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alphabetboyluvr · 1 year

Text

throttle │ jjk - one

this fic is my baby and has just hit 400k over on wp, so I'm sharing her here too he he

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - jungkook is blonde <3, he's also a bit of an asshole. dangerous driving, alcohol consumption, nothing major, we're setting scenes, building worlds just to ruin them woohoo. mentions of violence, gang dynamics. both the oc and jk swear like sailors.

word count - 17.8k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

The bell above the gas station door always chimes just a little bit louder than is really necessary.

In fact, the shrill clang of metal is so intrusive, that it feels borderline rude every single time a customer swings the door open. It's only natural for you to ignore it now, affronted by the way it distracts your focus.

It's not like you're ever doing anything important. Just flicking through the day's newspapers or counting stock.

Although, come to think of it, you're never actually counting stock, either. You leave that job for Jieun, because you know she's a stickler for the rules, and likes feeling accomplished after her shifts are finished.

You're not really sure how much accomplishment can be derived from a part-time job at a GS25 attached to a gas station forecourt, but she seems to enjoy it.

This job really isn't for you - but it's better than following your father into local politics, and nepotism is all you really have going for you, considering you flunked the college entrance exam. An act of rebellion, for the corruption scandal your father had chosen to embroil himself in during your senior year, you had refused to write a single word on the paper.

You thought it would embarrass him - and it did. Just at your expense.

And so, while it may not be your childhood dream of being a pop star, or a vet, or anything of any significance, ringing up bills at the gas station is how you're able to pay your own bills. It'll do for now.

You ignore the chime of the bell as the door to the service station opens once more.

It's the start of the year, and the breeze is bitter whenever it rushes in. This time, the wind is accompanied by a guy in his mid-thirties. Dark slacks, burgundy jumper. His off-brand sliders scuff across the floor as he traipses round to the refrigerator, bottle clinking as he picks up a little soju and some beer for his evening. It's not an uncommon occurrence for men his age.

You hypothesise his next move. To the snack section to pick up something for his kids? Maybe straight to the kiosk to pay for his fuel? You check the screen, and notice he's barely added enough gas to cover the minimum charge.

A scornful mutter of 'priorities' laces your lips, as you see him put back the soju and reach for the whisky instead.

Still, you can't blame him. It's fucking freezing. A little whisky to warm him up will probably be as cost-effective as getting a new boiler that actually works.

It's all just an assumption of course.

You don't know this man, and you don't have a clue if his boiler works or not - but thinking about the lives of the people you meet for split fractions of time always helps to make your shift go quicker.

He comes to the counter, pays, and leaves.

You wonder if he's made up a life for you in his head, too.

Probably not. He probably already has an actual life to distract him from his thoughts. Maybe that's what the whisky is for.

And there you go again; hypothesising. Thinking. Putting your assumptions onto strangers.

The next customer is a girl around your age, wearing a fluffy pink coat and hoops big enough to be worn as bangles. She arrives on foot, pushing the swing door open without much care for excessive force.

You decide, all rather quickly, that she must work at the gentlemen's club around the corner from the gas station. She's buying a coffee, iced, and nothing else.

It's when she's at the kiosk that you realise your make-believe life for her is terribly inaccurate. She fumbles with her purse, dropping her staff I.D. card.

She's a nurse. Paediatric nurse, to be specific. The coffee she's picked up isn't for a boost before a shift on the poles, but to keep her going through a night on the wards.

And yet despite how your assumptions are so often so wrong, you still consider yourself to be a good judge of character.

It's a flaw, the way you always seem to think you can read people; think you can look at their demeanour, their clothes, and assume their financial status, what they do after the sun sets, and if they're going home to an empty house or not.

Your thoughts become lore. The gas station you work in is the thick leather cover that protects your make-believe world from outsiders.

When the bell chimes again, you don't look up.

It's a habit. You don't want to make eye contact. It breaks the illusion that these people are just characters in your head.

Instead, you glance up to the curved mirror in the far corner of the shop. It acts as a second pair of eyes, and is ignored by pretty much all of the customers - except for the teenage girls who like to take selfies in it.

Tall, you assess when you finally find the new customer in the mirror. Broad.

His posture a little sloped, but all things considered, he carries himself well. He heads for the refrigerators, just like every man above the age of 19 seems to do on a Friday night. There's that clink again, and you guess he's going for soju. He's young, so it seems apt. Whatever's cheapest seems to be the drink of choice for the guys your age, and you can't blame them.

You watch, cautious to not catch his gaze, as he heads to the food fridge.

Gimbap, you guess. Tuna, not chicken. One roll, not two.

He pulls out his phone to check a notification, and you notice just how hard his gaze is. There's a ridge between his brows, and a couple silver ballbearings accenting the brow farthest from you. Whatever he's reading on his phone, he doesn't like.

Girlfriend, you guess again. No. An ex. No, no. A FWB turned far-too-clingy.

He looks like the type to be after something a little casual.

The tattoos on his hands are nothing special - you've seen hands like his in countless 'sneaky' Instagram stories; a hand on the thigh, holding a bag. Y'know, the ones. The kind of shit girls post with the caption 'private, not secret' - but you both know there's nothing really 'private' about it. The owner of the hands will be blocked within a week or two, once the girl realises he's nothing special, just like his hands.

You hear him mutter beneath his breath. You can't quite make it out, but the way he shakes his head lets you know that it was most likely a curse. He locks his phone, tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans, and carries on looking for something to eat.

You watch as his gaze lifts and falls.

That's it, you urge silently. Go for the gimbap.

You want to be proven right.

He's already got a green bottle tucked into the pocket of his black bomber jacket, so you know you've got his choice of drink correct. You're assuming that your guess about his phone is correct, too, so you only need one more right to get a full house.

As he looks across the snacks - gimbap, vacuum-sealed meats, cheese, strawberry sandwiches and enough microwavable food to feed an orphanage - he pushes his hair out of his face. The way it falls back down almost instantly makes you smile.

He needs a haircut - but you bet that his FWB (turned far-too-clingy lover) loves it, so he keeps it long for her satisfaction. It's bleached; pale as the sticky rice balls he's eyeing up, with dark roots that let you know he's trouble. No boy with hair like that has ever been good news. Especially not the ones who look like him.

Or so you guess look like him. He's wearing a mask. It's black, to match his outfit, cinched at the nose, hooked around ears that are studded up the sides. He must have, what? Five? Six? Little square studs in there. Airport security must be a nightmare.

You smile to yourself as he reaches for gimbap. One roll, not two. Tuna, not chicken. Bingo.

"Pump six," he says as he approaches the counter. You already know. It's been waiting on the screen since he walked in. There's no one else in the forecourt. "And these."

He tosses down the gimbap, and pulls the soju from his pocket, an old receipt coming with it. Kang's Auto Repairs it reads, but he stuffs it back into his pocket before you can read anything else.

"We're cheaper," you note, not really caring for revealing just how incredibly nosey you are. There's a perspex screen between you, which always makes you feel protected - from people, their judgements and whatever other airborne diseases they might be carrying. From the looks of him, the only diseases he'll be carrying are the ones found beneath the sheets. He's too well-built to be suffering from any ailments - but equally, too well built to not to be fucking about. "Cheaper than Kang's, I mean. He'll charge you an arm and a leg for the honour of his service."

"Hmm?" He raises a brow, obviously just wanting to pay for his shit and go. "Thanks, but I like Kang's. Been going there for years."

You hold back a laugh. He's no older than you. 24? 25? Yet he's talking like he's been loyal to that over-priced, under-qualified garage for decades. The neighbourhood is littered with garages, scrap part dealers and gas stations, and yet Kang's is the main competitor for your place. It's not even in this neighbourhood - it's across the river, which is a different district entirely, but the proximity is close enough. Your boss will never miss an opportunity to shit talk Old Man Kang and his 'con-artist' car mechanics. He doesn't think any of them are actually trained.

"Yeah, well," you smile, scanning his items, pretending there's a fault with the barcode on his gimbap just to be a little annoying. "Our guy, Yoongi, he's a specialist with those." You nod out of the window and towards the car by pump six. It's red; a little bit brash, but a classic. "Pony, right? Hyundai? '80?"

"Pony," he nods, tone neutral but eyes a little narrow. Doesn't know why, but he didn't expect you to know - and then he remembers you work at a garage. Of course you know. Got the year wrong, though."It's an '83. A mark two. I'll keep the suggestion in mind," he adds, though you both know he's lying. "How much do I owe you?"

He doesn't really listen as you list off the figure. Just hands you his card, hums when you ask for his signature - sign of a big spender, must be a full tank - and says little else. His phone buzzes on the counter as he stuffs his purchases back into his pockets, and you glance down - again, not caring for the discretion of your nosey tendencies.

KNJ. (1) New Message.

Sneaky bastard, you think. How rude of him not to have his message previews displayed.

You're not sure if he caught you looking, but he snaps his phone up regardless and shoves it into his back pocket.

"Cheers," he nods, before he sets off into the night. Car unlocked, he slides into the driver's seat and empties his pockets onto the passengers' side. You watch on for a moment, before there's a rattle of his exhaust pipe, engine roaring into action - and like that, he's gone. You assume he's not on his way to his FWB (turned far-too-clingy lover). Wouldn't have bought tuna if he was. Then again, he's a guy. You don't expect him to care about such social cues.

Maybe he's just left hers. His neck did seem a little red, but then again, it's cold. Minus 3. The river you walk across to get to work is frozen over, and has been for about two weeks now. You've got a heat pack stuffed in either pocket of your work jacket.

Well, Yoongi's work jacket. It's his name stitched into the breast pocket - but it's bigger than yours, so you can fit a few more layers beneath it. If the boss saw you in it, he'd have a bitch fit for 'not following company protocols,' and for not caring about the 'company brand image'. Which is true. You're neither following protocols, nor do you care about the company nor its brand image.

It's just gone nine on a Friday night, though, and the boss clocked out a few hours ago with a bottle of makgeolli and the day's newspaper under his arm. He's not gonna see. And if he does, what's he gonna do? Fire you? Good luck to him finding anyone else who wants to spend their winter nights freezing half-to-death in this shit hole of a gas station.

By the time midnight hits, you've been yawning for at least an hour. Keeping yourself warm is a laboursome task.

"You're gonna catch a cold," Yoongi acknowledges as he enters the shop through the back entrance. He's still wrapped up in a calf-length puffa jacket, all warm and cosy. He heads out past the kiosks as normal, up to the fridges. Bagged americano and a cup of ice. You know his score - and you're proven right. "Tell me why I agreed to cover your night shift, again?" he says with a slight shiver as he scans through his own items.

Though he's typically out fixing up cars behind the service station, he helps you out at the kiosk too. Normally just when there are staff shortages - which in all fairness, occur more frequently than you'd expect.

"'Cause you love me," you sing, knowing that it's entirely plausible.

Yoongi - stone-cold, stoic, as emotionally inept as you'd expect a bachelor verging on his 30s to be - could very much be in love with you. It's not like he really speaks to many other women, and he's never given you a reason to believe he's not interested.

But he does give you his jacket, cuts you slack on the days you feel like shit, and covers the shifts you don't want to work without asking any questions. Sometimes he sneaks you the food that was meant to be tossed in the bin overnight, and other times he makes sure there's a peach tea waiting for you when you clock in.

"It's 'cause I love money," he corrects, as if the extra 30,000 won he'll make from the last three hours of your shift is really an incentive. He's already spent 3,000 on his coffee. "Now scram. Get yourself home. Fucking freezing tonight. Want me to call you a cab?"

