All parts, mood boards, songs and playlists associated with ‘A Convenient Arrangement’
Mafia!Yixing x Reader
Warning; Swearing, Violence, Drug and Alcohol abuse, Smut(???) and probably mostly unedited lol
Down on both your luck, Yixing and yourself meet in a bar late at night. Desperate and a little tipsy the two of you get to talking over a bottle of whiskey. To solve your debt problem and Yixing’s marriage problem you decide to fake a wedding and reap the rewards. Surely nothing could wrong. Right?
Author’s Note: part of the EXO Customs collaboration with @ninibears-erigom @baekwell--tart @fairyyeols @kyungseokie @suhoerections @skjdln @kpop---scenarios @kimjongdaely | this story features dark themes, including but not limited to: weapons trafficking, gang activity, use of a child for weapons transporting (this is based on the very real activities that occurred in the late 80s/early 90s in Manhattan and the Bronx), PTSD, and graphic depictions of death. Do not read if these topics make you uncomfortable and take the warnings seriously.
Pairing: Yixing x Reader (oc; female; eventual)
Summary: A brief history of Yixing’s life - if, that is, you can call it a life. | please see series summary for full context
Genre: gang!au; action; suspense; drama; smut; au
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: weapons trafficking; use of a child for weapons transport; gang activity; car theft; arson; gun use; graphic depictions of blood; graphic depictions of death; explicit sex; unprotected sex; creampie; mentions of pimping; references to PTSD - please take these warnings seriously and do not read if uncomfortable.
Word Count: 6,405
Six days after Yixing’s ninth birthday, a man with calloused hands and blood beneath his fingernails promises him a large sum of money.
Outside his grandfather’s restaurant, the fry cook scrawls an address on an order book, grease stains dotting the paper and smearing the ink. Slung over his left arm, a black backpack, the thick straps adjusted short enough for a child to keep their balance, swings haphazardly, weighted and slow; ominous, but Yixing assumes this is because the pendulum of the clock in his grandmother’s den swings just as slowly, and the swing reminds him he is idle and therefore of not much value.
The man smiles as he hands him the paper, a slow pull of his cheek loaded with promises and secrets, though not altogether comforting. But Yixing feels the thrill of inclusion as he slides the backpack over his shoulders, grinning alongside these men who tower over him, glad that he has been given a sense of purpose. Beneath the neon green of the restaurant sign, the ruddy brown of blood is highlighted in the crevices of the cook’s fingers, and he wonders if by the end of the night he too will be stained.
This, he decides, is the colour of initiation, and he feels a sudden thrill in the anticipation of being painted.
Six blocks down, and the straps begin to rub into his shoulders, irritated as the weigh slides the neck of his shirt down. As he walks, he wonders if it’s books - chef books or recipes from the old land, as his grandmother calls it, secrets that she won’t even tell his mother because she was not from their village. Or, perhaps, he carries wrapped meats, provisions for the restaurant written on the paper, supporting their community the way a family does.
Thirteen blocks down, and the sting from the backpack is matched only by the intensity of his curiosity. He pauses, leaning against a real estate office that has recently gone up for sale, windows shattered and building looted. Stretching his neck, he debates opening the pack and redistributing the weight, but the note in his hand says to deliver sealed and the way the fry cooks’ arms bulged as he wrote the words reminds him of the heavy way his cleaver never misses a slice, and so he decides to let it be.
The marks, he knows, are probably red, and the longer he walks, the darker they will be. Ruddy and red and powerful.
When he reaches the back delivery door of the address, sweat has gathered on his brow, and he wipes it quickly away with the back of his wrist. If he appears weak, it is likely the money he receives will be less than promised - he isn’t exactly sure why he thinks this, only that his grandmother has told him weak men buckle when they’re offered opportunity, and he doesn’t want to be deemed anything less.
Yixing knocks three times on the door before a woman with a severe brow stands in the entryway, eyes glancing through the alley before falling on his face. Mute, she cocks an eyebrow at him as he hands her the order slip, and almost immediately she pulls at the backpack. Her hands do not touch him, expertly sliding it off as though she’s done it before, has had this done to her, and she gestures for him to leave, yelling at him to go home to his mother.
Confused, he turns to leave before she grabs his hand and slips a folded wad of money into his palm, eyes refusing to meet his before she shuts the door.
Feeling small and bewildered and utterly insignificant, though not entirely disappointed, Yixing lingers behind the restaurant for a moment before a light in a basement window turns on. From where he stands, he can see the top of the woman’s head as she moves quickly. He shuffles closer, kneeling amongst the bushes for a better look as her hands tug at the zipper of the bag.
Three black bags, taped closed, are pulled from the pack before it’s thrown to the floor, and Yixing can see the irregular heavy shape the bags take, glad that he was not as weak as he once thought he was. The bags are large, and loaded generously, and he feels proud for carrying such a heavy load so quickly.
She rips open the plastic as another man joins her, taking a bag and doing the same. Yixing blinks, unsure what he’s seeing is true, before he realizes there is no trick of the light and no film crew around him to tell him what he sees is fake.
From the bags, they pull pistols - several pistols - which they line neatly in a row and count, nodding and talking as though negotiating, but Yixing cannot hear them. His eyes fall to the guns, their sleek barrels and the way they gleam in the low light, catching all that is bright and good and absorbing it, without giving anything back. He’s never seen a gun before, only in the movies he watches at night when its past his bedtime, and something about their elegance makes him decide this shade of black is his favourite colour.
Yixing looks to his palm and counts fifty dollars, exactly the amount he was promised.
Delighted, he sneaks away from the window and walks with a happy bounce he does his best to contain. He’ll be able to eat for three weeks with this money, and hopes he will soon be given more.
When Yixing is eleven, he is certain there has never been a girl more beautiful than Baozhai.
She is unafraid to laugh loudly, to beat the boys at sports, to fight for what she believes in, and to smile widely even though her teeth are not entirely straight. Her calligraphy is not the best, neither elegant nor clean, but it is committed and diligent, and he supposes these are her most important traits. From across the room during Sunday Chinese school, he watches and wonders what it would be like to sit next to her.
Would they talk about her father, and the deliveries he makes for him? Would they talk about his calligraphy, and the way he can never seem to get his strokes at the correct angle? Would they talk about the flowers she wears in her hair, a different one for everyday, and how he thinks she is always in bloom? Yixing is eleven, and is already happy to surrender the topic of conversation to keep her happy, assuming this is real love because he simply wants to keep her close.
The first words she ever says to him make his blood run hot, mouth running dry and stopping him from formulating a coherent reply.
‘I went to your family’s restaurant the other night,’ she says, walking home beside him after class because Meixing got a ride home and she lingered a little too long by the bike rack looking for her friends and Yixing smiled, a sign of companionship. ‘It was really good.’
Yixing stares at her, wide eyed as a blush creeps into his cheeks. In the cold winter of the sunlight, he’s sure it’s obvious he is not warm, that it is she who has turned him pink, but he does not care. He can’t care, because she giggles, and he’s glad he is the reason she made any sound at all.
‘Next time I go, you should be there,’ she continues, watching her feet as she walks, tip of her shoes kicking at upturned stones. ‘We can study together.’
