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Starring Role (C. S, S.MG)
Summary:
We’ve all read about the infamous player who falls in love with the good girl that manages to make him change his ways…but what happens to the other girl? The pretty, popular one that has warmed his bed before the good girl came along and took him away.
Well, no one cares about her. After all, she’s just a side character.
It almost feels like a joke to play a part, when you are not the starring role in someone else’s heart.
Pairing: y/n x choi san; y/n x song mingi
Status: IN PROGRESS.
Taglist: if u’d like to be added just msg me <3
MY MAIN MASTERLIST!
INDEX:
act zero: [THE INTRO]
act one: [you don’t love me, big fuckin’ deal]
act two: [just another dressed up heartbreak]
act three: [he’ll take your heart and you must pay the price]
act four: [i can never say sorry ‘cause i won’t take the blame]
act five: [you make me feel like i’m losin’ my virginity, the first time every time that you’re touching me]
act six: [getting a little sidetracked, catching little feelings, thought we had arangements]
act seven: [only fools stick around when the love is gone]
act eight: [can’t call it a problem if i never let a play drop]
act nine: [in my dreams you love me back]
act ten: [ the truth is, all you do is leave me emotional bruises]
act eleven: [FINAL]
bonus: san’s e-mails
I've been so dead for months but I've been revived by neuv :(
— “hands off! i’m taken!”
for the first time in your drunken daze, you don't recognise your own husband.
CONTAINS : gn!reader, 983 wc, fluff, (attempts at) humour, mentions/reference of alcohol consumption
A/N : neuvillette is in pain (emotional) while you are in pain the morning after (literal).
it’s not often neuvillette finds free time amongst the seemingly endless piles of papers on his desk. when he does get some free-time, he always makes sure to treat you out to the places you most recently show interest in. however, these evenings out more often than not result in you having one too many drinks. (“it’s a rare evening date!” you would tut, waving a finger at him while your free hand holds the wine glass.)
he worries for you and your health after all, and he most definitely doesn't want you to experience these so-called "hangovers" you bemoan about as he coddles you through it all the mornings after.
and so what better way to help prevent such a tragedy than by putting a stop to it prematurely?
“hands off! i’m taken!”
…or so he thought.
regardless, that doesn’t change the fact neuvillette now stands in the middle of one of the (now quite humid) private rooms in the upper floor of hotel debord, clutching his stinging hand close to his chest while staring at your huffing form in a mixture of hurt and shock. he blinks once, twice, thrice as he slowly begins to process your words — or, lack of.
“pardon?”
“i said,” you stress, narrowing your gaze at him as you begin to sit up, “hands off! i’ll have you know i’m happily married to the loveliest, most beautifulest man in teyvat and i don’t need some… some meddlesome old creep trying to get in between that.”
were this quite literally any other day besides one you were drunk on, neuvillette would be jumping for joy over the moon (metaphorical… probably) and documenting this moment in his diary he keeps safe and secured in a locked drawer under his desk, positively cooing and sighing in pure adoration at your adorable self.
(he also doesn’t have the heart to tell you beautifulest isn’t exactly a real word, but he’s flattered all the same. and it makes you that much more adorable in his eyes.)
alas, this isn’t any other day. no, instead it is a day which marks his drunk spouse being unable to identify their own husband, and your intoxicated words render him silent.
now, don’t get him wrong, he’s glad you are, for a lack of better words, raring to defend your marital status and honour when intoxicated. however…
‘meddlesome old creep’? is that how he appears? he thought he looked quite dashing this evening, what with the way you sang his praises after he got himself dressed and questioned if you were actually married to one another.
then again, he supposes it’s still accurate to say you’re still questioning whether or not he is your husband. just not in the joking manner you initially did.
seeing how you’ve begun to grow a little restless with his prolonged silence, neuvillette awkwardly clears his throat and begins in what he hopes is a tone which masks the minor betrayal your words caused. “i’m glad you feel that way about our marriage, mon cœur, but—”
“stop!” neuvillette’s mouth instantly ceases movement. “how… how dare you, a stranger, call me that! just who… who do you think you are? my husband?”
“actually, i am.”
you blink at him. “you’re what?”
“i am your husband. neuvillette.” in all honesty, he doesn’t know why he’s nervous. perhaps it’s your scrutinising gaze causing him to sweat, taking him back to the first days when he could finally put a name to the emotions you brought out from within him — ones which have never weakened, but only seem to grow stronger as the days pass by. his hands clam up, and he’s glad you can’t see him wiping his palms against the fabric of his clothes from where you sit. even when you’re drunk, you tend to remember the most random moments. more often than not, they end up being in some relation to him.
(neuvillette laments the times where you only remembered his brief loss of composure.)
after a few more agonising seconds of staring, you speak up once more. “you’re lying.”
there are many things neuvillette wishes to say in response — such as showing your wedding rings, pulling out the small polaroid of you both nestled within his inner coat pocket, recalling the first day you met, the first day you talked, the first “thank you” you ever said to him, the first—
quickly, he snaps himself out of this spiral. just in the nick of time too, for you open your mouth to say something else. “my neuvillette is cute and lovely and pretty and everything a person could only dream to have.”
is he not cute right now? is he not lovely and pretty right now? is he not everything a person could only dream to have right now? what makes the him through your drunken lens so different to the him in your memories?
against his better judgement, he decides to ask the big question.
“then… may i ask what i am?”
“a liar.” and, as if to rub salt in the wound, you add, “i don’t like liars.”
neuvillette feels as though he could cry.
(when you awoke to a pounding headache the next morning, the last thing you expected was your husband brooding on the edge of the bed, his back facing you as he mumbled something along the lines of, “i would lie for you… not to you…” though it was a little hard to tell amidst the incessant pitter-patter of rain against the window.
despite racking your brain in an effort to figure out what caused him to be in such a state in the first place, the only things you remembered from last night were him wiping his hands on his clothes, as well as him looking as though someone slapped him across the face.
yeah. perhaps it is best you don’t tell him that.)
mon cœur = my heart, which can be read as my sweetheart/other half/life, etc.
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