That'll be an extra 7,000 to his evenings' expenses. You really don't think he does love the money. At least not enough for it to be a reasonable excuse.

"It's good," you shake your head. "You know I'm not far away."

He nods, not really fighting your choices. It's not like you ever accept his offer anyway. He learned quite a long time ago that if you want something done, you'll do it for yourself.

Y'see, you're not the only one who watches.

Yoongi watches you too, as you tap through on the screen to log yourself out and cash up the till.

You've only run 260,000 through your till in the last four hours, barely enough to make ends meet for the gas station. No wonder the place hasn't had any upgrades - with the exception of tills and a new fridge every now and again - since the mid-noughties. The signs are rusting, and Yoongi still has to change the fuel prices by hand every morning.

On the rare shifts you work together, you like to make assumptions together. You guess what people are gonna buy, hypothesise where they're going, who they're going with. When you hear bottles clink, you guess which flavour soju they're going for, as if you don't only have 4 flavours stocked. During the summer, you like to guess who's filling up their tanks to go to the coast.

The door chimes as a new customer walks in, and Yoongi knocks his head back. "Go on, out. I'll cash your till up. It's all good."

You ask if he's sure, to which he smiles and tells you to leave again - so you do. Not without thanking him, and fluttering your lashes a little. Maybe it is your fault, just a little, that Yoongi might be a tiny bit in love with you.

"I owe you the world!" You squeal as you skip out the door. He laughs, but says nothing. He just wants you home and safe as quickly as possible.

Yoongi doesn't mind covering your shifts, not this late at night. He knows this area doesn't have the best reputation, and despite your sharp tongue, he knows that you'd stand absolutely no chance if someone decided that it seemed like a good place to commit a felony or two.

It's a debate you've had a few times before. You know he's right, but you fight against him regardless. It always makes him smile, and only adds to your theory that he might be a little bit in love with you.

You forget the quiet thrum in your chest as soon as the cold air hits you. Yoongi traded his jacket with you before you left; him now in his work uniform, and you in his thick puffa which reaches down to your ankles. Hands stuffed into his pockets, your shoulders hunch as you walk, a mask covering your face just to keep the heat in. Your scarf is wrapped around you so tightly that you might just suffocate, but it would be worth it, you think. You hate this time of year. So fucking cold, and for what?

The bridge lights are off by the time you reach it, illuminated only by a couple of cars. They're sat up towards the far end, facing you, and you sigh. Every fucking weekend.

It's not always the same cars, but quite often it is - or some variation of the same group, at least. They sit, waiting for traffic to die down and the lights to cut off, before turning the bridge into their own little speedway.

You should have guessed from the sound of that asshole's exhaust earlier that evening that he'd be one of them.

The fact he goes to Kang's, too.

It's obvious, when you think about it now.

Guys his age never fill up their tanks - but he did. Filled it up just to spit it all out again, painting the road in iridescent speckles of gas.

You can see the Pony. It's the car farthest away from you, next to a black SsangYong.

You can't make out the model of the SsangYong, but it looks fast. It's lowered, windows tinted, exhaust tampered with, just to create an almighty roar - which screams 'I have a tiny cock'.

At least with the Pony, you can tell that the sound being delivered comes from his engine. Credit where it's due, and all that. He could still very much have a tiny cock, but at least he's better at hiding it.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you hug into yourself to preserve heat. The lights of the cars make you a little self-conscious, aware that you're the only thing in sight that's disturbing their peace. There's ice on the road, but you pay it no notice, knowing that there's no point in worrying about one of the cars swerving off-road as they inevitably shoot past you.

If it happens, it happens.

The SsangYong is loud. Obnoxiously, so. You can hear pressure being put down and released on the gas pedal, clutch raised. He's teasing you. Warning you. Hurry up.

Next to it, the Pony hums. He doesn't seem interested in taunting you as if you could fight a two-tonne vehicle as it hurtles towards you. That, or he doesn't want to waste his gas. Lord knows he'll be wasting enough of it tonight as it is.

"Try me, fucker," you mumble under your breath, eyes trained on the black car. You can't make out its driver, nor do you really care.

It's at this point you notice a guy on the opposite side of the road.

He flashes the torch of his phone, once, twice. The Pony kicks into gear now, too, revving to rival the SsangYong. You're halfway across the bridge, wishing they could have just waited, like, one more minute. But whatever. Assholes will be assholes.

The torch guy is out of your line of vision by the time you hear tyres screech against the ice-cold road, rubber-burning regardless. The Ssangyong bolts, fumes from the exhaust fogging in the air behind it. You expect the Pony to do the same.

It takes you half a second to realise it's stagnated, and another half to realise that things aren't going to plan for Mr Gimbap.

There's a thud from the back wheels as they lock and release, causing the wheels to spin out. You've seen enough wheel spins now to know one, and as the Pony lurches forward, you know that's exactly what it is - but you also know the road is icy.

The fun of a wheel spin, or so Yoongi likes to tell you, is that brief moment of lost control. He likes to do it whenever he gives you a lift home, because he finds the way you freak out funny - but he's always in command of his vehicle. He's never done it with you in the car during the winter. He knows better. Doesn't actually want to lose control.

At least, not like the dude in the driver's seat of the Pony currently is.

The back kicks out, sending him swerving. The front wheels are a fucking mess, his hands twisting the wheel in an attempt to rectify his fuck up. It's fruitless. He's off the clutch, the wheels aren't spinning, but he's already on the ice, and he's hurtling towards you.

You're aware you should run, but like the river, you're stuck. Frozen in place.

Maybe you should have accepted Yoongi's offer of a taxi. RIP.

There's another biting screech as you're doused in headlights, and you're pretty sure that this is what people mean when they say you see the light before you die. Fucking blinding. No way those lamps are regulation approved.

It's as you're bracing yourself for the inevitable end (and thinking about how embarrassing it's going to be when your family is tasked with clearing out your apartment after your demise - you haven't cleaned for weeks, laundry has been sat in the washer for two days, and there's a pizza box that you don't dare look in sitting next to the bin) that miracle seems to strike.

The Pony hits an uniced patch just in time for the driver to slam on his breaks. Handbrake, by the sound of it, but you're not sure. Not really sure of anything. Your heart is beating in your throat.

Steam is coming from the heat of the tyres, but the air around you is frozen, and so are you. You're not sure if it's from the cold or from the shock. A bit of both probably. You don't shake out of it until the driver's door pops open.

"The fuck are you doing?" He shouts. His mask is off now, not like it had been in the store. Light glimmers off yet more metal stuck in face, this time a ring around his plump bottom lip. His nose, though well proportioned, is blushed. "I could have fucking hit you!"

"Uh, yeah?" You almost laugh, too stunned to compute the fact that he was shouting at you. "Yeah, you could have fucking hit me, you asshole-"

"The fuck are you doing on the bridge? This late? Wearing all fucking black? I know you work around here, so I know you know what this place is used for-"

"Yeah, it's a bridge," you deadpan. It's notorious for racing, but who cares? It's not like you're in the wrong here. He's the one breaking laws. You're just trying to go home. "It's used to cross rivers. So, yanno, people working night shifts can walk home without rowing a fucking boat. Pretty neat actually, invented by the Greeks."

"Don't be smart," he scolds. "You saw us gearing up, you knew what was about to ha-"

"I'm sorry," you really are laughing now. "Are you telling me that I'm in the wrong? You? The asshole who's racing his shitty car on an icy fucking bridge? The asshole who can't control his aforementioned shitty car-"

"Can control it," he snaps. "If I couldn't, you'd be fucking dead."

"Oh, well thank you very much! How kind of you to not kill me as a result of your reckless driving. No, really. I appreciate it so much. How ever can I repay you?"

"You know what?" He calls after you when you begin to walk away. As far as you're concerned, the conversion is done. "Next time, I will just hit you."

"Be my fucking guest!" You shout back, holding your middle finger up to wave goodbye. "Stick to Kang's next time, you pretentious, self-absorbed cunt."

"Gladly."

"Oh, and by the way," you begin to say in a sickly sweet tone, which you just know is going to piss him off. You turn to find him standing, facing the bridge wall, looking at the river that's illuminated only by the headlamps of his car, like two little moons. The real one is hidden by clouds. "You'll have better control if you release the clutch a little slower. Wheelspin like that? Yeah, someone needs to practise their clutch control."

He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he just flares his nostrils and grates his jaw. He knows you're right. Knows he missed the mark - but he'd been distracted when he noticed you on the bridge. You threw him off his game.

Equally, you know he's a good driver. The way he gained control of his car on the ice was borderline expert. Impressive. You won't go as far to say life-saving, because if it wasn't for his driving in the first place, your life wouldn't have needed any God Damn saving.

You walk backwards for a step or two, just to gloat in the knowledge you've gotten the last word. He glares at you, but stays silent. Victory.

"Oi, Kook. The fuck was that about?" A distant voice yells. The SsangYong driver, you assume.

"Nothin'," he yells back. His eyes are still on you, watching as you hunch a little, folding your arms over your chest. You must be freezing, he thinks. Stupid, too. The area is littered with taxis on Friday nights. Why anyone would choose to walk is beyond him. He casts you one final stare, his chest heaving from the adrenaline, before he turns away from you. "Stupid bitch almost got herself killed. Starting line. Let's go again."

────────────

You don't mention your near-death experience to Yoongi when you see him at work the following Monday. You know he'll just worry, and then he'll really start insisting on ordering cabs for you.

Worse yet, you think he might just order them to arrive when your shift finishes, and then you'll have to take them. No point in making mountains out of molehills.

Customers are always steady on Mondays; people fuelling up for the working week, replenishing stocks wasted on the weekends.

By the time it hits four, school kids are piling in. They're picking up snacks, something to fuel them between mandatory classes and the additional ones they've picked up at hagwons. Poor suckers, you always think.

It's been years since you did the same grind, and you still don't fully understand just why you worked yourself to the bone, only to end up working in a fucking service station.

It had never been the dream. Still isn't - but it beats being hired on account of nepotism, thanks to a father with an unlawful influence in the city.

Your family name - which you don't go by, these days - is on the side of buildings, in the list of hospital beneficiaries, even on the local soccer team's fucking shirts. You're cursed with it; no identity of your own. Even when did try to get a job without the backing of your family, people still knew. Your face has been at God knows how many press junkets, playing the role of the Mayor's darling daughter.

All bullshit, of course.

Your father is just as good at saving face as he is at making investments. Turns out there really is nothing money can't buy; support for a mayoral campaign, the silence of a nanny - of whom he started fucking when you were still in middle school - and enough pearls to keep your mother happy after she found out.

Cars, houses, material goods? You'd wanted for nothing as a kid.

Privilege. It's a funny little thing. You had the world, and yet none of it was yours. Not really. And so, as soon as you were of legal age, you were out of the family home, trying to find some concrete meaning for your life.

All you'd found so far was the harrowing knowledge that your father's mayoral tenure had been hell for those without the privileges you'd been raised with, and therefore you'd distanced yourself so far from your family that you weren't even sure they'd recognise you, anymore.

"You good?" Yoongi asks, around about the time the clock hits five. He's by the back entrance, wiping his oil-covered hands on an old rag. "Just finishing up."

"Good," you nod in response to his question. You give him a fond smile to let him know that the perplexed expression he'd caught on your face was nothing to be worried about, and then you ask him his plans for the evening.