Yixing nods, amazed that luck smiles on boys who move guns from place to place for money, and who learned their fractions by helping their fry cook weigh cocaine. When she smiles, Yixing doesn’t have time to feel badly he wasn’t there the first night she went, only excited that he will get to be there the next time and the next time, sitting in his favourite booth towards the back and showing her the way he learned the calligraphy for flower just because of her.
‘I’d like that a lot,’ he manages, sounding small and childish and very unlike the man he feels he is between the hours of 9PM and midnight. ‘Name the day and I’ll be there.’
Baozhai turns the corner after letting her hand rest on his shoulder, her fingers giving a light squeeze full of hope and expectation and affirmation, and Yixing feels it all the way home. The child in the air bites at his cheeks, but still cannot take the warmth from her palm.
And he feels it the rest of the night, as he walks in the foreboding darkness towards her father’s woodworking shop, backpack slung over his shoulders. He feels it as he sits with her father, counting the guns - revolvers, this time - and learns the fastest way to remove serial numbers from the metal. He feels it as the joints in his fingers burn from the effort of scratching and scratching and scratching, the muscles in his face aching just as much from the effort of wearing his smile.
He feels it even as she walks into her father’s shop, eyes falling on Yixing before going wide and skin taking on the ashen pallor of shock.
Glancing from Yixing to her father and back again, she lingers in the doorway, knowledge and understanding narrowing her eyes and her expression into one of disgust. He wants to speak, wants to call her name and say he only does it for the money, only does it because it’s something to do, but she turns from him, back full of steel and posture straight as she leaves the shop and shuts the door.
He doesn’t feel it after that, can hardly even remember the thrill of it.
Baozhi never talks to him again, and he supposes luck, for boys like him is a fleeting, brief experience, one he was never meant to carry.
Yixing is thirteen when he learns how to drive in a stolen car.
His cousin, Longwei, sits beside him in the passenger seat, laughing and laughing until his eyes become crescent moons, as Yixing’s harsh right turns leave donut scars in the empty parking lot. Hands gripping the wheel tightly, letting the vibration of the steering wheel turn his knuckles white, Yixing does not ask where or how or why Longwei has delivered him this Porsche, but he assumes it does not matter. Longwei has no intention of keeping it, anyway.
It took years for Yixing to get his calligraphy right, years for him to master the art of stealing from his mother without her noticing, and weeks, if he’s being generous, to learn how to pickpocket without his fingers moving the air. But in driving, he realizes, he is a natural. Here, he does not need to take his time or take instructions twice. Here, he does not have to be shy, no longer hiding the fact that he flourishes so quickly at something; even though he is not yet tall enough and must sit on a pile of his school books; even though his foot only just touches the pedals; even though he revs the engine and does not bother to quiet the shrill yell of pleasure that reverberates in his chest.
He’s being foolish, but in this moment he realizes he makes his own rules. And here, in the driver’s seat of a car that will soon disappear - gutted clean or shipped away or simply just vanishing - he understands the difference between being granted a purpose and finally making your way <i>home.</i>
‘I knew you would like this,’ Longwei tells him over the roar of the engine, and the joints in Yixing’s fingers become sore, lips curling into a smile he’s certain appears savage. ‘I did this for you.’
Yixing’s smile falls. People don’t do things for him. People, he knows, don’t do things unless it benefits them in some way, unless they get safety or satisfaction or a piece of your spirit to carry with them, and he slows down, cautious - not of the road, but of his cousin. It’s the first time he notices the gleam in Longwei’s eyes, how vindictive a sparkle can truly be when motive is misplaced from kindness.
Longwei is family. Longwei will not hurt him. But already, he feels things being taken from him, feels the brief essence of boyhood slipping away from his grasp before he’s even put the car in park.
One year later, in a parking lot not unlike the one in which he learned how to drive, Yixing watches his cousin die.
It’s the first time he’s seen a gun being pointed at a body, and it alarms him to realize the first thing he notices - beyond the fact that it is being pointed at Longwei; beyond the fact that the stranger in front of them states, calmly and altogether too gently, that he will not leave until he sees blood - is the serial number has been scratched off. Idly, he wonders if he’s touched this gun, if it was his hand that removed the details - the only thing that could trace this moment back to the man whose confidence in the hold of the gun dictates that he has done this before.
‘Do you know what happens to tigers when they take things that don’t belong to them?’ the man says, reaching through the car window and gripping Longwei’s shirt.
He presses the gun against Longwei’s stomach, and Yixing waits, unflinching, expecting his cousin to fight, to flip this scenario around, to do something other than whimper and tremble, but he does not. “I did this for you,” Longwei’s voice echoes from the back of Yixing’s mind. A full year under his cousin’s wing, and Yixing has lost count of all the things they’ve done together - all the things Longwei has shown and given and delivered, without price or consequence.
Five years older than Yixing, and Longwei has gone through a great deal to ensure Yixing could remain at his side - losing friends and permanently in the state of earning trust; keeping one eye on him and one eye on the road in front of him; bringing him home first even if, through the chill of the air and the hairs that stood on end along their arms, they knew they were being followed. He stole cars and money and bags full of things he would never let Yixing see, but in surviving, he did not put forth any effort.
His cousin shakes his head. ‘Please, he’s just a kid -’
It’s the last thing he ever hears Longwei say, and in that moment Yixing is unsure if he’s ever heard his cousin say the word please. He’s still mulling over the sound, the shock and the unusual cadence of it, before the echo of the word is cut off and severed.
‘They get poached.’
He’s familiar with the barrel of a pistol, has touched and cradled and scratched into them, but never has he heard them. Longwei screams, he’s sure of it, but still he does not hear it. Yixing thinks he may never hear anything ever again.
Four gunshots ring out and the noise of it makes his blood run cold, ears taking on a ring that turns his vision fuzzy. Longwei falls limp, eyes glassy and staring straight ahead, empty and unfocused and gone. Yixing waits for him to move, for Longwei to smile and say this was a moment for him to learn - a reminder never to leave your window down, to never let your guard down. But he does not move.
Beside him, the door is ripped open, though Yixing does not remember leaving it unlocked. Hands grab him, pull him out of the passenger seat and drag him into the parking lot. His arms are held behind his back while the man smiles and cocks his head to the side, smiling and smiling, while Yixing breathes through his open mouth, unwilling to smell his cousin’s blood on the air. The symbol of a dragon is stitched into the man’s beanie, and Yixing’s eyes trace the pattern over and over, hoping to erase everything but the caricature and the symbolism from this moment.
‘Put his hands all over it.’
The command hardly moves the craters in his face, scars and red marks turning his skin tight and waxy. At this angle, he almost appears to be burning alive from beneath his flesh, consumed by wrath and rage.
Yixing is thrust forward, his left arm extended against his will and he fights the hold, yelling and battling, suddenly awake and aware. Laugher surrounds him, but the ringing in his ears only warps this sound into a painful resonance, one that makes Yixing scream in the hopes of forcing the world into silence. The gun is placed into his ungloved hand, fingers wrapped around its glossy metal and stained with his prints.
He’s pushed forward again, his right hand dragged over the handle of the passenger door before a hair - several hairs - are ripped from his head and dropped into the seat. They are framing him for this, placing traces of him everywhere, ensuring that - even if it took weeks, or months, or years - he would be found, and found guilty.
