He whispered, pulling me towards him and leading me to his room.

“I missed you Ashton.” I whispered as we were going up the stairs.

“I missed you too Y/N. I’m going to show you just how much.”

That alone sent shivers down my spine, anticipating what’s going to happen next - but I already knew. As soon as we got to his room and he locked the door, I started taking my clothes off, him following soon after with the same action. Ashton pushed me gently on the bed, quickly hovering above me as we started making out. He immediately grabbed my hair and pulled it back so he can get access to my neck. Gentle kisses turned into rough licking and bites, the wish to have me as soon as possible was too strong.

“I missed you.” He whispered in my ear as he took my bra off and tossed it next to the bed. All I did in response is a let out a moan as he wrapped his lips around my nipple and cupped the other breast with his hand. As my moaning got more intense, he pulled away and proceeded to slide of my panties.

Ashton didn’t hesitate to slide his fingers against my wetness, ducking his head down and licking up a rough stripe against my clit. I whimpered at the sudden contact - the mix of pleasure, tingle and a bit of a tickle.

He kneeled above me, taking in what was beneath him, devouring the whole view with his eyes. He unexpectedly slid two of his fingers inside me and, as he knew was coming, he put the other hand over my mouth right away. The light scream I produce was muffled by his hand. He knew this was a turn on I always had, for him to get all dominant and rough with me - control all of me.

Ashton continued to slide his fingers in and out of me, curling them at the right spot as I held to his hand, the one that kept my mouth shut.

“I can see how good I’m making you feel baby.” Ashton said looking directly in my eyes. I let out a struggled moan, not able to contain the facial expressions I was making.

I was one the verge of an orgasm, but that stopped Ashton. He loved to tease and keep me on the edge. In a matter of seconds his boxers were off, the condom was on and he was once again hovering above me, lining himself up.

“How bad do you want it baby girl?”

“So bad, please.” I answered desperately and he obliged, slowly filling me up. He fell on top of me, locking his hands under my shoulders and tangled them in my hair and around my head. The only place he had support were his elbows and he used them to rock both of us on the bed.

As much as he wanted to go slow, something switched in him and he started pounding me into the bed. Only thing I could do was push my hips from time to time to meet his.

“Fuck, don’t stop Ashton please,” I screamed out, which made him put his palm over my mouth once again. “Be a good girl and shut up.” He said roughly, gazing at me directly. He lifted himself up and wrapped his hand around my neck making it the only support he had to hold his tall, muscular body.

“You are such a good girl when you take it like that,” He said pushing two fingers in my mouth. “What a good girl.” He was amazed looking at me as I was sucking his fingers. That only made him eager to get us both off and continued to move inside of me at just the right speed.

“Are you going to cum baby? Tell me, are you going to cum?” He asked breathlessly in my ear, letting out a string of groans as well. “I’m so close Ashton,”

“Be a good girl and cum for me, c’mon,” He said and it was all it took me to release. I took a pillow that was beside my head and screamed into it, trying as hard as possible not to make any noise. My whole body tingled, every spot had electricity of its own and I felt Ashton getting close to cumming as well.

“I love it when I make you cum like that,” He moaned and thrust sloppily until he reached his orgasm to, gripping me by my shoulders. He plopped down on me, making it difficult for both of us to catch breath again.

After he took the condom off and threw it away, he cuddled next to me.

“I hate being apart from you.” He said scratching my arm. “I hate it too,” “It’s been so long, we couldn’t keep away from each other. We tried. Let’s try working on each other and us, and never be apart again. I miss sleeping next to you and having you-” Ashton started. “I’m always yours. I want to try. After the party on Friday, let’s sit down and talk about everything.” I said, looking at the time on the clock that was sitting on the night stand.

“I wish I could stay longer, but my parents are going to kill me if they notice I’m not at home.”

“Okay. Do you need a ride?” He asked and I waved my head “no”.

“Sure?” “Sure.”

“I love you.

“I love you too,” I said kissing him and left his house.

#5sos smut #5sos dirty imagine #ashton irwin dirty imagine #ashton irwin smut #luke hemmings smut #luke hemmings dirty #michael clifford smut #michael clifford dirty imagine #calum hood dirty imagines #calum hood smut #5sos #luke hemmings dirty imagine

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imagineteamfreewill · 5 years ago

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Title: Magic

Pairing: Goddess!Reader x Dean

Word Count: 3,921

Warnings: Use of magic

Summary: Dean learns more about his role as Y/N’s consort and she learns more about his life at the temple.