There are only a few more hours left on the clock for you. It's a mid-shift, someone else coming in to work the night rotation. You've never liked these shifts - the highest influx of customers, but by far the least interesting interactions.

They come and go so quickly that it's hard to make up a fake life for them, before they're replaced by the next sullen face, wanting to get in and out as quickly as possible.

"Gimmie a call if you need a lift," Yoongi calls over as he gets his jacket to leave. Off comes his work one, tossed over to you, replaced with the black puffa you returned that morning.

"Will do," you nod - and you both know you're lying. Still, he's a gentleman through and through. Wouldn't have felt right if he didn't at least offer. The bell on the entryway door chimes, but you don't look over to see the customer, choosing to smile at your friend instead. "Catch ya later, Yoongs."

"Yeah, you too," he smiles back, zipping up his coat and pulling up his mask. He's walking home, too, but it's still light. It will be dark by the time nine hits, and even though he doesn't know about last Friday night, he still doesn't like the idea of you walking home alone.

You hear the clink of glasses by the fridge, but the view is obscured by an obnoxious advertising standee your boss has insisted you put up inside the store. You tried telling him that the whole point was to draw customers in, not block them from even entering, but he was having none of it. Doesn't trust the kids in the neighbourhood not to nick it.

There's a crunch as the lid of the chest freezer is slid open, a cup of ice rattling as it's pulled from the stack. You only filled it up half an hour ago.

Annoying. And who the fuck is drinking an iced drink on a day like today? You think, as if Yoongi doesn't reach for an iced americano before each and every shift. You're just as bad. Your peach tea habit is becoming an issue.

You glance to the forecourt to check which pump to ring through - and that's when you see it.

Sat in bay six, as proud as the paint is bright, is that stupid fucking Pony again. With a small scoff, you pull up the balance - just over 30,000. Half a tank. Already.

Hardly a surprise, with the way he had been ragging it about on Friday evening. Must be a common occurrence.

As he comes into your line of vision, you busy yourself.

Turning your back to the kiosk, you're arranging cigarettes that don't need to be arranged, purely so that you don't have to look at him. The bottom of his soju bottle clinks against the counter, the ice and a coffee bag following suit. You still don't turn around, instead opting to look through the 'how-to' manual for the lottery machine, just to really reinforce the fact that serving him is the last thing you want to do.

Had you not told him to stick to Kang's?

"Ahem," he coughs.

You pause mid-page turn and look vacantly into the distance for a moment, before facing him with a smile so insincere it's almost comical.

"Sorry, didn't see you there."

He nods, but doesn't say anything further. He's in all black again, this time with a sweater beneath his bomber. Air quality is still bad, thanks to the cold temperatures and lack of rain to clear the skies, so he's wearing a mask again, but it's perched beneath his jaw. His poker face holds up well.

You ring up his total, ignoring the fact he's chosen to go for a peach tea, not coffee like you'd assumed, and ask if he wants a receipt. He declines, and heads on his way, scooping up his soju bottle, leaving the peach tea.

"Oi," you call after him, but he ignores you."Oi."

Still, nothing. He pushes the door open with his knuckles that are wrapped tightly around the neck of his bottle, not paying you any attention. He's just being a dick at this point. You know he can hear you.

"Oi," you shout again, sliding out from behind the kiosk and following him to the door. You don't grab his drink - he can go back and pick it up himself, the asshole.

"Kook," you shout, remembering the name the SsangYong driver had called him by.

He stops now.

"Oh," he turns, lips pursed, before throwing your words right back at you. "Sorry, didn't see you there."

Neither of you say anything. It's fucking freezing, and you can see your breath as you huddle yourself together. His eyes are soft, expression gentle, to suggest he's only teasing, but you can't work him out.

"You left your drink."

He shakes his head. Holds up his soju. "No, I didn't. That's yours. You like them, right? It's what you were drinking the other day?"

You narrow your eyes, only for him to raise his brows. You aren't the only nosey one, doll.

"Bit weird," you tell him.

Retrospectively, he thinks you're probably right. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He hadn't intended for it to be so strange - he just isn't great at admitting when he's in the wrong, so a peace offering is a far more tempting solution.

He digs a hand into his pocket, almost as if he's searching for the remains of his dignity, but simply shrugs. "I know I was a bit of a prick."

Acknowledgements of flaws are always welcome by you, but you really don't fancy just forgiving and forgetting. As stupid as it all seems, it was a life or death situation. A peach fucking tea wouldn't have resurrected you or uncrushed your bones.

"Yeah," you nod, biting down on your lip, a little unsure of how to handle the situation. "You were. And not just 'a bit' of a prick. Massive prick, actually."

He repeats your correction, and adds, "You just took me by surprise. I panicked. I'm not usually that..."

"Unreasonable? Arsey? Unable to control your clutch?"

"All of the above," he smiles, and you notice that he has dimples. Asshole. "Look, I won't bother you again. It just wasn't sitting right with me, the way I behaved. My mother would have been rolling in her grave if she heard me speak to a girl like that, especially so late at night. It was a dick move... and so," he inhales, looking at the ground before briefly meeting your eyes again. They're round and wide, almost as if he's incapable of telling lies. "I'm sorry."

There's silence for a moment, and then there's the flash of headlights as a second car rolls into the forecourt. You both turn to check the car, but it's just a standard family saloon. Nothing worth checking out, but it's enough to end the conversation.

"Stick to Kang's," you simply say as he pops open the door to his car. "I appreciate the sentiment, though. Was sweet."

He nods, fully intending on sticking to Kang's. He just needed to do this before he could move on from things.

Or at least, that's the assumption that you make as he drives away.

You wait for a little while, ignoring the man clicking the gas nozzle into the side of his car, just watching the now empty road where the small red car had sped off from. You wonder where he's going, but determine he's most likely going to that FWB you've decided he has.

Turning on your heels slowly, you let your body weight fall into the swing door, pushing it open with your shoulder. The bell jingles, like always, and for some reason, it kind of feels like the sound has settled in your stomach. It's all jittery and annoying, and you don't quite understand it. You definitely don't like it, whatever this feeling is.

It's the same feeling that washes over you next Thursday afternoon, when the bell chimes and you glance out the window, only to see a red Hyundai fucking Pony sat in bay six.

He begins to make a habit of it. Neither of you really address it. He just keeps showing up, filling his tank up, and buying whatever tickles his fancy from the snack fridge. It's nearly always gimbap. Occasionally he'll pick up something a little more substantial, and it's always accompanied with soju on Friday nights.

It takes about three weeks for you to be able to distinguish the way in which he opens the shop door. The bell chimes a little slower than normal, his casually cool demeanour preventing him from using too much force to open it. It will always 'ding' for just a bit longer than when other people push open the door. Doesn't matter where you are in the shop, what time it is. You always know when it's him.

It's a Saturday when you hear the unmistakable sound of him again, 4 weeks since that first time.

You can't see him, thanks to the standee that is still obstructing your view, but you can hear the fridges. One, two, bottles of soju. There's another clang. Three? Unusual. It's when he heads to the snack fridge that you realise you're off your game.

He's holding beers - four of them. Making the most of the four for 10,000 deal, you muse. The bottles are green, so you assume Terra, but there are some foreign imports in the fridge, too. You kind of stop guessing at this point, too busy watching. His hair is messy, like aways, and the flannel shirt he's wearing is in need of an iron, but you have to admit - there's a certain charm about him.

Your eyes flick to the door to check that nobody else has entered, and are proven correct - so why does your stomach still feel like that bloody bell chiming?

"Am I good to leave these here?" He asks, drawing your attention back to him. He's already putting the beers down on the counter, so it's not really like you can say no. "Haven't filled up yet, just wanted to check that you had what I was after, first."

"Beers?" You laugh almost immediately. "It's a GS25, dude. Course we have beers."

"Right," he nods, scrunching his nose up a little as he smiles. It was a stupid excuse, and he knew it. Part of you thinks he actually looks a little bashful. It's sweet. Confusing - but sweet, nonetheless. "I'll just go fill up."

"Uh-huh," you nod, when he doesn't leave immediately, almost as if he's waiting for permission. He laughs, and so do you. It's awkward, and you don't know why but you find yourself dropping his gaze. "Just go fill up your car."

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "Fill up. Right."

You move his bottles to the side just in case of another customer, and set about making yourself look busy, but you're a simple being. It's hard to do anything other than wistfully stare when a boy that pretty is stood in your forecourt.

He pays you no notice as he unscrews his gas cap and positions the nozzle against the opening of his car.

There's a casual nature to his posture, leaning back ever so slightly as he slides the length of the nozzle into his car, displaying just how in tune he is with doing such a menial task. It's second nature at this point.

He watches the nozzle, then lifts his gaze above the car and out towards the road. His eyes are hard, focused almost, that little line forming between his brows again. Almost like he's looking for something.

There's a click as his gas reaches its limit, and he withdraws the nozzle slightly, letting the excess drip into the tank. He knocks it once, twice, against the entrance to be sure that he's emptied it of every last drop, before he slides it out and hooks it back into its holder.

You finally avert your eyes as he screws the cap back into place, your fingers working nimbly to bring up his total on the screen.

There's that ringing feeling again when you notice he's barely reached the minimum spend, yet you could hear the tell-tale sign of a full tank from the forecourt. He hadn't needed gas at all.

He could have just gotten a few bottles of beer from any of the convenience stores in the area - and yet for some reason, he made his excuse to come to you.

The silage of his aftershave lingers by the kiosk, and you remind yourself that he's probably off to see a girl you've made up in your head. The beers are probably to be drunk with her. The flannel shirt is still creased because what's the point in ironing something that will just end up on the floor, anyway?

It's these thoughts that have you acting a little frosty again when he returns. You ring up his total, instruct him to put his card in the machine, as if he doesn't know what he's doing, and then you offer him a receipt.

He's a little confused by the fact you're as cold as the air outside.

Had your interactions not developed past the point of a typical cashier-customer relationship? Maybe he'd read the situation a little wrong.

"Kang's have beer," he finally adds, accepting his receipt, studying it, just to see if it has your name listed under the cashier ID. It does. He takes his time to fold it up, instead of just stuffing it into his back pocket. He's biding time. Making more for himself. "But I'm a bit of a liar," he says, ending his statement with your name. The way he says it, hanging onto the last syllable, taking claim of your identity as his gaze meets your eyes, has that stupid ringing feeling back in your stomach. "I'm not here for beers."

"No?" you ask, almost nonchalant. You're divided by a perspex screen, and you've never been more thankful. It's cutting the tension for you.

"No," he shakes his head. He's about to speak, when the bell of the door goes again - for real, this time. Not just in your stomach.

He steps aside to let the customer pay for their gas. It's a simple transaction, no added extras like Flannel Boy always has.

He stands awkwardly, toying at the bagged sweets with his ring adorned fingers. You decide that even if your assumptions about him are wrong, there's one that must be right: he knows he's hot.

The way he turns and smirks after the customer leaves, and says, "where were we?", only confirms this.

"You were saying how you weren't here for beer," you remind him, not that he actually needs it.

The perspex screen feels like a thick brick wall. You're simultaneously thankful for and annoyed by it.

"Ah, that's right," he nods. "You were saying how you're going to call in sick tomorrow night and meet me downtown."

"I'm gonna do what now?" You laugh, caught off guard by his boldness. He's smooth, you'll give him that much.

"You're gonna meet me downtown," he says simply, before adding, "Jungangno underground, exit two. The one near CGV. I can draw you a map-"

"Shut up," you laugh, blissfully ignoring the fact he's flirting with you. "I know Jungangno."