They abandon him not long after, leaving him alone with the smell of piss and shit and blood and bullet casings. The sun has just begun to set when Yixing finds the energy to move, away from the car and towards a gas station he spots on the side of the road half a mile away. Face expressionless, he uses the last of the cash in his wallet to buy a container of gasoline and a lighter, turning briskly on his feet without accepting his change.
He knows this looks suspicious.
He does not care.
As he pours the gas over the floor, the seats, his cousin - opening the hood and the trunk and pouring a generous amount there, too - he considers how much the burn of his closeness to this inferno will hurt. He wonders if he will hear it - he hasn’t heard anything in the hours it took him to walk away and back again, gladdened that he’s gone completely numb to existence, and hoping that the sensuousness of existence never returns again.
He’s clear headed this way. Nothing, he thinks, has ever been so linear.
He tosses the lighter into the car and walks just far enough to be out of arm's reach of the heat before turning around and watching, with little awe or emotion, the car sizzle and smoke not unlike a bonfire. Even from this distance, the smell of burning flesh eats at his nose hairs, burning his sinuses with its sourness, but he breathes it in deep.
Unsure how long he remains, eventually he walks away, long before the fire has a chance to reach the full tank of gas, long before any residual explosion gives away the history of this night, and long before he has the opportunity to consider joining his cousin.
“I did this for you,” Longwei had said.
Yixing wonders if it was worth it.
It is raining the day they bury his grandmother.
It is raining and he is sixteen, anxiously standing on the precipice of becoming a man and wholly unprepared to be gifted a crown.
He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, regarding hole in the earth that swallows the remains of her body and the barren waste he considers his memories of her body with a dry mouth and a shallow grimace. Occasionally, he finds himself distracted by the black umbrellas that blot the sea of white clothing, glad for their contrast against the flower arrangements that surround them.
Digging his feet into the squelching grass, hoping to break the silence of the grief that wallows in the overcast clouds, he feels, neither reassuringly nor supportively, the eyes of Kyungsoo as they bore into his spine, an announcement that someone is there for him and not for the woman who taught men to fear. He does not turn around, aware that the distance Kyungsoo keeps is crucial to maintaining the delicate pretense of peace, but he is glad for someone, anyone, he could consider a friend after everyone excluding family - a loose, vague term that made him chew at his tongue - was denied visitation.
But Kyungsoo remains, standing across the street and on an entirely different plot of land, silently threatening a war just by witnessing their pain, an Yixing is glad for the danger of it.
Yixing’s mother weeps when they return home, settling on the couch beside his father as her empty eyes scan the room, aware she is being greeted without greeting anyone in return. Her posture remains rigid and his father’s hand holds hers as if posing for a portrait, conscious of the eyes on their bodies and holding her against him in an awkward show of companionship, mimicking the affection he has witnessed in the threads of humanity he has bothered to notice.
Yixing settles against a hard, wooden chair in the kitchen, eyeing the food that has been brought for them from family, and family, and family, without feeling any appetite, wishing instead he could be somewhere he did not have to feign anguish or loss. The white of his shirt is still dotted with rain when three men approach him, and he studies the yellowed marks they leave in the fabric, choosing to ignore the imposing figures he assumes are loitering to extend, once again, their condolences.
Instead, they sit before him, dragging stools from the bartop counter and placing themselves directly in his vision. They tell him a lot of things - a lot of dark, and terrible, and horrible things he imagines other sixteen year old boys would struggle to stomach. But he’s held guns; and burned a body; and learned not to cry at the sound of a bullet tearing organs; and lost the will to love freely, and he supposes these things are harder for anyone to hear than the fact that their grandmother was the leader of a Triad group from Shanghai, the Tiger of the blackmarket, and her throne belongs to him.
‘You’re going to be in charge of a lot of money, kid,’ one of them says, envy evident behind his speech.
He would later learn this man’s name is Bing Wen, and he is not incorrect. A large sum of money, much larger than he can comprehend, will soon be transferred to his name. And, at the shock and awe of the sheer magnitude of it, he will go to his grandmother’s grave and curse her for keeping his family so poor.
But not yet.
In this moment, Yixing only looks at them, eyeing them suspiciously as he dips his finger into a plate of peppered chicken, collecting the oil and rubbing it over his bottom lip. It stings against his skin, tiny tingles of pain grounding him to this reality as his mind remains empty, the scent of incense mixing with pepper and the implication of their words. He likes money, and he likes power, but most of all he likes the look on people’s faces when he stands before them unafraid to die and absolutely unafraid to watch them die.
Yixing is sixteen, and he decides this kind of authority could be fun.
Yixing is sixteen. And at sixteen, he becomes a king.
Yixing’s network makes nine thousand dollars on his eighteenth birthday, which is coincidentally the day he learns it is easier to chase pleasure between a woman’s thighs than it is to chase money. The start of this day looks absolutely nothing like the way it ends, and he is glad to be a chameleon, fitting into whatever shape the world requires of him.
Today, a knife was held to someone’s throat because Yixing demanded it. Today, a shipment as organized back to Shanghai - a warning and a threat for anyone who dares challenge him again. Today, he pressed cocaine against his gums, celebrating his good fortune with a brief bump, and got paid in crisp bills for the quality of his product.
And tonight, he recognizes the way women smile when he speaks, aware that he is someone worthy of being noticed.
There’s something addictive about the feeling of money in his pocket, a sense of power and pride rooting itself in the base of his spine. He stands taller, walks faster, shoulders rolled back and expecting the air to part for him. Weeks before his coming of age, he noticed women would smile when he spoke, heads cocking to the side as if bewildered by the sound of his voice, and now he decides to use the magic of beautiful boyhood to his advantage.
He is honey, and he knows it, an aphrodisiac hit that makes women lick their lips as they spread their legs - only slightly in the hopes that he will see it and, better yet, want it - as they recline in their chairs, waiting to be taken. It’s no different tonight, and, perhaps, the money and the manhood he carries amplifies his transcendence. A thin lipped woman lounges against the couch, puffing her chest to ensure he notices the perky roundness of her breasts beneath her tube top, skin warm and shimmering from the summer heat.
Across from her, Yixing eyes the length of her body, cock stirring to a semi-hard state as he regards the yellow undertones of her lips. He wonders if her pussy looks just as golden, if it would part with the same ease as the air if he spread her with his thumbs, and his tongue runs dry, wanting to suck her clean.
Sensing his arousal, she rises to a stand and does not bother to straighten her skirt, letting the smooth length of her thighs remain on display. Tying her hair back, Yixing watches with a placid expression as her breasts lift with the effort, top moving with them to expose her midriff, unashamed of letting him look before he tastes her against his teeth.
They disappear into a bedroom, the bed full of coats and boxes which he pushes to the floor as he bites languidly at the tendons in her neck. She steps out of his arms, pushing her skirt down to her feet before removing her top, cocking her head to the side when she stands, naked and refusing blush, and notices Yixing remains fully clothed.
Quirking an eyebrow at him, she smirks. ‘Are you scared, pretty boy?’
It’s the first time he’s been asked this question, and he almost falters. Even when he was nine years old and men with murder on their lips handed him a backpack, they did not bother to ask if he felt fear - up until this moment, he did not think he had a choice.
‘I’m not sure I know how that feels,’ he replies, honestly, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
She shrugs, turning to lay down on the bed and spreads her legs, idly rubbing a finger over her clit to keep herself wet. ‘Man’s first inhibition is always being naked in front of a pretty girl.’