A/N: This is part two of Consort. Feedback makes the world go round!

Consort Series Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

_______________

Dean didn’t know what to expect as he climbed the stone steps to Y/N’s chambers. The door sensed his presence and opened automatically as he neared, but he hesitated before ascending the final few feet. When he finally emerged into the room, a wave of calmness and warmth washed over him. Y/N stood from the chaise with a smile on her face and all the tension he’d been feeling melted away.

Y/N held out a hand for him. “Dean,” she greeted, her voice soft and gentle. “Come here.”

Obediently, Dean crossed the room and slipped his hand into hers. It was weird—he hadn’t held anyone’s hand ever since The Culling. His mother had been holding his hand tightly just before Y/N had arrived, but Dean hadn’t been close with anyone since coming to the temple.

Y/N smiled and squeezed his hand before leading him to a short pedestal in the center of the room. The rugs had all been cleared away, as had the furniture. Dean shifted uncomfortably on the pedestal as she let go of his hand. He felt too exposed.

Y/N clapped her hands once and stepped away. Three young maidens appeared, each dressed in a plain, cream-colored linen dress, and Dean immediately recognized them as some of the women who’d been brought to the temple shortly after his own Culling. He’d never bothered to learn about the logistics, but he was pretty sure that after all the boys were gathered and taken to the temple, some of the soldiers went back to take the girls. There were always families that never had any sons, but gender never stopped anyone from paying the tax, not in Camor. Firstborns were firstborns, regardless of whether or not they served a purpose in the temple. From what he’d seen, Dean had the feeling that most of the temple women were only there to replace each other if something went wrong. If they weren’t one of the few who helped Y/N, they spent most of their time milling around the servants’ chambers.

“While you’re being measured, I need you to listen carefully to me,” Y/N instructed.

Dean nodded, letting one of the temple women maneuver his arms so they could measure him.

“During The Culling, you’ll be accompanying me to each village. It will be a long journey, and you’ll be expected to fulfill every need that my handmaidens can’t accomplish. You will also be serving as one of my guards,” Y/N said, and Dean furrowed his eyebrows at her. He’d never been trained as a guard, but she waved her hand dismissively. “You will not speak to any of the boys that return with us, nor will you speak to their families. You will also not speak to your family, do you understand?”

“We’re going to Lawrence?” Dean asked, his mouth moving before he could stop himself.

Y/N shot him a scolding look. “We will be going to every village, Dean. It’s important that you follow my every command on our journey. Of course, I hope that you will not think of them as commands by that point. The Culling is still a few cycles away, and we will have time to bond before then.”

Bond?

One of the temple women stepped away from Dean and moved in front of Y/N, bowing down on her hands and knees until her forehead touched the floor.

“You may speak,” Y/N said.

The maiden stood, staring at the floor as she spoke. “His measurements have been taken, Your Majesty. His garments will arrive quickly.”

“Very well. You may leave me.”

The woman bowed again and the other two followed suit. Silently, they left through the servants’ door, leaving Dean alone with Y/N.

“When you said bond…” Dean began, but Y/N turned her back on him, walking to her desk and sitting down. She pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began to write in silence.

Confused, Dean stepped down from the pedestal. As soon as he’d stepped onto the floor, it disappeared and the furniture and rugs that normally took its place returned. Dean was at a loss for words; he’d known that Y/N had magical abilities, but he didn’t think that it could be used without words or her touch. He’d also been so sure that her magic was only applicable to humans. All the stories he’d heard had involved other people, and usually not in a good way.

“Your thoughts are loud,” Y/N suddenly said, and Dean jumped in surprise.

“My apologies, Your Majesty.”

She turned in her chair, her eyes boring into him for a long moment before she answered, “I told you to call me Y/N.”

Dean felt his stomach roll as she stood and approached him. “Please forgive me.”

Y/N stopped when she was within six inches of him, her bare feet peeking out from underneath her long white gown. She raised her hand and placed it on his cheek without looking away, her eyes swirling with colors as she stared him down.

“You’re afraid of me,” Y/N stated a moment later, her voice as soft as velvet.

Swallowing thickly, Dean answered, “I could never be afraid of you, Y/N.”

Her face contorted in anger and she dropped her hand. “Do not lie to me, Dean. Lies will earn you nothing but punishments, and my last consort did nothing but lie to me. Do you wish to find out his fate?”

Y/N turned and walked away from him, going to the heavy trunk at the end of her bed. She opened it and reached inside, then pulled out a bundle of clothing he’d never seen before. After closing the trunk once more, she held the bundle out to him with an expectant look on her face.