"So you'll meet me there?"

"I didn't say that."

He begins to gather up his beers, two in either hand, a smile etched on his cheeks. "So I'll see you tomorrow, at, hmm, say, 8?"

"No," you laugh.

"Yes," he grins back, walking away so that you don't have even more opportunities to reject his advances.

"No, you won't."

You sound so full of conviction when you say it. Determined. Self-assured.

Idiot.

────────────

You tell yourself that you're not going to go.

You told Mr Gimbap that, too, before he left the gas station, not that he was listening.

You tell yourself it again when you're thinking about what you could wear, and then you repeat it like an oath when you're texting Yoongi to see if he can cover your shift.

It's not like you're actually going to go.

You just want to check out your options.

And yet, somehow, you find yourself sitting on a bench outside a shitty burger chain at seven-fifty-six the next evening.

You're dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and a slouchy sweater which is a few sizes too big, but you think it looks cute. It's covered by a thick puffa jacket, regardless - cropped to your hips, unlike Yoongi's mammoth calf-length one.

He told you he'd be happy to cover your shift tonight when you asked, but you still feel a little guilty.

Mainly because when he asked why, you panicked and lied, telling him it was a friend's birthday.

You then also told yourself that you're definitely going to hell - but it's not like that's news to you.

It's still freezing, and you're thankful that you changed out of your converse and into a pair of boots before you left your apartment. Your hair is clipped up, make up the same as it normally is, just with a little more mascara than normal. You don't want to make it look like you've actually made an effort - but you definitely have.

You're about a mile and a half from work, but you can feel that bloody door chime in your stomach, again.

Should you walk away, a little? You don't want him to see you waiting.

Appearing too keen is the least of your desires.

Desperation isn't a good look for anyone. If anything, he should be the one waiting for you. Kind of rude that he isn't, actually. So you get up, and pace around a little, before thinking fuck it.

You hop on the elevator and head down into Jungangno underground mall, painfully aware of your stomach doing that stupid ringing thing again. Maybe it's vertigo. From, like, the change in altitude, or some shit like that. You're almost able to convince yourself that it's plausible. Almost.

The shops in the underground mall are a welcome distraction. Ajummas stand in dated clothing stores, offering low-quality clothes for even lower prices. It's crowded, and stuffy, but you're enjoying the distraction. You head for your favourite jewellery place, an emporium filled floor to ceiling with what must be thousands of jewellery pieces, and fumble through the racks of earrings.

You aren't wearing any, and remember that he - Kook, though you're not entirely sure that's actually his name - wore enough to open up his own jewellery store. You settle on a simple pair, just a couple silver hoops. It's a subtle difference, but one that makes you feel a little more confident. A little more willing to awkwardly say hello, and go on a date (if you can call it that) with a guy you barely know.

Pulling your phone out, you check the time. Seven past eight. Do-able. A little late, but not so late that it's rude. You head up the stairs, and are greeted with almost the exact same scene you had left ten minutes earlier.

Perhaps he's just running late. It's not embarrassing to be the first one waiting, not now that it's gone past the meeting time, but you can feel that ringing in your stomach begin to grate against your insides.

It hits eight-fifteen, and you're feeling anxious. Embarrassed. Even if he does show up now, it's obvious that you've been waiting there like a tragic, desperate excuse of a woman.

Five more minutes, you tell yourself.

But five turns into ten, and then another fifteen, and then it's nearly nine.

You pull out your phone and are barely able to type, thanks to how bloody cold it is.

How long until lateness turns into being stood up?

Opinions vary, but everyone on the little online forum you're reading seems to be of agreement that 45 minutes is the cut off point. 45 cold, lonely, mortifying minutes.

You imagine he's watching you, laughing from the warmth of a cafe, with that friends-with-benefits girl you've convinced yourself is definitely real.

God, you must look like a twat. You've been sat here for so fucking long. Your hands are numb, arse too, and you know you're gonna wake up with a cold - but none of these compare to your hurt pride. Not by a country mile.

With a sigh, you stand, admitting defeat. Being a jerk, you could get over. But this? Deliberately being cruel? You're proven right, after all. The guy is an asshole.

You hop on the 503 out of the downtown area and back towards home. The ride is lonely, city lights reflecting in your eyes as you gaze out the window and wonder at which point your life became this bleak. You work at a gas station, and got stood up by a guy who drives a fucking Pony. Mortifying.

The ding of the bus as it rolls into its stops reminds you of the chime of the gas station door - so you stay on for a few extra stops past your apartment building.

You're gentle as you press the red button to let the driver know you'd like to get off, but there's a little more traffic than normal, so he lets you off ahead of schedule. Odd. The roads are never normally blocked, not at this time of night.

You're only a couple hundred steps away from the bridge, but you notice the red and blue flashing lights across it almost instantly.

Your heart sinks to your stomach, right into the pit where the chime has been grating your insides apart. Still, you keep on walking. It's only the road that's blocked. Not the path. One foot in front of the next, you keep going, until your pace begins to increase. You can see the police cars now, and where they're parked.

Fuck the kid you barely know, fuck feeling sorry for yourself.

All you can think about is Yoongi.

There are four cars sitting outside your place of work, and you can hear an ambulance blast its sirens away from the gas station in an attempt to get through the crowd.

You're gonna be sick. You can feel it - or is that just the chime resting too far up in your oesophagus, now? You ignore it though, and begin to run, faster, faster, faster, boots clicking against the pavement as you draw closer to the gas station. Your boss is there, locked in conversation with a police officer, but Yoongi is nowhere to be seen.

A cop notices you approach, grabbing onto you as you attempt to run past the tape and into the store.

"Woah, woah, woah. Calm down, little lady-"

"Where is he?" You panic, not even caring to offended by the officers choice in tone. "Min Yoongi. The guy who was working. Yoongi, where is he?"

"Who are you?" The officer counters, and you want to scream.

"Where is he?!" You struggle against his grip, kicking out, but the officer is firm. He's trained to handle situations like this; girls like you. The little but fierce. The kind of girls Shakespeare wrote about. "Where the fuck is he?"

From across the forecourt, your boss calls over. "She's one of mine. Was meant to be working this shift. Did a last minute switch with Min Yoongi."

The officer nods, understanding the situation, but not easing his grip. "In that case, I'm gonna need you to come with me to the station. Need you to answer some questions."

You stop struggling. "I- What?"

"You're not under arrest. It's voluntary, but we'll have to go to the station," he speaks calmly, straight to the point. You notice that his nose is slightly crooked. You wonder how many people have punched it. Quite a few, probably, considering that you'd quite like to do the same.

"Just go," your boss calls over, not even looking in your direction. Asshole, you seethe internally. City is full of fucking assholes.

"Where the fuck is Yoongi?!" You demand to know, this time shouting towards your boss, who looks like he's in desperate need of a cigarette. He just fucking shrugs.

"C'mon, station," the officer says, deciding that enough is enough.

You don't know your rights. You can't fight back, not really, and you're starting to tear up, and everything feels like such a fucking mess. You just wanna know that Yoongi is safe, that he's well, that he's okay. If he's not, it's all your fault, and you don't even know how to process that.

In fact, you don't know how to process any of this. Your cheeks are wet before you're even sitting in the back of the police car. The engine rumbles, and before you know it, you're back downtown, but this time you're at the city's main police office.

It's hard to comprehend anything. You practically feel like you're dragged from the car and then dumped in the witness interrogation room. Some rookie cop is asking you questions, and you find yourself not wanting to answer a single one of them.

They're stupid fucking questions, for starters. Dumb shit.

Why did you switch your shift? Were you aware of a planned hold up at your place of work? Is that why you swapped? Who were you going on a date with? Why did you lie to Min Yoongi about your activities this evening? How do you not know the name of your date? Says on your file that you legally changed your name six years ago? Why? Anyone know of your family ties to politics?

Dumb questions reap dumb answers though, so once they realise they're getting nothing of any substance from you, they admit defeat. Tell you they'll be in touch if they need to follow up.

And then, after they've watched you cry for an hour and half over Yoongi, they tell you he's fine. Came in for routine questioning, but was released without charge (obviously) and drove back.

He's waiting for you in the lobby.

That temptation to break the officer's nose? Yeah. Intensifies.

"God, you fucking idiot," Yoongi speaks softly as you come into view, face all red and puffy from tears cried over him. He pulls you into his chest, and you can hear his heart thud, thud, thud, against your head. "Why did you go to work? Shouldda just gone home."

He calls you an idiot again, and you sniffle into his chest. There's a comforting scent to his clothes, a mix of gasoline and cotton, and it makes you feel a little calmer.

You pull away, and inspect his face. There's a small graze on his cheekbone, which is beginning to bruise, and a little dried blood crusting around his nostrils. Other than that, he seems okay.

He's silent as your fingers trace the pink flesh of his cheeks, lips resting a little ajar, unsure. Uncertain. He doesn't know what to make of such an outward display of concern - so he simply brushes it off.

"I'm fine, trouble," he promises, bringing his hands up to clasp your wrists and stop your hands from roaming. Doesn't wanna stop you. Not really. Just knows that he should. "C'mon, let's get you home."

And it's ridiculous, 'cause Yoongi was the one who had been held at knifepoint by three men that evening, the tills forcefully emptied and his life threatened if he didn't tell them where 'the girl' was.

He doesn't tell you that last part when he tells you what happened, though. Doesn't want to scare you. He's scared enough, himself.

It replays in his head, the way the guy with the knife doubled-down when Yoongi said he had no clue where you were. The clatter of the knife against the counter, the hands that tangled in his hair and slammed his face against the surface... yeah, they weren't memories he'd be forgetting any time soon.

Yoongi has few regrets in life, but taking the perspex screen down at the beginning of his shift to clean it definitely makes the list.

A conversation plays on loop, though, which scares him more than anything else.

"You said she'd be here. She ain't fuckin' here!" "Well she normally is. You know I've been keeping watch for weeks-" "Not hard enough." "Oh fuck you, you do it next time, prick."

Doesn't take a genius to work it out - and Yoongi's pretty smart, regardless. For whatever reason, they'd been hoping you'd be on shift.

"Do me a favour?" Yoongi asks as he rolls his car into your neighbourhood. He only lives around the corner from you, but it's too far, he thinks.

"Mhmm?"

"Kind of feel a bit..." he pauses, but doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. You already know. "Don't really wanna be alone."

"Stay at mine," you offer, straight off the bat, not giving it a second thought.

He shakes his head. Makes some excuse about your place being small. Avoids mentioning the fact he's scared that someones keeping tabs on you.

"I've got a spare room," he adds. "Makes more sense."

You'd be forgiven for thinking this is just another sign that the poor boy is helplessly infatuated with you. He knows he isn't really all that inconspicuous, but he also knows that the pair of you would never work. He just can't seem to help himself.

And so you end up in his bed, while he takes the pull out sofa in his spare room, because he's far too much of a gent to make you sleep on something so crappy. He leaves the heater on in your room, because you're always complaining about the cold, and tells you not to worry when you pout and mention the fact it will hike his heating bill. It's a small price to pay.

"All the money I've saved when you refuse taxis can go on the heater, instead."

Still, you click it off as soon as you're confident Yoongi won't be back in to check on you.

In the morning, when his hair is all fluffy and cheeks puffy from a crappy sleep, he orders breakfast and double-checks that you're okay to work the shift you're scheduled on for. You remind him that he was the one held at knifepoint. Not you.

You're not surprised to learn that Yoongi thinks two iced americanos and half a bagel each qualifies as 'breakfast', but you appreciate it nonetheless.