Yixing chuckles, letting his expression darken at her confidence. ‘You have a high opinion of yourself.’
‘You’re here because you want to feel like a man,’ she reasons, arching her back as she slips the tip of her middle finger between her folds. ‘I’m allowed to interpret that however I want to make sure we both get off.’
‘Looks like it’s just you,’ he counters, licking his lips as her eyes flutter closed momentarily, and nodding in the direction of her wet cunt.
‘I’ve never seen you with a woman.’ Her words are carried on a high pitched breath, her own mouth curved into a blissful smile. ‘Word is you’ve never done this and I want to make sure I can come. It’ll be over quick.’
Yixing undresses slowly, hypnotized by the movements of her fingers and studying the motions. She maintains a steady rhythm with two fingers, and he wonders how much better she would feel if it was his hand, if those were his long fingers - he wonders how he would feel, how much pride he would take in filling her with himself.
When he settles between her thighs, she wraps her small hand around his cock and guides him to her entrance. He braces himself above her, unsure what to do with his weight, but the feel of her hand around his girth and the silky entrance rubbing wetness over his tip is enough to have his thighs already shaking. Now, he understands what she meant by saying this will be over quick.
‘Stay like that,’ she commands, releasing her hand from his cock and the base of her palm against her clit as she fingers herself. The spread and movement of her folds makes Yixing’s arms shake, and he latches his mouth around one of her nipples to distract himself. Arching into him, she holds his hip with her free hand, keeping him still as she lets her sensitive nipple be teased to a hardened nub, bringing herself closer and closer to release.
Eventually, she moves both her hands to the flesh of his ass, and nods as she pushes him inside.
The tight warmth of her walls around his cock has his eyes rolling back, biceps trembling as he thrusts messily into her. It takes only a few thrusts before he comes, spilling into her as he chokes back a moan and keeps himself quiet. She laughs as she comes, slightly and vaguely, not nearly enough to be satisfied. Even as he collapses against her, she writhes beneath him, weaseling her hand between their bodies and guides herself to the full bloom of an orgasm. Her walls clench rapidly around his softening cock, and he relishes the sensation of the pleasure mixing with discomfort.
It feels, he supposes, much the same as knowing men die for the money he earns.
‘You’ll be a natural,’ she says, pulling her hand away from her wetness and running them over his lips. He sucks at the tips, brow furrowing at the slight bitterness of her flavor. ‘You didn’t crush me with your weight. Most guys are shit at that the first time.’
Yixing says nothing, thinking on sex and pleasure, driving and working, the market he runs and the sensation of his come dripping from her cunt.
He’s a natural at a lot of things, a lot of grim and horrific things, and he’s glad sex is just as messy as money.
It means he doesn’t have to learn to be careful. In this, he is just as natural as driving.
You buy your freedom on the night Yixing leases his first McLaren Coupe. He does this with money, credit if he’s being honest, fully intending never to give the car back. You do this with a knife to the stomach of your pimp - a knife to his stomach, his chest, and his dick - fully intending never to go back.
He turns off Main Street, driving along the river and expecting to run into Baekhyun, hoping to watch as jealousy seeps into his irises and to pull away before his palms can mark the hood with his prints. Tonight, he wants to pretend - pretend that this is his car to keep, that his life is as simple as expensive metal and carbon put together with the sole purpose of moving fast. He’d like a life like that, existing without thought and without care, he thinks, and he wants the pink and passionate smile that always forms on Baekhyun’s lips when he teases to help him along with the fantasy.
Instead, he sees you.
He’s unsure how you’ve made it so far, but given the state of you he imagines that the people who have seen you have given you a wide berth. Pulling up ahead, Yixing parks the car and watches you approach in his side mirror. He recognizes you from high school, neither popular nor an outcast you were merely someone quiet, another face in the crowd that did not bother to make themselves known. You kept to yourself, and now he wonders what crowd wound up keeping you.
The blood smears on your thighs have dried, turning a muddy brown beneath the ripped denim of your shorts, and splotches on your neck mean you have witnessed something messy. Arms crossed over your chest, your eyes remain empty as you walk, neither looking around you nor in front of you, seeing through space as you walk and walk, jaw set like iron in the effort of keeping yourself moving.
Resting his head against the seat, he closes his eyes and hums, conflicted. This is breaking every rule he has ever sent for himself and for his team - you never pull over for someone, you never stop, you always move, and you never give pause. But he knows you, and he knows how it looks to have seen someone die. He recognizes the features of his fourteen year old self in yours, sees Junmyeon's hollowed expression in your unfocused vision, and he knows that death will always catch up to those who face it alone.
And so, he gets out, leaving the door open and calling your name.
'Y/N.'
You pause in front of him, looking around for others to follow close behind, and when they don't you fix your gaze back on him, the fierce heat of it enough to make him bite his tongue.
'Get in the car,' he offers, keeping his voice calm. 'I can keep you safe.'
He's not sure why you comply, but you do, wringing the blood stained slickness of your fingers together. Yixing's eyes follow the movements as he cats glances away from the road to your trembling hands, and when he stops at a light he reaches to the glove compartment and pulls out a rag. It's meant to clean his prints from the wheel before he sells this car off to some unassuming, overexcited college student, turning a profit and turning away from the situation altogether, but he supposes you need it more. And you certainly need it to not stain the interior.
'That's not my name anymore,' you mumble, wiping and wiping at your skin.
Yixing keeps his eyes trained on the road, knowing not to look at someone who feels raw enough to take a life.
'No?' is all he says, accepting your truth for what you need it to be.
'It's Eve.'
Yixing nods, turning the corner to take you to his house, still unsure why he chose to do this at all.
'Did he decide that for you?' he questions, noticing the purple bruises on your arms as you press the cloth into your skin.
'No.' It's the loudest you've been, the full richness of your voice catching him off guard. 'I did, right after I watched the life fade from his eyes.'
Yixing nods, rebranding you at the same time he considers the sheer consequence of you. You are a bad idea - all of you, from the death and the mess and the baggage are a thing that runs the risk of weighing him down. But he knows, inherently, that you won't.
However long you spent under the wing of a man who pressed himself against your body in the hopes of breaking your soul was not enough to ruin you, choosing instead to break his flesh with your bare hands. You are resourceful. You are smart - uncoordinated and full of risk, but smart enough to know the only person anyone can fully trust is themselves. And you are unafraid, prepared to burn the world so long as it ensures your survival.
You are a bad idea.
At twenty, Yixing is addicted to bad ideas, and the idea of you is full of promise.
It’s a cloudless night towards the end of August when Yixing finds himself, twenty-one and standing on Junmyeon's porch, preparing to make promises. The chill in the breeze ensures summer's end, the oncoming storm of September and plans and change carried with the wind, and he grits his teeth as he considers his assets.
Dongkyu’s death is an unspeakable loss, the kind that puts tangible grief in the air and reminds Yixing of the ash he tasted when he burned his cousin’s body, and he wonders how he’d be now if someone had promised to help with revenge. He knows how that feels, the fire it puts in your veins and seemingly endless drive that pushes and pushes and pushes until you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror anymore. You felt it too, still feel it sometimes when you wake up screaming and scratching at your skin, remembering the way men pushed themselves inside you and demanded that you feel them.