Dean took it, confused, but Y/N offered no explanation as she returned to her writing desk.

“You may change here. I will give you privacy, and the temple servants will not enter in the process. You will be assigned handmaidens to help you later today,” Y/N said as she sat back down.

“I can dress myself, Your Ma— Y/N,” Dean corrected himself before she could say anything. “I’m not in need of handmaidens.”

“Consorts have handmaidens,” Y/N answered, and that was that. Her tone left no room for argument and Dean felt a shiver go up his spine at her words.

Ducking his head, he looked through the clothes she’d given him. The material was soft and unlike anything he’d ever worn. It was clearly made by the same workers who made Y/N’s clothing, or at least by someone just as skilled. Though the clothes themselves were plain, the colors were something he’d never pictured himself wearing. They were rich reds, blues, and greens that likened to the gardens outside the temple, the gardens he’d seen but never ventured into. His work had kept him too busy for exploration, but he’d always longed to spend time in them.

The clothes fit well, and Dean was relacing his plain shoes when he heard Y/N get up again. Her feet appeared in front of him as he tied the laces, and after a moment he lifted his head to look up at her.

“Take those off,” she ordered. “You will not wear shoes.”

Confused, Dean removed the shoe and picked it up with its pair, holding onto them as a temple woman scurried in to collect his old clothing. She cast him a frightened look before risking a glance at Y/N, who was watching her intently.

“Go on. Take his shoes. He won’t be needing them any longer.”

The woman tentatively took the shoes from him, and Dean didn’t resist. She looked terrified to be there and pity made his chest ache as he watched her leave.

Y/N took his face in her hand, turning it until he met her eyes. “Do not pity her. She is here to serve, just as you are. You simply serve in other ways.” She dropped her hand and gave him a smile. “Will you tell me a story, Dean?”

Dean nodded obediently. Y/N’s smile widened and she took his hand, leading her to the chaise. When she didn’t sit like she normally did, he looked over at her in confusion.

“You may sit,” Y/N said, her voice filled with amusement. She reached over and pushed him until he was lying flat on the chaise. Y/N maneuvered his legs until she could fit between them, then laid down and placed her head on his chest. “Wrap your arms around me.”

Dean did as she said, uncomfortable at the intimacy of the position. Never had he dreamed of finding himself this close to Camor’s protector and provider, and he’d never seen her become so… physical with anyone else. Would this be a new normal in his life?

“I want to hear a story you’ve heard about me,” Y/N said. Before Dean could protest, she continued, “I don’t care if it makes me sound evil. It’s important I know what my people think of me. This is part of my preparation, Dean. The Culling is a difficult time for my people. I must be prepared to face their opinions.”

Her answer surprised him. Dean hadn’t expected Y/N to be so thoughtful about the ritual. He, and everyone Camor, assumed that she celebrated with great joy and without a care for the strain it put on many families. Dean was quickly learning that he’d assumed many things incorrectly.

“Very well,” Dean replied. “I will need a moment to think…”

Y/N hummed in response. When he risked a glance down at her, Dean saw that her eyes were closed. She was completely relaxed against him, but he could still feel the raw power thrumming underneath her hot skin.

Finally, Dean was able to settle his thoughts enough to think of a story told often in the servants’ chambers. He’d heard it hundreds of times since his arrival, and it was still fresh in his mind from the last time it had been told.

“The Goddess has been around since the dawn of time. She was born of dust and clouds, and her powers came from a vial placed in her hand at her birth. Time and Space formed her to help protect the people who would soon come into being. But soon after her creation, the vial was tainted. Her powers twisted at the sight of the first man and woman. In order to protect themselves from her, they vowed to give her their first child on the day of the fourth full moon after his sixteenth year. She agreed, and the man and woman escaped with their lives.

“Their promise to the Goddess was forgotten until she came to take the child. It was a boy, and he fought against her with all he had. The Goddess won their battle, but not without coming away unscathed. The boy was able to catch her with his sword, leaving a long, lightning-shaped scar across her skin. Angry, she took the boy and forced him to be her servant for the rest of his life, instead of letting him return to his parents after a year like she had originally intended.

“As the human race began to grow, she took more and more of these children as recompense for her injury and the betrayal she’d felt when the first man and woman went back on their vow. Even today, the Goddess comes every year to take—”

“Stop,” Y/N said, her voice quiet but filled with enough power to make every muscle in Dean’s body tense. He went silent, waiting for her to speak again. She didn’t, instead getting up from the chaise and leaving him alone as she went to sit at her desk.