"I can cover, if needs be," he rambles, bagel in one hand, americano in the other, while you watch on with a smile. His cheek has bruised rather spectacularly, and you wonder if it aches as much as your heart does. "Boss gave me a couple days off, but I don't love the idea of you being there alone-"

The guilt of asking him to cover the night before is eating you alive. You don't think you'll ever ask him to cover for you again. Karma will catch up with you, you're sure, but for now, you'll be your own Saturn.

"I'll be fine," you smile. "Lightning never strikes twice."

────────────

When Jungkook drives, he drives alone.

No music, no radio, just him and the open road. He likes to hear the way the tarmac sounds beneath his tyres, and how the engine purrs a little louder when he steps on the gas. It's therapy in a way - though, with the amount that he spends on gas, he's pretty certain that an actual therapist would probably be cheaper.

The roads are empty, morning sun breaking beyond the mountains that line Daegu, as he makes his way past the bridge over the river, and out towards Kang's. There's a boxing studio next door, owned by Old Man Kang himself, a little decrepit and definitely not the kind of place you end up by chance.

It's the kind of place that's bestowed upon those who need it; the people looking for a home. A family. A cult, some like to joke, though Jungkook thinks they're half right. For him, it's somewhere to hide when the world gets too invasive; a shadow in the spotlight.

Old Man Kang's boxing club is a shit hole, when Jungkook looks at it objectively. Wires hang from the ceiling, and the walls have needed a paint ever since he'd first stepped foot into the place six years ago. He thinks about doing it sometimes, just showing up early before anyone else arrives, with a can of white emulsion from Daiso and a few brushes. Never does it, though. Would be a thankless job. Old Man Kang probably wouldn't even notice.

And if he did? He'd probably make Jungkook pay for 'defacing his property.'

As he pulls his car into the forecourt, parking up by the air compressors, Jungkook sighs. He isn't expecting anyone else to be here so early, but he's having trouble sleeping. Pulling down on his sun visor, he's rough as he slides the mirror cover across to study his face.

He's not looking too bad - lip a little split, but alright, all things considered. Could have been a lot worse. Namjoon has a mean left hook, after all.

His thumb presses down on the buckle of his seatbelt, releasing it as he reaches over for his duffle bag in the footwell of his passenger seat. There's a clink as he does so, half a dozen bottles of soju ready to be transferred into the fridge by the entrance to the locker room. It's a free for all, used by all the members of the boxing club, but no one ever knows who actually stocks it up. It just kind of... replenishes. Like Christmas presents, or coins under pillows in place of lost teeth.

Admittedly, Jungkook never used to know, either. He still doesn't know who stocks up the waters. He knows who stocks the soju, though. Or at least, he's known for the last few weeks, now.

Where else is he gonna put all the bottles he buys from your store? It's not like he ever drinks them. He just needs an excuse to visit so frequently.

"You're early," a voice says from the back entrance, as Jungkook is shuffling around with the bottles. The fridge light hums, illuminating his face, as he lets his perfectionism take priority when arranging the bottles. He doesn't turn to look, knowing the tone by heart.

"So are you, Minnie."

Minnie by name, mini by nature, Park Jimin is a 5'7 (though he swears blind he's 5'9 with shoes on) force to be reckoned with. He likes to get to the club early, before his shifts at the fishmongers. It gets his blood pumping, ready for a day of hacking away at marine carcases.

"I'm always early," he teases, as he tosses his bag on an old wicker chair in the corner of the room.

It's a large space - a disused rice store that was repurposed in the 80's, and taken over by Old Man Kang after the last owner gambled it away during a back alley game of poker. A large square ring is in the middle, red ropes a little tatty, but still usable. There are a few machines dotted around the corners of the room, but most people opt to use the plethora of punching bags hung up by the far wall.

Jungkook smiles softly as he begins to wrap his hands up. He's dressed down in just a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats. They're tapered towards his ankles, where they meet his beat-up black high tops. His laces are pulled tight, wrapped around the classic star logo, and tied in hasty bows on the back of his ankles. Double knotted, as always. "Couldn't sleep."

For how much of a liar he is, Jungkook is always honest with Jimin.

Well. Nearly always.

Jimin heads for the far corner, where a skipping rope is strung up on a rusty nail embedded into the wall. He nods, figuring as much. "Joon isn't happy."

Jungkook rolls his eyes as he stretches out his back. He couldn't give a fuck if Namjoon is happy or not, especially not after-

"You should talk to him."

Squaring up to the coffee-brown punching bag, Jungkook knocks his head to the side. His jaw clenches as he gently presses against the leather to get a feel for the weight. He bounces, left, right, and then throws a punch. The smack of his hand against the weighted bag echoes into the room.

"Or not," Jimin adds, sensing that Jungkook is in no mood to talk to anyone - and definitely not Namjoon.

Unsolicited advice is never received well by Jungkook. If he wants it, he'll ask for it. Jimin knows this.

There's an art to the way his body moves, recoiling a little with every punch thrown until he disciplines himself. Back broad and triangular, calves strong and tense, it's clear to see that Jungkook can defend his own. If he had wanted to fight back against Namjoon, he could have.

But Jungkook is a man of honour. Integrity. Respect. He'd never fight against Namjoon, no matter how much he disagreed with him - so instead, he takes it out on a punching bag that is so old it may as well be an antique. The echo of his assault against the leather rings in his ears like a warning bell. A siren. A chime.

It's funny, 'cause a few roads over - just past the bridge and down the lane - there's a ringing in your ears too.

For you, it actually is a chime - the one of the gas station door, and it's a scathing reminder of how badly you fucked up by asking Yoongi to cover your shift.

You spend your morning lamenting, hypothesising. You're so busy thinking about the stupid boy who drives that god-awful red car, that you don't even bother making assumptions about other customers.

They're all about him. Where he was, who he was with. Why he did what he did.

You decide that he grew up in a single-parent household. He's already mentioned his late mother, and suggested that she influenced his need to apologise, so a father figure didn't really seem to fit the profile you have of him.

He wears so much black because he's scared of having an actual personality. Scared that it makes him vulnerable. Or so you assume. In fact, you decide that 'scared' is the best way to describe him.

A scaredy-cat. A chicken. A pussy. No balls.

After all, he was too scared to show up, and didn't even have the bottle to find a way to let you know. Did he have your number? No - but perhaps that was deliberate on his part, too.

Your final assessment of his character comes in the form of his FWB (turned far-too-clingy lover). If she's real, which again, you've decided she is, then you don't think it's her fault that she's developed an unhealthy dependency on him. He seems to be the type to lift others up, only to drag them back down with him.

Enough thoughts about him, though.

If you're not worthy of his time, then why should he be worthy of yours?

The next few days are spent in a subliminal haze; body moving, mind still. It's Wednesday before you know it.

Jieun is on shift with you, after she complained about not wanting to work alone following the raid. You told her that no one would be stupid enough to rush the place again so soon after the first time, but she's having none of it.

"We don't get paid enough to put our lives at risk," she states whenever the topic of conversation is mentioned. And she's right - you don't.

But as you look at the grainy CCTV footage still-image that's taped up above the counter, you can't help but think they wouldn't have actually killed either you or Jieun. Realistically, they barely left a scratch on Yoongi. Physically, at least. Mentally, he's a little more wounded.

There had been three of them; two rather tall, the third shorter. About Yoongi's height, you guess. Dressed in all black, it's hard to really distinguish any features or their bodies, let alone their faces, which had been covered in ski masks. Run of the mill robbers. The kind you see in crappy action films. Background characters. Just a way to move the plot along, no real personalities, no actual significance to the lives of the protagonists, other than causing a mild inconvenience.

You don't even realise when you're making assumptions, these days. You think in hypothesis more often than not.

The thieves had run off on foot and down the back alley behind the shop, which is where the trail to find them ends. The CCTV for the alley has been out for months. The boss didn't deem it a necessary investment - "Well, we'd never been robbed before!" - so it had fallen to the bottom of his priority list. The issue with the back alley is that it leads to an underpass with so many blind spots that it's easy - almost too easy - to slip into nothingness.

It's when you're staring at them, thinking about the assumptions you could make for your mystery men of misdemeanours, that the door chimes.

You don't ignore it, anymore. The raid has spooked you. So you look towards it, and are met with the sight a broad back. The shoulders, strong and well-defined, are covered in a brown flannel shirt. It's tucked into a pair of jeans, that cling to the contours of the customer's legs. He's not wearing a coat - just hopped out of his car, where the aircon is keeping him toasty - and you realise you recognise his posture.

The mop of bleached hair is pretty damn recognisable, too.

"Jieun," you hiss quietly, drawing her attention from the stock she's counting in front of the kiosk. She glances towards you, eyes startled by your tone. You beckon your head back, and she scurries over to you.

"Can you man the till?"

She looks confused for a second. "Why?"

"Girl issues," you lie, knowing she won't be able to say no. "Just came on my period. Need to, yanno-"

"Go, go, go," she nods, hurrying behind the counter, ushering you away and towards the staff room door.

As you leave, you glance to the curved mirror in the far corner; the one that only you look in. It's your second pair of eyes - but you find another pair staring back at you. It's brief, and his gaze drops as soon as he sees you focus on him, blonde hair covering his dark eyes from your view. He's looking at the gimbap again, now. Pretending like he never saw you.

Good, you think. Fuck off.

It's been three days since he stood you up; three days since you jeopardised one of your best friends lives to see him, only for him to be M.I.A. You don't know the kid, not really. Why waste any more of your time on him?

You stay in the bathroom for upwards of five minutes. Just enough time for him to leave. Jieun must be wondering what you're doing, but you'll just explain it away.

You're quite good at that. Lying. Just little ones, white lies. Porkies. Fibs. Never anything that will harm another person, just things that will protect you instead.

"Who's the blonde dude?" Jieun asks when you return. You furrow your brows and play dumb. "The one with the brow piercing," she adds, as if you need any clarification. Blonde dudes aren't really the norm around these parts. He sticks out like a sore fucking thumb. "Tattoos."

"Dunno," you say with a smile. It's the same one that laces all of your little lies.

For once, Jieun looks at you, her thick brows hard and poised, as if she knows you're lying.

And then she nods towards the counter, where a peach tea and a cup of ice sits. "Left this for you."

"Hmm," you purr. "Must think I'm someone I'm not."

Yeah, you think scornfully. Must think I'm an idiot.

It worked as an apology once before - but it's a pattern of behaviour, now. He's a leopard, spots unchanged as he runs away from the consequences of his actions, suffocating you in the dust clouds he leaves behind.

"He's cute," Jieun muses.

"No," you smile. It's the same one. That little one full of lies. "He's not."

────────────

The peach tea sits on the counter by the till for two days. It's tucked behind a box of pocket money candies, which are waiting to be restocked; hidden in such a way so that only you know it's there.

Y'see, you've been making assumptions again - though you wouldn't really call this one an assumption. It's acceptance of a habit that's been proven: he will return.

He always does, it seems.

And sure enough, that afternoon, two days after you'd last been graced with his presence, he returns.

Jieun spots him first, eyes darting immediately towards yours. You're like a deer in headlights, ready to bolt - but she doesn't let you.

"Gotta go," she squeaks, before mouthing 'girl issues' to you, with a smile she reserves moments like these; her little victories.