Yixing thinks if there’s anyone who understands Junmyeon, its you and him.
It takes a long while for Junmyeon to answer the door after he rings the doorbell, and he’s surprised that he’s the first one here. Sun set hours ago, his first stop of the night a shipping container by the airport where he picked up guns and drugs and a car he gutted with Huang. But his eyes do not droop with tiredness. He wanted the adrenaline push of the job to lead him here, ready and wired and feeling in control before the details of death turn him cold.
When Junmyeon opens the door, he doesn’t need to say anything - he doesn’t even extend his arms for a hug or extend his condolences, Junmyeon simply knows. He’s ragged and hollow, but alight just the same, blood boiling with a vengeance that Yixing feels against his skin like electricity.
The air burns with change, and they - eyeing one another wholly aware and wholly prepared to tear the world down - burn with a rage that will set their futures in motion.
Yixing is twenty-one when he crosses the threshold into Junmyeon’s house, already a king, and a man, and a god, and finds himself becoming a brother.
Being born with a particular birthmark is the lurking fear every parent has in their hearts when they bring a child into this dark world. Your parents are the only ones who have never received relief when creating life, because they knew your soul would be damned for eternity when he finally comes to claim what’s his.
Moodboard // Prologue // Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5
Spoiler: Jongin is an angry little vampire.
The next morning is much of the same. You wake up a little disoriented, but nonetheless slide out of bed and into the slippers you left waiting. The floor is always so cold in the morning and in the evening and your slippers can hardly fend off the cold. You change into a different dress in the closet, into a deep blue gown that you had trouble lacing up because the corset was just the slightest bit too small. You remedy the situation by sliding on an overcoat, buttoning each and every button. It wards off the chill in the air and you pad slowly to the vanity pressed up to the wall you hadn’t noticed the day before in your confusion and terror.
There’s a large mirror attached to the back of it, with little drawers and a seat cushion set in front of it. On the table is a golden hairbrush, intricate designs spiraling in a circle over the back of it, a large ruby set in the center. A matching hand mirror sits beside it. The Count and Countess did not even have such luxurious items in their household as you suspected the gold might be entirely real. Aside from the two items is a black wooden box, quite plain compared to the jeweled handset. A curious peek inside reveals glittering pieces of jewelry – you spy a string of genuine pearls, sapphire earrings, and garnet and diamond studded bracelets before you quickly shut it.
Raking the brush through your tired locks of hair, you regard yourself in the back mirror. Despite sleeping clear through the night, you look weary. Though talking to Junmyeon the morning before shed some light on your current situation, it had done nothing to set your mind at ease. When you had left your home to make the walk to the church, you had every intention of dying. You had believed you would be ripped apart and drained, much like that innocent boy had been. You had been waiting for the inevitability of death your entire life. You had kneeled every Sunday in church and every night before bed, praying that when it came you could still be saved.
Junmyeon had confirmed that your kidnapper had not brought you here just to kill you. If anything, you gathered that you were regarded as a piece of property to him. Not exactly a new concept to you, considering most marriages were arranged and young women like yourself were bartered off to the man with the highest place in society and the heaviest change purse. You, being a reasonably attractive woman and coming from a well-respected family, would have been good enough to be sold to Richard’s family. You would have been the next Countess and inherited his mother’s jewels and good standing, however you would have never truly owned anything. Everything would be Richard’s, and you would just be a conduit for his children.
You stood from the vanity, blinking images from a future you might have had out of your head. Sweeping your hair off your shoulder you make your way out of your room. Much like the day before, the hallways are mainly lit by candles, the heavy curtains still drawn over the windows. The path to the dining hall is empty of people, and you half expect to see Junmyeon waiting for you at the head of the table. Instead, it too is void of others, however the table is spread with much of the same breakfast food from the day before. You fill a plate with various fruits and cuts of meat before you pause. Being the only one present, and likely the only one in the house, why should you not take the head of the table?
Sitting down where the patriarch typically would affords you a rush of gratification. Although you look out to a table without companionship, the new vantage points allows you to regain some semblance of control over your life. One small decision seems to be enough to propel you through the day.
Junmyeon strolls into the hall while you’re finishing off the last of the sweet grapes. The amusement is plain on his face when he sees where you’ve chosen to sit. Awkwardly you begin to rise from the chair, but he waves it off and sits a few seats down. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”
“Yes…” You start, grasping for an excuse before you decide on a light shrug and the truth. “I did not expect to have company this morning.”
“I put in for an order of lemon tarts this morning for a reason.” Junmyeon states, leaning forward to pluck one from a plate. You watch him take a bite in confusion but decide not to question it. If the bloodsucking demon wanted to eat a lemon tart, you would let him enjoy it in peace.
“So might we revisit the reason on me being here?” You question him, watching him practically inhale the sweet treat and reach for a second.
“I believe I addressed why you were here yesterday.” Junmyeon states when he swallows. “And I believe I stated Yixing should be speaking with you.”
“If I’m to be forced to live here,” You begin, doing your best to keep the spite from your tone. “I’m going to need things that I do not currently have.”
“Like what?” Junmyeon questions, quirking an eyebrow, already halfway done with his second treat. There was only one remaining.
“Like…” You grasp for common items, not having expected him to actually care. “Well I’m going to need access to a bath, and soaps. Sanitary cloths for my cycles. Womanly things.”
“I’ll make sure to let Yixing know your list of demands for living here.” He states in amusement, standing and plucking the last treat from the table. “I’m sure he’ll fall over himself trying to get those things in order.”
He disappears from the room as you huff lightly, chewing on the last grape with more force than necessary. If they wanted to hold you hostage you at least had the right to be clean. After a few second of debating you rise from the head of the table, following him out to try to squeeze more answers out of him. He has already disappeared, and a quick search of the bottom floor shows that he must have made it up the stairs with alarming quiet and speed.
The rest of the day is spent trying to amuse yourself. You go on another tour of the castle, seeing if you can find anymore unlocked doors. There aren’t any. You run out of ideas to amuse yourself quickly and succumb to deciding to read the day away. While you love reading, it having been how you spent most of your days at home anyways, you had nothing else to do. You should have told Junmyeon to ask Yixing to procure more entertainment.
It is somehow easy demanding things from Junmyeon, or at least speaking to him in a normal manner. He was more human-like than Yixing had been, and if it weren’t for his red eyes and flash of pointed teeth you would have tempted to go as far and say the two of you could be friends. He felt more human, yes, but there were still times where he went far too long without blinking or you caught him looking at your throat.
The next few days pass by much the same. Despite not having a bible you say a short prayer every night, but you quickly begin to lose faith. You discover the room next to yours open the next day, inside being a large claw foot tub with steaming water. A table is set beside it, housing a plethora of soaps for your body and hair. A plush towel sits next to them. You close the door and bolt it shut, sitting in the scalding water until it turns cool and your skin is pruned. You took time to smell all of your options, settling on a mixture of vanilla and peppermint. You scrub and scrub and scrub until you have to get out and wrap the towel around your body.
In fact, every morning since your chat with Junmyeon has produced steaming bath water for your enjoyment. It immediately becomes the favorite part of your day, despite the piano that lulls you to sleep every night. You silently acknowledge the fact that not even those in the largest homes back in your village had the opportunity to bathe each and every day.
