The Alluring Type [ohshc. male reader insert]

Tieguanyin Tea

You never could understand rich people. It was outlandish to you why they valued gross material wealth, overcomplicated social conventions and brutal high society over ordinary life. Often at these functions, your mother attending in some peculiar, abstract formal wear, you would find yourself worming your way into the crowd, seeking gratification from a simple cardboard box and a plastic knife. Eventually, someone would find you, chastise you, and hand you an egregiously expensive children's toy.

Your mother never coddled you, she was far too busy reading scenes or at shoots for her latest cinematic project; being a world famous actress, director and producer proved to be time consuming, far too overwhelming to throw a child into the mix.

"Mother?"

The woman's head lifts up from being thrown against the back of the seating. She crosses her leg over the other, taking a long drag of her cigarette. The smoke dulls the radiant gleam of the ornate possessions dotted about the main room. "Yes, what is it?"

You grip your baby blanket. You don't have many memories but you can reflect on a time where your family was modest. The blanket still smells of that cramped flat, a quickly fleeting image, much to your discomfort. "Who's my father?"

She grips the cigarette tighter and grasps her ebony hair. Her face paints a picture of complete disgust, as if she's physically fighting back the urge to throw up at the mere mention.

"An asshole."

•°•°•°•

The air grows tense, the crowd watching intently as your fingers dance atop the fret board. They scrutinise your momentary lapse in judgement, the slightly incorrect intonation with how you bow your instrument. Regardless, your eyes gleam with ebullience, the climax steadily approaching. Your worries melt away, playing with elegant cadence, as if your hands were two swans courting each other, dancing in tandem.

Sweat flings from your brow and the tip of your bowing fingers as you navigate your way through the most complex part of the piece; that is, if you were already under the assumption that the ruggedly fast pacing of the entire piece was 'easy'. You bite your lip, struggling to keep up with the legacy of Niccolo Paganini, the Devil's Violinist. It's futile, but you charge through.

Your fingers begin to swell and blister as you play through Caprice no.24, though you ignore it, preparing yourself to add your mark to the highly acclaimed concerto. A crazed grin crosses your features as you kick the sheet music aside, still playing your violin, reveling in the incredulity of the esteemed audience. You play the passage furiously, disregarding the 'correct' way to play it. The moment you played the first note, the concerto was yours. There's no rhyme or reason to struggle all your life to be on par with the greats, you won't be bound to regulations and conventions. Who cares if you get disqualified? This will be the performance of a lifetime, this is how you will show your mother and the world that you are different, that you are worth noticing for your own feats, not for being your mothers shadow.

You eye the crowd, searching for an infamous woman, keen on spotting the ebony hair that cascades down her back like a murky waterfall. A horrific, discordant mess emanates from your instrument, the strings screeching in agony for you to stop. The inharmonious swing of your bow clashes against the nylon and steel, eventually coming to a halt as the pair comes crashing down onto the orchestra stage floor.

After a momentary, stunned silence, a pair of strong arms drags you from the stage, wiping the stain from the canvas. You can't help but to scan the audience once more, in a futile attempt of blind, outright prevarication. Among the grotesque masses jeering at the lone violin abandoned on the stage, you fail to spot her fastidiously poised tresses, her scathing, icy eyes that gleam with the ambition and resolve to crush her competitors, nor her perfect smile, which is always equipped with just the right words, strung in just the right way, sung in just the right tone, to devastate her opponents.