He does his usual rounds, and you're already mentally ringing it up: a bottle of soju, and a tuna gimbap roll. You glance out to the forecourt, towards pump six - but it's empty. Not a single car in sight, let alone his trusty red pony. You're confused. Brows furrowed, nostrils a little flared. Lips pouty. You big baby.

When he eventually comes to the kiosk, it takes all of your strength not to ask, 'why the fuck are you here?'

And just like all of your assumptions about him, you're wrong. Again.

No soju, no gimbap. Banana milk and bibimyun ramyeon, instead. A great combination by all accounts, but you're not gonna give him the satisfaction of letting him know you think his choice is elite.

As far as you're concerned, he can take his banana milk and shove it up his ass.

Frustratingly, he appears to find amusement in your outward expression of annoyance. There seems to be a small grin on his face, cheeks appled beneath his mask, as if he's not aware that it's painfully awkward between the pair of you.

He has no manners, you decide. No spine. No awareness of social cues, either. A triple whammy. What a catch.

But you believe that silence is a virtue, so you say nothing as you ring up his items. You don't even tell him his total - just nod towards the card machine. He follows your line of sight, watching the machine light up for a moment, before putting his card in the slot.

While he does so, you reach for the peach tea and add it to his stockpile.

"You forgot your drink again."

He looks at the pouch of tea, then up towards you. And then he repeats it, several times.

"Ouch," he says, ending his declaration of pain with a small laugh. You've got half a mind to rip the pouch open and pour it all over his shitty flannel shirt. It's blue today, paired with sweats, because apparently that's fashionable?

Boy looks like he got dressed in the dark, you think scornfully - but really, you're just annoyed with how hot you think he looks. Unreasonably hot. He's the bloody Sahara storming through Daegu's coldest winter. He's melting the river, leaving everyone wet in the process.

Or maybe not. Maybe just you-

"What's the grin for?" he teases, and you realise that you've been paying too much attention to your thoughts.

"No grin," you snap, face flushed.

"Service with a smile, as always."

"Your transaction is done," you say, this time smiling as if butter wouldn't melt. "You can leave, now."

He holds up his pot of ramyeon and shrugs, before glancing over to the food station, where the hot water and microwaves are waiting for him. "Actually, I think I'm just gonna eat here."

Without even so much as a glance back towards you, the asshole picks up a pair of chopsticks, wrapped in thin paper, and heads towards the food station. You're in a state of disbelief. Entitled prick.

Jieun returns almost as soon as he's left the counter. She still doesn't have a clue about whatever's happened between the pair of you, but she did see you hiding up the peach tea a couple of days ago, so she figured it was something.

"You gonna take it to him?" she asks, nodding down towards the tea, which he's left at the counter, again.

"No."

"Take him the tea."

"No."

"Take it."

"No.

"Fine," she huffs. "If you don't, I will-"

"Fine!" you whisper, though it's definitely a shout. You might not want anything to do with him, but you also don't want to watch him work his charms on Jieun. For her benefit. Not yours. Definitely not because you don't want to see him flirting with her instead.

Him, with his stupid tattoos, and dumb blonde hair, and annoying smile and-

"Go," she grins.

"Just... give me a minute."

You watch as he fills up his ramyeon bowl, hot air steaming around the jet of water. It's been a while since you ate, and you're a little jealous. Your break isn't for another few hours yet, though, so smelling his food throughout the store will be torture. Asshole.

He sits down, and Jieun pesters you a little more, but you're trying to wait it out. If a customer comes in, then you can just deal with them instead - but the forecourt is empty, just like it always is at this awkward time of day. After lunch, but before the end of school. This is the real ghost shift of a gas station - after midnight is when it comes alive.

Admittedly, it was a little too lively the night of the raid. You make a mental note to text Yoongi on your break, just to check-in, and then you glare at Jieun and her shit-eating grin, before heading towards gimbap-less Mr Gimbap.

Tossing the bag down onto the cheap plastic table, you're indifferent as you speak. "Like I said. This is yours."

"Is it?" he asks, unpierced brow raised. "Doesn't look like mine."

"Well, it is," you say, clearly fed up with him. "And just while we're talking - where's your car?"

His eyes narrow ever so briefly. Almost like he knows you're onto him. For what? No clue. But something.

"Taillights out. Just needs a repair."

You nod. Seems plausible. At least he sticks to the highway code - even if he does break it after the clock strikes twelve every other weekend.

You're not quite sure what to make of him as he looks at you, eyes only lingering for long enough to let you know that there's something he's not telling you.

The air quality isn't bad today. There's no need for him to be wearing a mask, but he's hiding. From you? From something else? You can't work him out.

Perhaps it's shame.

After all, this is a boy who came and apologised to you for being a little bit mean in the heat of the moment. Being deliberately cruel doesn't really seem like his motive, no matter how cold his demeanour is.

And so, instead of just letting your assumptions fester, you voice them.

"You're hiding something."

You're met with silence.

"Behind that mask," you clarify, before repeating yourself. "You're hiding something."

He looks at you for a moment, before dropping your gaze, and glancing towards the door.

Thinking about making a run for it, you lament internally - but he's not. He just doesn't like how sometimes - just sometimes - your assumptions are entirely correct.

He lifts his ringed index finger to his ear, unhooking the thin black elastic that keeps his mask in place, before letting it fall. His skin is clammy beneath it from the heat of his breath, and the chill of the winter breeze outside, but your eyes fall to his bottom lip.

It's split, the centre crease darker than the soft pink flesh around it. There's a bruise beneath it, still tender and sore. You don't mean to, but you gasp at the sight of it. It's no worse than Yoongi's graze, the placement makes it so much more bothersome.

Uncomfortable with the way you're looking at him - like you feel sorry for him - he hooks his mask back up again.

"Happy now?" he asks, knowing that you just love to be proven right.

You scoff, a little offended. "Obviously not. What happened?" You take the seat opposite his. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened," he lies, avoiding your eyes as he does so. It's funny how you haven't noticed that little trait of his yet. You will. Just not yet. "I'm fine."

"You're quite clearly not fine."

"Quite clearly am," he bickers, before nodding to the food on the table. "Just hungry."

Ouch. You're just trying to make sure he's okay, but if he wants to be hostile again, then fine. No skin off your back.

You nod, looking away. It's awkward, and when the bell chimes to indicate another customer entering the shop, you find your stomach lurching.

Still, he toys with the softening noodles in their pot, as if they're the most fascinating things in the world.

This isn't how he wanted this conversation to go. Hell, he doesn't even know what the outcome should be. He's just feeling uneasy, as if he's making all the wrong choices.

"I heard about the raid."

You nod. It's been on all the local radio stations. Thankfully Yoongi is the only employee being name-checked. You aren't ready to give up your own personal paradise just yet, which is exactly what will happen the second your family gets notice of where you're spending your days.

"Yeah, me too," you deadpan. It's a fault of yours, giving back the same energy you receive, unable to just suck things up and be nice all the time.

Thankfully, he smiles. You kind of expected that he would. He seems to get you, get your humour. It's something you both share, like a little secret. A smile rests on his lips as he glances up towards you, like he's a school kid trying not to giggle in class.

And then you find yourself making assumptions again. You wonder what he would have been like in school, if he would have been just as charming. You bet that he was the kind of kid who could get away with murder in class. All he'd have to do was flash those of eyes of his, and he'd be off the hook.

Sort of like how he does with you. Why else would you be giving him the time of day after he stood you up?

"Oh really?" He entertains your attitude."What did you hear?"

You lean against the table, a little bit provocative, but only 'cause his tone of voice matched it. "Heard that I'm lucky some prick asked me out, even if he did leave me waiting for hours in the dark."

His smile falters a little, but only for a fraction of a second. He likes the flirt; doesn't like the acknowledgement of what he did. "Hours?"

"Nah," you scrunch your nose up, and sit up straight again. You're still smiling, to let him know that you're feeling fine about it, now. "Didn't stick around for that long. What?" You laugh when he raises a brow, and begin to tell white lies. He'll see through them, but you want him to. "You think I don't have other eligible bachelors lining up, trying to take me on dates?"

He shrugs, and you can tell that he's pouting a little behind his mask. "I'm still the one you skived off work for, am I not?"

"That's neither here nor there."

"Yeah, it is," he speaks softly, leaning forward on the table. Closer. "What time do you clock off today? I wanna talk. Properly."

"Are we not talking properly now?" You say, unable to resist being difficult. It takes everything within his power not to roll those pretty eyes of his - but you're grinning, and he finds himself doing the same back. His mouth may be covered by his mask, but you can still tell.

He thinks about his response for a moment. If he's being honest, he wants to make some crude remark; tell you that he wants to get you talking just so he can think of ways to shut you up. You're not at that level yet, though. Coming on strong is unfavoured by him, so he opts for something a little cooler.

"We're talking about talking," he reminds you, picking up the pot up and leaning over to the sink by the food station to drain the excess water. "I wanna talk about... well, anything else."

You purse your lips, folding your arms across your chest. There's part of you that really wants to say no, to tell him to go fuck himself. But there's a teeny tiny part of you that wants to say-

"Nine. I'm off at nine."

"Nine," he nods. "I'll be here."

"Sure you will," you tease.

"I will."

"Yeah, yeah. Course. You're really good at that." You're nodding enthusiastically, a stupid smile on your face, eyes all wide as if you couldn't be more naive. You can tell he's smiling again, and it's like that door chime in your stomach is bloody broken. "Yanno, the whole showing up when you say you will, thing."

"Shut up," he laughs, but it catches in his throat like a low growl. "I'll be here, but not if you keep being a little bitch."

Your teeth cushion themselves on your bottom lip, and you nod. "See you at nine... Kook?" You question, realising that you're yet to actually ask his name.

"Jungkook. But Kook works, too. Just depends on how well acquainted you're planning on getting."

He doesn't give you a chance to reply, simply standing as he pushes the pot of noodles over to you. "Eat up. You look hungry."

Turning on his heel, he heads for the door.

The bell chimes, and it's like it's harmonising with the feeling in your stomach.

You prod around at the noodles, and sigh, posture defeated. This is not good.

────────────

The rest of your shift trudges on. It's slow, the hands of the clock seemingly frozen - until, suddenly, it's nine.

"You're late," Jungkook greets you, perched on a bollard by the side of the forecourt. He's wearing a coat, now, wrapped up a little warmer than he had been earlier. His sweats have been traded for jeans, but he's still in that big blue flannel shirt. You like it.

And he's not wrong - cashing up your till took a little longer than normal, thanks to an old note that wouldn't read properly in the sorter. Just another thing your boss refuses to upgrade.

"At least I'm here," you quip back.

"Touché." He holds out his arm, almost as if he expects you to link yours with his. "Shall we?"

You look at his arm, then up towards him. And then you repeat it, letting out a soft laugh, not accepting his arm, instead turning to walk in the direction of home. "C'mon," you call back. "You walking me home or not?"

It's his turn to laugh now as he ups his pace to catch up with you. "Not."

"Not?"

"Not," he repeats, seemingly unable to say anything else - until, of course, he does. "My cars around the corner. Wanna go for a drive?"

"Sorted the taillight?" You ask, curious, figuring that it would have been at Kang's overnight.

Jungkook hums a response, not really saying yes or no, but as you turn the corner and it comes into vision, you can see that his taillights seem fine - not that you can really judge. A car as old as his doesn't come with central locking systems, so it's not like you'll see the lights flash as it-

Oh. Nevermind.

There's a beep, and the car flashes in front of you, mocking those damn assumptions of yours.

"Since when do Pony's have electric locks?" You ask defensively, almost as a reflex for having your assumptions disproven.