Junmyeon does not show up after the second day, but you find yourself not minding it. Though you miss human interaction, you’re content to wallow your days away in solitude, bath water, and tomes thicker than your torso. Which is exactly what you’re doing on the fifth day of the kidnapping – balancing a large book on your knees, peering down at the words in a plush chair in the library. Having chosen something outlining the lineage of a faraway land, you settled in with a cup of tea to read the afternoon away.
You awake sometime later. The curtains you had drawn to let in the late afternoon sun might as well have been shut with all the light that was left. The sky was dark, what light the moon cast hardly penetrating through the window. Sleepily you shift, your legs sliding out from under you and falling stiffly to floor.
Hissing as you pull your feet back, you feel the residual sharp pinpricks of how cold the floor was. Winter was certainly setting in. Blearily you reach down and fumble blindly for the slippers you had discarded before shoving your feet into them. This time you weren’t shocked when your feet hit the floor, and you pushed yourself out of the chair. You stretch your arms above your head, yawning obnoxiously before your mind wakes up enough to realize you can year the piano weaving its way into the library from the music room upstairs.
You’ve never been out of your room when you hear the piano. You still don’t know who plays it. It could be Junmyeon, sure, or it could be Yixing or some other demon you’ve yet to meet – okay, slow down, you tell yourself, taking a breath to steady your increasing thumping heartbeat. The library is on the first floor, the music room on the second, and your room on the third. All you have to do is be quiet going up the stairs.
Creeping outside the library, you’re met with the characteristic stillness of the household. No one is roaming the halls and there’s no noise outside of the soft, lilting melody of the piano keys. It’s even more beautiful now that there’s one less door between you and its location. Closing the door slowly behind you, you began to creep towards the grand staircase. Candles were lighted in their perches on the walls, casting yellow and orange hues against the dark stone. Just a few stairs up, you pause. Was it the fourth or the fifth stair that creaked under added weight? You take a moment to wrack your brain for an answer before you decide to hike up your skirts and stretch to the sixth stair.
Narrowly avoiding a leg cramp, you push yourself back to a respectable position, straightening out your skirts and continuing to sneak up the rest of the staircase. There was only one other stair you had to avoid, and when you reached the top you mentally gave yourself a round of applause. One flight of stairs down, one flight of stairs to go. As you begin your light trek down the hallway towards the next flight of stairs, the feathery lilt of melody swelled, working towards a climax of what you were sure was to be an amazing end of –
“Hello.” A honeyed voice sounded from behind you. You spin in mid stride to face whoever spoke, but there’s no one there. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, squinting lightly into the weak light cast by the candles. There’s no one there.
“In front of you.” The same voice speaks from behind you once more. You spin again, this time coming face to face with another demon. You take an involuntary step back, back towards the stairs.
He’s easily the most attractive of the three. Towering above you, you see deep chocolate hair parted in the front, and his skin must have been naturally rich because last you knew these demons could not go out in the sun. His skin practically glowed despite the weak lighting, but that’s where the warmth stopped. A sharp jawline, plump lips quirked into a smirk, a straight nose, strong eyebrows, and blood red eyes. Junmyeon’s – even Yixing’s – had life in them, emotion and personality. This man’s were cold, lifeless. Dead, just like him.
“It’s rude not to speak when spoken to.” His voice is huskier than when he first spoke, but still dripping in honey. Immaculately dress, his jacket was unbuttoned halfway, his white shirt underneath similarly unbuttoned. An expanse of tanned skin showed, and you could practically see the iron muscles ripple underneath.
“Hello.” You suddenly find your voice and dip into an uncertain curtsy. He’s different from Junmyeon, different from Yixing. While you knew that they were both deadly, they didn’t look at you like you were a meal. They didn’t look through you.
The man in front of you suddenly smiled a full, toothy grin – and displayed for the first time the fangs you had heard so many rumors about when they spoke of the dead bodies found in the morning. Long, sharp, and almost mockingly glinting in the faint light – you couldn’t help but take another step back.
“That was adorable.” He stated in an amused tone. Your face flushed, and the thought of his fangs again sent your pulse skyrocketing. His eyes darted down to your neck, and he cocked his head to the side. It was as if he could hear your accelerated heart rate. A pink tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, eyes not straying from your neck. You take another step back.
“Just a taste.” He says to himself in a low tone, the amusement from before having vanished as quick as it showed and his eyelids drooped low, hooded. The piano has stopped, but you have no time to take note of this fact. His lips pull back to reveal his fangs again as he leans forward, arms reaching out to keep you from running away. It was like a train wreck. Fear consumed you, rooting you to your place and the only thing you could do was screw your eyes shut in an attempt to ignore what was happening.
“Here to save your little mate, hm, Xing?” The handsome man ground out, and you managed to crack open your eyes. Directly in front of you was a broad back clad in a black suit jacket. Even from behind, even from his shortened name you could tell it was Yixing. Something deep inside of your soul told you it was him.
“You should not touch ladies without permission, Jongin.” Yixing speaks, his voice even. The first time he had spoken to you it had been soft, gentle – now it had an undercurrent of suppressed anger and barely contained contempt. The power shifted in the hallway away from the demon named Jongin and he felt it immediately. From peeking around Yixing, you saw him retreat a few steps. His eyes flickered from Yixing’s to yours, and he sneered.
“Ladies shouldn’t be wandering at night. They don’t know what lurks in the shadows.” He warned, and then he was simply gone. You didn’t blink, at least you don’t think you did; he was just there one moment and gone the next.
Yixing turned to face you after a moment. His hair hung over his forehead now, but he was still just as beautiful. Red eyes peered down at you, and you couldn’t make it past the startling closeness to see the concern clouding them. You take another step backwards, trying to get some physical space in an effort to clear get a grip on your mind.
Except this time, your foot does meet the smooth wooden planks along the floor. Instead, it’s met by nothing but thin air and belatedly you realize that, in your terror of the demon, you had retreated to the first staircase. Having no time to correct your mistake, your body tips backwards as your balance is thrown off. As your arms flail out to try to regain control you let out a very unbecoming yelp at the prospect of falling down the stairs and likely cracking your head open on a step or the landing.
Once again Yixing is there to save you. He reaches to grab hold of your hand, pulling you away from the steps and pivots you around so he’s between you and your close brush with an embarrassment you would never live down. His hands are cold, impossibly cold, and the grip he has on you sends your heartbeat into overtime – scratch that, the proximity he’s holding you at does. One arm has snaked around your waist to hold you firmly to his body, as if he could protect you wholly from making another stupid mistake tonight. His slim build does nothing to hide the fact that he is solid muscle. His hands may be comparable to ice, but his core body just seems to lack heat and is cool through the few layers of clothing he has on. Your own body seems to thrum with the closeness of him, something stirring deep inside of you.
“Careful, little one.” His tone is scolding while his lips are pressed into a thin line, brows scrunched together. The concern is hard to miss this time and the revelation that this heartless being is showing some semblance of kindness to you sends you spiraling further.
Heat colors your cheeks, making it hard to deny the embarrassment you were feeling with the whole situation. Yixing’s eyes rake over your features and you note offhand that his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. It’s a similar reaction Jongin had before he tried to tear into your neck, however you find it hard to react to Yixing the same way. “I-I am so sorry.”