“Y/N?” Dean hesitantly asked. “Are you alright?”

“My hairbrush is on above the hearth. Please bring it to me,” Y/N said.

Confused, Dean stood and retrieved the brush, carrying it to her. She didn’t take it, but she moved so that her hair draped over the back of the chair. Dean understood after a moment and he began to brush her hair with long, smooth strokes. He’d helped a couple temple women with their hair when their hands were too cramped from sewing or their other tasks, and the motions came easily to him.

“You’re very skilled,” Y/N murmured after a few minutes. The tension had melted away from her muscles and Dean felt himself relax in response.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he answered. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”

“Are you?”

The question took Dean by surprise and he didn’t reply for a minute. Y/N turned around to face him, her expression unreadable as she looked up at him.

“Do you enjoy my company, Dean?” she asked again.

“I don’t know,” Dean reluctantly answered. “I don’t know much about you, and I’m not used to this.”

She frowned, confused. “This?”

“Your chambers are… comfortable. They’re too comfortable for me, and while the clothes are pleasant, they’re also too pleasant.”

Y/N looked even more confused. “How can something be too comfortable or too pleasant, Dean? I don’t understand.”

She doesn’t understand? I thought she knew everything…

“The servants’ chambers are…” Dean trailed off, searching for the right word.

“They’re what?”

“Cramped,” he finally answered. “They’re dirty, lacking, and uncomfortable. When I first came here—when I first came from my village to the temple—I thought I’d be living in a nice room because the temple is so nice, but sometimes I felt more like a prisoner or a slave.”

Y/N’s face clouded over with anger and she pushed the chair away from the vanity, standing. Dean quickly stepped back so he was out of her way and watched her carefully.

“You felt like a slave in my temple?” she asked.

Hesitantly, Dean nodded. “Yes, Y/N.” He lowered his eyes instinctively, equal parts shame and fear making his chest feel tight.

He only lifted his head when she placed two fingers under his chin, pressing gently. Y/N’s eyes were saddened when he finally met them and all traces of anger were completely gone.

“You’re not a slave, Dean. Though you are still here to serve, this is your home and I intend to make it feel as such,” she told him. After a brief pause, she continued, “Would you accompany me to the servants’ chambers? I would like to see them for myself. I’ve never been there before. I’d always assumed that they were comfortable, at the very least, but it seems that I’ve assumed incorrectly.”

Though he wasn’t sure how the other servants would react to seeing Y/N in their space, he nodded. It didn’t seem like he truly had the option to say no.

“I’ll lead you there, but please don’t hurt them, no matter what they do. Our space isn’t what we always need or want, but it’s the only thing we have that’s ours,” Dean said.

Especially since not even our lives are our own, he added in his head.

Y/N watched him in silence for a moment before bowing her head. “You have my word not to hurt anyone, though those rooms are not yours anymore, Dean. This is.” She gestured around the spacious bedroom.

Dean nodded, not wanting to argue anymore. Y/N gave him a satisfied smile before wrapping her hand around his and squeezing.

“Take me downstairs,” she said.

Silently, Dean led her to the stone door on the side of the room. It opened automatically as they neared it, and he carefully ducked down into the tunnel, glancing behind him to make sure that Y/N was following. She was, and the uncomfortable look on her face told him that she was already displeased with the conditions he’d lived with for so long. Stooping to get in and out of her chambers had become a habit after only a few weeks at the temple.

“How long is this staircase?” Y/N asked after a few minutes of walking.

Dean thought as he walked before answering, “Only a few more minutes. There’s quite a distance between your chambers and ours.”

Y/N made an irritated noise behind him. “I wish you’d stop referring to our room as mine. I thought I made myself clear when I said that it’s your home now as well.”

Homes aren’t forced on people, Dean thought, his mind wandering for a second to his first few days at the temple. They’re created over time.

The two of them descended in silence until they finally reached the bottom. The usual chill of the servants’ chambers made its way up Dean’s spine and he shivered, looking back at Y/N. Her dress revealed even more skin than his new clothes and he frowned a little.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Y/N shook her head. “Take me to where you used to sleep, Dean.”

Obediently, Dean turned forward again and began to walk, ignoring the cold, wet stones beneath his bare feet. The halls were empty, but as they neared the central area of the chambers, Dean began to hear the chatter of the other servants.

“Please let me enter first, Y/N,” Dean said, stopping just outside the entrance to the common area. “I don’t know how they’ll react to seeing you in their space.”