"Since I decided to install them," he says, as if it's the simplest job in the world. You've heard Yoongi mutter 'bastard locks' enough times to know otherwise.

"Kang's must make a killing from you," you joke as he nods towards the passenger side, indicating for you to get in.

"Kang's don't make shit from me when it comes to the wires."

You wait for him to pop his door open before you do the same. The interior is leather, all black, and is cold to the touch as you get in. The windscreen begins to fog almost instantly, the minimal heat you're letting off proving just how cold it's been getting lately.

It's curious, you think. There should be a little heat left in the car from his drive to meet you.

"No?" you question, choosing to ignore the temperature of the car. It's below zero, you rationalise. Of course it cooled quickly.

"No," he shakes his head, turning the key in the ignition.

The car rumbles - purrs - softly. You can tell he's listening to the engine, making sure that it sounds okay before he sets off. Standard old car problems. Running gas through the motor before it warms up only causes issues.

Like his locking system, you notice that the stereo isn't exactly true to the era in which the car was built (even if the lack of insulation is). It's got an aux cord hanging from the headphone jack, which he picks up and places in your lap. "Don't put anything shit on."

He avoids clarifying your question, and it annoys you - so you choose to be direct about it, not plugging your phone in at all. If he doesn't want to listen to shit music, he should be a more specific.

You're stewing, clearly irritated, but you're also casually enamoured, watching him as he carefully observes the dashboard, checking the revs, trying to heat the car up a little.

"Just the electrics? What about everything else?"

He doesn't look your way as he replies. "Just the electrics. Put your seatbelt on."

"Why?"

He's still not looking at you. "'Cause if I crash, you'll go straight through the windshield."

"Not the seatbelt," you reply, though he's got a point. You haven't clicked it into its buckle yet. Nor has he, though. "The electrics."

Still. Not. Looking. At. You.

It's not even like it's an important question. You couldn't give a flying fuck about his shitty car's electrics. You just don't like that he's deliberately avoiding answering something so simple, as if you're asking him how old he was when he lost his virginity.

Eventually, he cracks. It's as he's sliding his seatbelt down, the smooth noise of fabric scruffing against plastic filling the car. He's bargaining - hopes that if he does his belt up, then you will too.

Then again, he knows that you're difficult, and that you'll probably use it as a bargaining tool. You won't do it up until he gives you an answer.

"Electrician by trade," he says with a little sigh, before turning to face you finally. "Happy?"

You don't want to say yes - but you are. You're smug in the knowledge that you know just as much about him now as he does you.

"By trade?" You push a little further as your buckle clicks into place.

"By trade," he answers, in that annoying way he so often does, not really giving you an answer, just confirming what you already know. "I'm in between jobs at the moment."

"Ah," you smile, finally putting the aux into your phone. The windows are beginning to clear. "That explains why you're always in the garage at such weird hours."

It doesn't. There's an entirely different explanation for that. Not one that he'll give, though.

He hums a response, not wanting to tell more lies. He knocks the car into first, and lets the handbrake down, easing the car into motion as it rolls gently from the curb and into the road.

It's at this point you realise you're in the car with a near-stranger, and that it's probably the dumbest thing you've done in a while. You're smarter than this. Been raised better.

Jungkook smiles at your statement, though. "You ever stop making assumptions?"

A laugh falters in the back of your throat. "No," you muse. "I don't think I do."

His palm rests on the gear stick, thigh pressing down against his seat as he dips the clutch. There's a simple joy to be found in watching his movements like this, as if you're getting to see something reserved for very few people. He's smiling as he knocks it into second gear. Smiles a lot around you, actually.

Perhaps he's just like this all the time. Naturally light natured, despite the dark clothes and even darker eyes.

"Tell me mine," he says as the car moves from the slightly beat up side road, towards the main street that leads up to the bridge. There's a change in pressure beneath the tyres, the new road far smoother, far easier, than the one you'd been on previously. "Your assumptions. I wanna hear them."

"I can't," you reply, as if they're some closely guarded secret. In a way, they are. You've built up this idea of Jungkook; of who he is, who he associates with, what he does in the dark.

If he confirms or denies a single one of these assumptions, then it could all be in tatters.

"Can't? Or don't want to?"

You watch his hands as he flicks on an indicator. There's no one else on the road. Seems redundant. It's interesting, though, how he seems to care about the rules of the road now that you're in the passenger seat.

"Why can't it be both?"

And just like that, you're going round in circles again. Always talking, but never quite saying anything. It's a strange little dance you like to do, one that you don't know the steps to, but seem to get right anyway.

He uses the palm of his hand to turn the wheel, back on the bridge now. It's less icy today, but you find your heart resting in your chest just like it did the first time you were here with him. He glances over to you, but you keep your eyes straight ahead.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "About that time. When we were here, yanno?"

You nod. It's a weird thing to think about. You could have died. Came pretty fucking close to it - and yet all that really lingers in your mind from that night is the way he stared you down.

"Mhmm," you press your lips together, and cross your legs.

He doesn't like it. The way your body sort of angles away from his. It's cold. Cruel, almost.

So he lifts his hand from the gear stick and taps your knee. A request, not a demand. He's gentle as he nudges, encouraging your legs to unhook, until they're back in their original position. You just kind of let him. Neither of you say anything, but there's an awareness that he doesn't want you to close off from him.

Your arms move instead, without much thought, crossing over themselves.

"Don't."

The silence is so loud you think the windows might shatter.

"Please," he follows it up, then decides that he needs something to fill the void that you're leaving in the conversation. "Put some music on," he says, before backtracking on his earlier statement. "I don't mind if it's shit."

It earns a small smile from you, an exhale from your nose letting him know that you find humour in his words.

You unlock your phone and head to spotify, confronted with more playlists than you know what to do with, and settle on the one you use when Yoongi lets you control the music in his car. It's pretty inoffensive, you think. Nothing too shit. No noughties classics, at least, though there are a couple from the 80's. If he complains, you'll just remind him of how old his car is.

"So what's the deal?"

The fact you only start talking as he exits the bridge isn't lost on Jungkook.

"No deal," he replies just as casually as you asked.

"Well you aren't taking me home," you muse, glancing over to him. There's a smile on his face. Dimples present. "And I'm hoping that you're not chauffeuring me to a date with the Grim Reaper - so where are we going?"

"We-" He turns to face you, now. Just briefly. Just a glance with a smile that has a chime sounding in your tummy again. "-are heading into town. I don't think the Grim Reaper's gonna be there, but you never know with that dude. Always showing up at the worst of times."

"Mm," you agree with a small laugh. "His social skills are atrocious."

"You give him a run for his money, yanno," Jungkook teases you.

It's reflex, more than anything, that has you swatting at his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft, and there's a waft of his aftershave as you draw your hand back to your lap. Oaky. Mature. Probably more than he seems to be.

"My social skills are fine. You're just shitty company."

"Me?!" He sounds affronted now, but there's a grin plastered all over his pretty little face. "Sorry, little miss clutch control. Forgot you were queen of making casual conversation."

"Uh-huh," you say as you shift in your seat, body angled towards his. The smile on his face grows. There's one on yours too. A pretty fuckin' big one, at that. "That's why they hired me. Could see I'd be great with the customers."

He snorts, crown of his head tipping against the back of his seat. "Oh, yeah?"

You hum an affirmation, and Jungkook looks towards you briefly, chin lifted, eyes narrow, curious of what you'll say next.

"Well, I seem to have done alright with one of the customers, at least."

His teeth begin to show as he looks towards the road again. "Poor fucker. I'd hate to be him."

And then you're both laughing.

It's how it remains for the rest of the evening.

You're laughing when he parks in the furthest corner of the lot, just to make sure no one scrapes his paintwork. You're laughing when he can't figure out the QR code for the automatic parking fee, and you're laughing when he tells you to fuck off for laughing.

But he's laughing too.

Laughs when you can't figure out the apron in the dakgalbi place off the side of the main shopping street, and laughs when the middle-aged lady running the shop comes to help you out. Jungkook had refused. He was enjoying the struggle too much.

See, your cheeks go all red when you get flustered. He's never seen that look on you before. You get a similar look once you realise the spice of the galbi is a little hotter than what you're used to, and you get it again after you've had a few shots of soju.

He matches you, shot for shot, but also makes sure to keep filling up your stainless steel water cup. In fact, he fills it more than he fills his own.

Unlike you, and your perceived ability to judge characters, Jungkook actually can read people pretty well. He knows his limits, and he's guessing at yours, but doing a good job doing so.

It's not until Jungkook's paying that you realise just how many bottles the pair of you have gotten through. You're steady on your feet, but you can feel the alcohol in your system, and know that he must be the same.

"How we getting home?" You ask, as the chime of the door rings behind you. Within seconds you're pulling your arms over your chest, trying to preserve heat. You fucking hate January.

"C'mon," he mumbles, looping his arm around your shoulders, rubbing at the side of it quickly to build up some heat. He's all hunched up too, clearly feeling the cold. "Taxi? I can pick my car up in the morning."

It's gone twelve on a week night. You both know there's no way in hell you'll be able to score a taxi, not without a 45 minute wait, at least. The curse of downtown Daegu. Should have just gone to eat in your neighbourhood, but Jungkook felt like he had a point to prove. He wanted to make it up to you. Properly.

You drop Yoongi a text as you load up your taxi app, just checking in, letting him know that you're all good. He replies pretty much instantly, but you're distracted by Jungkook letting you know that his app says no cabs are available.

"Shit," you hiss, bouncing around on the balls of your feet, trying to keep warm.

Jungkook weighs up his options. On the one hand, he knows he needs to get you home. On the other, you're hopping around like a fucking bunny. It's borderline cruel to keep you out in the cold like this. Especially when his place is only a ten minute walk away, in the heart of town, compared to your hour long trek back to the outskirts.

"My place isn't too far."

The suggestion is out of his mouth before he knows any better. He's getting himself in too deep already. All it's taken is a couple weeks of awkward flirting across a gas station kiosk and exactly one (1) shared dakgalbi. Maybe the 6 bottles of soju didn't help.

"You can wait it out in the warm for a taxi, at least," he adds on, before realising that you're both as tipsy as one another. Both hovering a little too close to one another. Both feeling that weird pull, of which he's telling himself to ignore, but he just can't seem to help himself.

He's a simple man, of simple pleasures - and sex is the most simple of them all.

If he wants it, then you probably do, too.

Might do, he corrects himself. Best not to make assumptions about things like these.

"Wait it out," you nod, a little grin resting on your lips. They're a little plumper than normal, partially thanks to the galbi spice, but also thanks to the you've been biting down on them all evening. It's okay, though. Jungkook's lips are just as bad. All plump and pretty and - fuck. You know you're staring but it's kind of hard not to.

He knocks his head to the side and holds out his hand for you to take. "C'mon. I'm this way."

And so you do take it. Fingers neatly linking between his, hooking on and holding close as if it isn't the first time that it's happening. It's been so long since you did this with another person that you're almost not sure you're doing it right. His grip adjusts, and then his other hand reaches behind your shoulders to prop the hood of your jacket over your hair.

"For the wind," he says.

Definitely not so that the pair of you are a little more incognito.

It's why he puts his hood up, too... For the wind.

After all, he's not hiding behind his mask like he was earlier. Not hiding from you.

But he's hiding from something.

And you should be, too.

────────────

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

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pathesis · 9 months

Text

My friend @doctordash joined our PF2 game and his character, Patches is so cool and hot I'm going to explode.