You’re sorry? You instantly cringe at the fact you had apologized to the man – the thing that had kidnapped you from a church just days beforehand. He must have something similar running through his mind because the widening of his eyes and slow blink tell the story. “You’re sorry?” He questions, shaking his head and letting go of you. Somehow, you’re left feeling colder when he does. “You should not apologize for having an appropriate reaction to my kind. You have nothing at all to apologize for.”
“The piano stopped.” You note out loud, voice surprisingly even. Yixing regards you closely, being able to tell so much had happened in such a short period of time for you that you were choosing to focus on the small things before you tackle the large ones. “Were you playing it?”
“Yes,” Yixing answers, adding more gently, “I think it’s time for you to get into bed, little one.”
“I think you’re right.” You concede. He moves to the side, gesturing politely that you continue on your way. The first few steps are a bit wobbly, still feeling blindsided by the events that just transpired. A blood thirsty demon trying to rip into your neck, another, slightly less blood thirsty demon saving you from him, and then saving you from your own clumsy self. You had found yourself wishing these past few days to just run into Yixing again so you could demand that he release you, demand that he take you home unharmed and leave you be. But here he was, looking impossibly handsome in the flickering light, being kind, and you could not bring yourself to do so.
He follows a pace behind, his presence following you down the hall and up another flight of stairs. When you enter your bedroom, he stops in the doorway; lingering, watching. You pull the blankets back from the bed, trying to think of what to say to the red-eyed man.
“Sleep well.” He states softly, beating you to it and reaching in to take hold of the doorknob, beginning to shut the door. Your heart leaps in your throat at the thought of being alone, at the thought of Jongin being somewhere in the house. They don’t know what lurks in the shadows. When Jongin had spoken it, you had taken it as a serious warning. It flared up in your mind again, spreading through you like wildfire.
“Wait!” The panic in your voice made him halt, looking up at you with widened eyes. “What if he ends up coming back?”
Yixing drew himself up to his full height, shoulders tense and expression solemn. “Jongin will not come back, nor will he hurt you. I will not let anyone hurt you. I promise it.” His tone was even but laced with seriousness you had not expected. It was hard not to believe the words when he conveyed them so earnestly.
You turn from him, trying to steady the warmth that spread through you at his sudden flare of protectiveness. Keeping your voice as even as possible, you manage to murmur, “I believe you,” as you slide out of your slippers and into bed. “And I want to talk tomorrow.”
Yixing nods, beginning to close the door once more. “Good night, little one.”
You shrug out of your coat and unlace the corset, shrugging them both off before you lay down in bed, pulling the blankets up high. The piano never starts back up, but you don’t find difficulty in drifting off.
This document is Level 3 clearance and confidential.
Subject 99
Male | Sick
• Assigned to Doctor X.
• Quiet in temperament.
• Average body temperature is approximately 85°F (27°C)
• Will become sick if not left in cooling habitat.
• Can speak, read, but cannot write.
LOGS : 9/29 |
Subject 01
Male | Healthy
• Assigned to Doctor S.
• Calm in temperament.
• Has show the ability to condense water from the air around him.
• Can also manipulate this water in an untested amount of ways.
• Can speak, read, and write.
LOGS : 10/3
Subject 10
Male | Deceased
• Assigned to Doctor X.
• Sweet in nature.
• Had the ability to heal others around him.
• Was the least likely to fight when provoked.
• Could speak, read, but cannot write.
LOGS : terminated 9/30
Subject 04
Male | Healthy
• Assigned to Doctor B.
• Playful in nature.
• Vital sighs drop to dangerous levels when left in complete darkness.
• Has the ability to create and manipulate light.
• Can speak, cannot read, or write.
LOGS : 10/2
Subject 21
Male | Heathy
• Assigned to Doctor C.
• Intelligent in nature.
• Unmapable brain activity.
• Has shows not only to be able to influence electronic devices, but also the electronic pulses in other organisms.
• Can speak, read, and write.
LOGS : 10/1
Subject 61
Male | Sick
• Assigned to Doctor C.
• Reckless in temperament.
• Average body temperature is approximately 113°F (45°C)
• Has the ability to spontaneously create fire, without a spark or fuel
• Can speak, cannot read, or write.
Doctor’s Note: An experiment was performed, where he was placed in a container with no oxygen, other then the mask that fed it to him to keep him alive. When he gained consciousness, he proseeded to immediately breath fire and burn all of the oxygen in his mask, tank, and his lungs.
LOGS : x
Subject 12
Male | Induced Sickness
• Assigned to Doctor B.
• Cold in temperament.
• Has the ability to create earthquakes, usually the of greatest intensity with little more then one word.
• Is usually kept in a mask with a gag.
• Can speak, read, and write.
LOGS : x
Subject 88
Male | Induced Sickness
• Assigned to Doctor Z.
• Unpredictabile in nature.
• Has the ability to teleport.
• Tests show this is limited to only places he has seen or been.
• Cannot speak, read, or write.
LOGS : 10/4
Subject 94
Male | Healthy
• Assigned to Doctor S.
• Mischievous in temperament.
• Has the ability to create and control air waves
• Tests show with the smallest of airwaves, like a simple hand clap, he can turn into a full blown twister.
Summary: Your go-to to get off is your favorite camboy who goes by the name of Lay. Physically, he’s perfect, and everything he says leaves you breathless and wanting him to keep talking until you’re coming undone in front of your laptop. However, you notice that the new barista hired at the cafe down the street has a voice that sounds familiar...
a/n: this wasn’t looked over so if it’s really bad or has mistakes (or it just is one big mistake lmao) I deeply apologize dhfsdk
Part 2 | Part 3
Sighing as you kicked off your shoes, you closed the door and put your keys on the hook by the door. You weren’t sure if it was just you or if work really was getting more stressful but you were completely beat after your shift, letting your feet drag as they carried you to the kitchen of your small apartment. All you wanted was to make a quick cup of ramen before going to your room, and that’s exactly what you planned on doing.
After your not-so-healthy dinner, you made sure everything was shut off in the kitchen before you made your way to your bedroom. You changed out of your work clothes into a plain old t-shirt, deciding to just wear underwear to bed before you crawled over your duvet and got yourself settled against the headboard.
You weren’t going to sleep just yet. Your favorite way to unwind after a long day was watching your favorite camboy. Something about getting off while watching Lay was perfect, at least compared to anybody else you’d found on that website. Not only was he inclusive to everybody, but he left you feeling relaxed enough for you to easily drift off to sleep without worries in your head keeping you occupied. It wasn’t a nightly thing you did but it was something you did on days like these where you were just stressed and overworked.
Going onto the website after you’d retrieved and opened your laptop, you planned on just watching an old stream you might’ve missed or maybe one of your favorite videos if he didn’t have anything that piqued your interest. But you found that Lay was actually live, so you smiled a little to yourself as you clicked the link.
Lay already had his shirt unbuttoned. He was wearing a plain black suit with a white button-up underneath. Both his shirt and his jacket were undone, his tie untied and left hanging around his neck. His muscular torso was on full display and all you could think about was how amazing it would feel to run your fingers over it or how pretty it would look with red lines scratched down it. His black pants were undone, revealing his matching boxers because Lay always had to go all out on playing whatever part he decided to do. Apparently tonight’s theme was from a big donor who requested he have a Daddy theme.