Y/N watched him for a second before nodding. “Very well.”

Dean sighed in relief and nodded back at her before turning around and stepping into the large room. All the servants turned to look at him, their excited voices dying down as they looked him over. Surely they’d all heard of his new position in the temple.

“She’s here,” Dean said after a long moment. The men visibly straightened, fear filling their eyes as they looked at one another. “She does not intend to hurt anyone,” Dean quickly continued. “She’s simply here to look at how we live.”

Every pair of eyes moved to look over Dean’s shoulder and he held back a sigh, knowing that Y/N had entered the room before he’d had the chance to finish. He turned to face her, waiting patiently as she looked over the room with her critical gaze. Finally, she met his eyes.

“Your friends are afraid of me,” she said simply.

Dean nodded.

Y/N stayed silent for a moment more before closing her eyes, and Dean felt a wave of calm wash over him, just as it had when he had fallen asleep in her room. The audible sighs and shuffling behind him told him that the other servants were feeling the exact same thing.

“Please, do not be afraid,” Y/N told them, her voice strong, yet gentle. “I did not come here to hurt you, just to observe. Come, Dean.”

Y/N held out her hand and Dean slipped his into it, letting her lead him back the way they had come. He was still blinking against the heavy blanket of peacefulness that she’d settled over him, but the feeling of her skin against his was slowly bringing him back.

“What did you do to us?” he asked.

“It is simply one of the effects of my magic,” Y/N explained, not looking back as they continued to walk. “I can coax your emotions to grow stronger, but I can only affect emotions that a person is already feeling. I used yours to help them. It’s good to know that you’re starting to feel more comfortable around me.”

Dean stayed quiet as Y/N led him back up the stairs to her chambers. His feet ached as the stone door closed behind him and she dropped his hand. When he noticed her bending over to reach inside the chest at the foot of her bed once more, he stepped forward to try and catch a glimpse of its contents. She closed it too fast, however, and her eyes glinted with warning as she straightened to stand tall once more.

“You are not to open this chest, Dean. Its contents are not to be touched or seen by you without my permission. Do you understand?” Dean nodded, swallowing hard. “Good. Sit. Your feet are bleeding, I need to bandage them.”

Surprised, Dean looked down to see that the rough stone of the servants’ chambers had torn the skin of his feet. He sat on the edge of the bed in silence as Y/N approached him, then watched as she knelt down in front of him and began to tenderly wrap his feet.

“You’ve had a long day,” she said as she was finishing. “You should rest.”

“I’m not tired,” Dean replied.

Y/N looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Very well. What would you like to do?”

“I’d like to know more about you,” he answered, surprising himself. He’d surprised her too, it seemed, and Y/N stood as she considered his request.

“If I answer some of your questions, will you allow me to help you rest?”

Dean nodded and Y/N gestured for him to move to lie on the bed. Once he was settled, Y/N sat where he had just been, shifting slightly so she could meet his eyes.

“Do you enjoy The Cullings?” he asked.

After a moment, Y/N shook her head. “No. I never have, and I don’t believe that I ever will. They are necessary, however, for me to continue to protect my people.”

“Your people?”

“Is that your second question?” Y/N countered, a small smile gracing her lips.

Dean rolled his eyes and smiled back for a moment before letting it fade. “Why did you choose me to be your…”

“My consort?” Y/N finished, and Dean nodded in response. “You’re strong. You are beautiful. Your spirit is kind, and I enjoy your stories. I hope you have many more.”

Considering her answer, Dean laid quietly for a few minutes. Y/N stood up to leave just as he asked, “What else can you do?”

She paused and looked back at him. “Are you asking about my magic?” When he nodded, Y/N sat down on the bed once more and smoothed her dress down over her legs.

“I can do many things,” she said after a second of thought. “I can strengthen or weaken emotions that are present in a person’s mind. I can make people fall asleep and wake up again. I can make things return to where they belong, like the furniture of this room.”

Dean nodded, silently urging her to continue.

“I can make things appear more beautiful than they actually are,” she added after a moment of thought.

“You can make things appear beautiful? Like what?”

“That’s a question for another time, Dean. I’ll help you sleep tonight, and tomorrow we’ll discuss more of your responsibilities. Your handmaidens will be here in the morning.”

Dean looked up at the ceiling in silence. She reached for him and smoothed a hand over his forehead and his hair. The same warmth from the day before flooded his body and all tension he felt was gone.

“Rest, Dean. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day for both of us,” Y/N murmured, and Dean closed his eyes as he let her magic soothe him to sleep.

_______________

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