You definitely weren’t complaining.
The chat was flying by, begging him to do more. From the angle of his camera, you could see from mid thigh, up to his chin, but he leaned toward the camera to read the comments so could see his mouth which was formed into a smirk, showing off his dimples. God, you thought his smile was gorgeous.
“You want more, huh?” he asked in a sultry voice that had your hand snaking down under your panties. “I don’t know if you deserve my cock just yet. Beg for it.”
Lay leaned back again, one arm resting against the counter behind him as he read the comments that poured in while lazily palming himself through his boxers. You couldn’t see his expression but you could see his smirk from the way he leaned back. Even though you’d never seen his face before, you could just picture him with a quirked brow, watching in amusement as his viewers begged for him to do more. He was just so beautiful, and the aura he gave off even through your screen made you want to please him.
You removed your hand from your underwear and pulled your laptop closer. You made a donation with a quick comment, shoving your pride and embarrassment down.
“’Please, Daddy? I’ve had such a hard day and I need Daddy’s cock’,” he read, frowning a bit as he clicked his tongue. “Aw, baby, I’m sorry. Only because you asked so nicely and because my angel had such a hard day.”
He pushed his pants and boxers down just enough to let his erection spring free, letting it bounce against his abdomen. Your mouth watered seeing his red tip already leaking a drop of precum, and your hand wandered back down between your thighs. Arousal had already pooled between them, and it was only getting worse seeing Lay like this.
“You’re lucky I’m feeling so nice tonight,” he mused, spreading the pearl of precum with his thumb down his shaft before he languidly stroked himself. “I won’t always be so easy-going, but tonight, I want to make my baby feel better.”
You didn’t know why you felt heat rushing to your cheeks. Maybe because it was your comment he was referring to, so you felt like he was speaking directly to you when he said ‘baby’. You knew he was speaking to the general audience, but still.
“Are you touching yourself?” he asked with a soft hum at the end of the question. “Don’t go to fast -- you want to make this last, don’t you? Just tease yourself a little for Daddy, yeah?”
You found yourself doing as you were told, spreading your wetness around your folds before lightly rubbing over your clit. Your eyes didn’t leave the screen as your thighs spread apart wider.
“Add a finger now,” he instructed, letting his teeth graze over his bottom lip. “Move it slowly, though. Don’t go too fast or you’ll make Daddy mad. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
You almost sighed out a reply as your middle finger dipped into your heat, letting your head loll back as you kept your eyes on the screen. Lay was picking up the pace of his hand, occasionally rubbing his thumb over his tip. His wrist moved back and forth as he jerked himself off, his face always facing the camera.
You wanted so badly to know what his face looked like, knowing it would add to the little fantasy your imagination had come up with of him a bunch of times. Almost any time you masturbated, you always pictured Lay above you, but you never had a face to put on the body. All you had was his perfect smile to go off of, but just judging from that, you were sure he was beautiful.
“Fuck,” he whispered, squeezing his cock as he continued to move his hand. He inhaled deeply before breathing out, “Add another finger. Go faster...”
You did just that, biting on your lip to hold in your moans -- you didn’t need your neighbors hearing you. You watched as Lay continued to stroke himself, his stomach muscles contracting to make his abs even more prominent. His body looked like it was sculpted by God himself -- and you had seen even more of him than just this. He was working himself up and it was so amazing to watch, your eyes completely glued to him on your screen.
Your fingers were moving faster and faster as the stream went on, adding a third finger, too. You were hitting your g-spot, curling your toes as your lungs felt tighter with your impending orgasm. You could tell Lay was getting close, too, from how he was hissing and how his moans were getting breathier.
“Are you close?” he asked, his voice still so velvety despite how close he was. “Are you gonna cum for Daddy like a good little angel? Fuck-- Don’t cum just yet. Daddy w-wants you to cum with him, okay?”
You were holding on as well as you could. Even though you knew there were obviously no consequences if you came before he said so, you still felt like you had to wait. Not only because it would be more enjoyable for you, but because in your imagination, Lay was masturbating with you specifically, and you wanted to please him.
“Shit, cum for me baby,” he groaned. “Cum for Daddy.”
You couldn’t help but whimper out his name as you came on your fingers, pumping them through your orgasm. You could barely keep your eyes open through your high, but you managed just so you could see ropes of white spurt out from Lay’s tip, landing somewhere off screen while a few lines fell onto his black pants.
You could hear him panting as you relaxed back into your bed, your hand sliding out from your underwear.
“God,” he sighed, reaching one hand up to run through his hair. “You were so good for Daddy. I should do themed nights like this more often, huh?”
You could see the smile on his face as he leaned closer to the camera so he could end the stream.
“It’s night for me, but I know some of you are in different time zones, so have a good day or have a good night. I’ll see you lovelies later. Bye!”
With a wave to the camera and one last dimpled smile, it was ended. You sighed to yourself and shut your laptop, already feeling tired enough to go to sleep. Still, you went to the bathroom to pee and wash your hands before you went back to your room and climbed into bed, your eyes closing as soon as your head hit the pillow.
-
You couldn’t stop thinking about Lay all morning, and that didn’t change even as you walked to the cafe down the street. You didn’t normally go to the cafe in the morning because you were usually working or sleeping in, but you were supposed to be meeting a friend because they needed to shop for a dress for a family member’s wedding, and they wanted your opinion. So you decided to stop for coffee before meeting them at the mall.
You tore yourself from your thoughts as you opened the door to the small building, the smell of fresh coffee hitting your nose. You walked up to the counter and greeted the cashier, ordering what you wanted before paying. You went over to the pick-up counter to wait, keeping your head down with your eyes on your phone as you texted a quick reply to your friend that you’d be at the mall in fifteen minutes.
“_____?” a voice that sounded a little familiar but you were unable to place called your name for your order.
You looked up, staring into the brown eyes of one of the baristas who was holding your drink. His kind eyes crinkled as he smiled, showing off a dimpled smile that made your heart race.
And then you placed the voice.
“Th-that’s me,” you stammered out, remembering you had to reply.
“Here you go,” the familiar voice said in a cheery yet polite tone you’d never heard that voice talk in before. “Enjoy!”
As he held your coffee out, your eyes looked down to his nametag. Yixing.
“Thank you,” you replied, taking the coffee from his hand, trying not to look too shaky.
“Have a good day!” he chirped.
You could hear his voice in your head, except it was something similar he’d said last night when you watched the same barista get himself off on camera.
‘--so have a good day or have a good night.’
“Y-you too,” you said quickly before you turned and left the cafe so quickly that you forgot to grab a straw.
Your parents tried to have children for years… They were desperate to conceive a child, almost gave up on the idea, until finally your mother got pregnant with you.
Fragile child, born underweight and prematurely. You were the light of their eyes.
Now you were a teenager and still treated you as if you were going to get broken.
Homeschooled and trapped in your house. You didn’t need anything from the outside world.
Nothing. Until you saw the postman one day.
Postman!AU/Angst/Fluff/Smut 🔞
Lay x reader
Masterlist
|| Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 || Part 11 || Part 12 || Part 13 || Part 14 || Paths Part 1 Baekhyun/Luhan spinoff || Paths Part 2 Baekhyun/Luhan spinoff || Part 15 || Part 16 || Part 17 soon…