Here's the Character bio he wrote for him below!:

Patches stands at a towering 7'2" despite his somewhat hunched over posture, his bloodline of a Great Gnoll is clearly evident in his powerful build and light-brown fur. The height is accentuated by a shock of vivid red hair, styled up into a wild mohawk that seems to keep its own shape despite any outward influence. Dark brown/black spots speckle his hide, though the distinction between what is natural and what is simply oil and grease can be hard to determine. His eyes are vivid yellow, crowned by a pair of dark-lensed goggles that frequently rest on his forehead, and his snout and ears are accentuated with multiple humble piercings made of reused nuts, bolts, and bits of junk, including a prominent ring dangling from his chunky black nose. His namesake is a dull grey-blue captain's greatcoat that has been patched, corrected, and carefully repaired dozens of times, frayed at the edges and showing its age. Beneath it, a tattered white shirt covers his shaggy chest, or often times, nothing. A pair of thick leather gloves, fingerless to account for claws, protect his hands when he works. A belt with a tarnished skull buckle holds up a baggy boiler suit tied at the waist, festooned with numerous tools of the smith's trade.

His pride and joy, far and above all else, is his reinforced Powered Armor. An unholy union of clockwork, steam, magic, and steel, the great metal behemoth serves as Patches' second skin. An intelligent design, custom built to fit his powerful frame, that turns the already intimidating visage of a Gnoll into an 8-foot unyielding titan of iron and flame. The base frame was clearly built from a mundane suit of plate armor, fitted with clockwork gizmos and clad in scattered salvage dredged from the depths of the Serpent Isles. The left forearm sports an array of gauges, dials and buttons, hooked into pipework that attaches to a back-mounted unit with a large smokestack. The helm piece has a slot for Patches' goggles to fit into, is fitted with rows of razor sharp metal teeth, and proudly displays its own signature mohawk, fashioned from a discarded sawblade and splattered with red paint. A worn ship's crest has been bolted to the front of the suit, the original name long since lost to the waves, and the passage of time. Instead, a new title has been cast onto the faded metal plaque with blocky, hand-engraved letters. MAYHEM.

#DASH HES SO COOL IM GONNA CRY #I LOVE HIM IT HURTS #my pelvic was shattered #pathfinder #pf2e #pf2e character #dnd #dnd character #not my oc #gnoll #gnoll oc #Dash #friend oc #pathfinder2e #writing #not my writing #Dash writing

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mybworlds · 9 months

Text

CHAPTER 4

status: ongoing

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: your life is full of 'must'. You live with your overprotective mother who controls every aspect of your life. You have a dream, to write romance novels, but love - real love - you haven't found yet. Your mother has even decided what you must do in your free time: play music. One day, however, when you go to your music teacher's house, you will have an unexpected encounter and from that day on things change…

rating: 18+ explicit (minors, DNI)

Masterlist

Before to start... thank you for your support and likes, and please remember English is not my first language, so be kind!

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

The following day, you start your shift at 6 A.M. It's freezing. People come in with gloves, hats, thick scarves and snow boots.

"It's going to be a tough shift." says Helen, one of your few close friends "I lit the fire, but it seems to be a wiring problem." she adds with a snort, while you turn on the various equipments, detach the arm of the coffee machine, and you start cleaning and maintenance everything.

"Don't worry. Surely things will improve in a while," you say in a vain attempt to think positive and think that everything can't ever be all bad.

"A large coffee." says one of the first customers. You quickly prepare everything and serve it.

"A cappuccino." says someone else.

"A coffee with vodka." you're practically spinning like a top.

It's almost 7 A. M. and you find yourself yawning, tired. Maybe due to your hard shift and the night spent thinking about those sweet dark eyes and that face that somehow bewitched you.

"Didn' sleep?" asks a voice while you're yawning that forces you to cover your mouth and eye-popping.

It's Joel.

A gnns-like response comes out of your mouth that makes him smile.

"What are you doing here?" you ask him. It's an obvious question considering you are in a coffee shop.

"I'd like a coffee." he replies shrugging his shoulders.

Only then, you look at him more carefully, his dark curly hair messed up as if he just run his hand through his hair, he is wearing a dark jacket and dark pants.

"Comin' right up." you say running behind the counter, your hands trembling.

"So, you work here?" he asks sitting on a stool on the other side of the counter.

"Yes." you reply, looking at the coffee grinder into which you drop the mixture.

You feel his eyes follow you every step of the way, and you feel uncomfortable for the first time. It's something practically every customer does, but if it's Joel, well it's different. It's not the first time he does, he did it yesterday in class too, but it's different here in your workplace. It's as if he's entered a personal sphere of you, and allowing him to look inside makes you feel like violated.

You shake your head, it's just a job and he's just a customer you're making coffee, nothing more.

Helen looks first at you and then at him, then back at you with a complicit and amused look and serves breakfast to another customer.

"Nice place." he says looking around "Are croissants fresh?" he asks you.

"Given the temperature they'll be frozen!" you exclaim smiling looking in his direction and making him chuckle.

"Good one!" he agrees "Actually, it's freezing here." he adds looking around.

"The heating system isn't working properly today!" interjects Helen.

Joel looks at her with raised eyebrows, then his eyes wander over her and you "Just today or even past few days?" he asks as he gets up from his stool.

"It's … at least three days," you say shrugging your shoulders.

"And you work here in a freezer!" he bursts out shaking his head "When you call someone to fix it?! You'll catch a pneumonia, girls," he adds.

"It's okay, we're kids," you reply using an offended tone.

"Where's the boiler? I'll take a look." says Joel looking around.

"Don't worry, you don't have to." you say, at the same time Helen says, "Over there, behin' the door."

Joel thanks her and walks away, you shoot your friend a disapproving look "What?" she asks.

"Why did you tell him to do that?"

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" she asks you, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. You hate when she assumes that pose.

"He's my music teacher, okay?" you tell her looking to the door where Joel walked in.

"He looks like someone who knows what's up," she says.

You nod, pursing your lips.

"And he's very handsome too," she adds.

"Stop it!" you claim, widening your eyes.

"Are you jealous?" she asks giving you a little nudge.

"What? No. He's not my type." you reply, although you realize you can't tell or be absolutely certain.

"That's everyone's type." she winks at you, "If I introduced him to Gina, she would probably give him a blowjob by now."

"Ssshhh!" you shut her "Not now and not here. It bothers me when you talk openly about these things!"

Helen laughs winking at you "Go and see if your non-type needs help or a hand."

You glare at her before stepping out from behind the counter and going to see.

"May I come in?" you say softly, opening the door; Joel is right back there. His gaze is so absorbed that he gives you an almost stern look, but then in a few seconds he gives you a gentle and sweet look "How's it going? Can you figure it out?"

He gives you a little smile and replies, "This is a small part of my job. You know, among other things, I like to carve wood and make small sculptures. I think you watched 'em." you nod, remembering about those small wood carvings reproducing animals.

"Is there anything you're not good at?" you ask smiling at him and making him smile.

"There are many things I can't do."

"Give me an example."

"The way you prepared coffee, the best I can do is to put in a waffle."

You smile, shaking your head, "It's very simple instead. You'd learn immediately with a little practice."

He smiles again to turn his attention back to the boiler, you see him intent on tightening the bolts with a tool that you never seen the point or its specific name. You watch his big hands and feel a strange sensation to think about how they can be so gentle playing a guitar and so strong fixing a boiler.

"That's it! Everything should work now, go turn it on." you do it immediately "Good and now let's have breakfast!" he exclaims "Ah, wait a minute where is the bathroom? I need to wash my hands." he says.

You point to a door on the left so he can use the bathroom.

You, meanwhile, return behind the counter; two more customers have arrived who fortunately want a coffee only and leave.

After a while, Joel returns with a huge smile and sits on the same stool as before.

"Before you mentioned about the croissants," he says, "What's today's flavor?"

"Cream croissant, croissant with apricot, cherry cornetti, chocolate croissant, simple croissant. If I may suggest, I recommend a honey cornetto, it's heavenly." you say with a smile.

He smiles looking in your eyes, "Have you tried it? From the look on your face I'd say so."

You get close placing your forearms on the counter so you can be very close to him "Well, I can tell you, I stole it once and that was my lunch. It was the best thing about that day."

Only then, you realize you got too close, swallowing hard, you're mesmerized by those melted chocolate eyes.

"All right. Let's go with Honey cornetto." he says without breaking eye contact with you "Two."

You smile back at him, returning his gaze and moving away from him to take the croissants "You eat 'em now?"

"No, thank you. Could ya put 'em in a bag?" he asks you.

You just nod with a little smile.

"When are you going to dip his fingers in your honey jar?" Helen asks you in an ear making your eyes roll.

"Helen!" you exclaim, pushing her.

"Thank God he was boring! I'd like someone like him would teach me something every day," she says glancing at Joel.

"Helen, stop it! And then lower your voice, don't make a bad impression!" you exclaim in shock.

"I'm making these appreciations, not you!" she retorts with a complicit smile "Besides, judging by the way you've approached and the way he's staring at you dumbfounded…my guess is there's something going on!"

"Stop it!" you exclaim, turning away from her and approaching Joel.

"Tonight you tell us everything," she adds as a threat.

You look back at her and slip out something like I kill you, she smiles naively and goes back to work.

When you look at Joel, you realize he is watching you with curiosity "Are you okay? Did your friend say too much?"

Gotcha.

"Yes." you immediately try to change the topic giving him the croissants "She's like that, so what - what are we going to do later?" you ask him.

"What did she tell you that was so special to make you blush like that?" he persists.

"Um, no, nothing. You'd laugh, maybe," you answer evasively.

"About you? I don't think so." he says without looking away from you and grabbing the bag you are handing him "Go ahead!"

You widen your eyes "Um…" if it's possible you blush even more "no, it's nothing. Um, I was just falling before with some coffee and croissants, that's all." you say without sharing a look.

You're absolutely sure he didn't believe your answer, but he decides not to ask more questions.

So much better!

When you leave the bar at the end of your shift, you find Joel's SUV outside. He honks his horn and you pull up, open the door, and immediately you are greeted by the hot air conditioning in the cabin and that warm smile that has been accompanying your days recently.

"Hi." you say as you relax into the seat.

"Hi." he says and then pulls off his gloves and leans toward you and, in a gesture that surprises you greatly, takes your hands in his. His hands are so big that yours feel like a child's by comparison. His are so warm, so….

You almost feel like you're coming short of that feeling, that warmth, and not just physical; something warms inside you. Something unfamiliar that makes your heart flutter once again.

"Good thing, I can feel you've been warm," he comments, smiling at you and making you smile.

"Yes, well a guy came today. He wanted to have breakfast, but then he had the goodness to fix the boiler!" you exclaim jokingly about the episode.

"Oh yeah?" he asks you "Do I know him?" he adds mockingly, turning away from you.

"Um, I think so, you know," you say "He's a good man, confident, witty, smart."

"He seems like a clever guy." he remarks, releasing the hand brake and putting on the right-hand blinker.

"Yes. Although he does everything to seem obnoxious," you tease him.

"So, I must know him, we'll get along fine!" he exclaims, smiling and turning his gaze toward you.

See him so relaxed and happy warms your heart.

You share a serene and happy look, a look that makes your stomach clench in a so new and so unique feeling.

"Besides, if he goes to that place, he definitely drinks the best coffee in town!" he exclaims, making you blush.

"It's due to the mixture, it's not me," you whisper, lowering your gaze.

He calls your name and you look up meeting his eyes "Never look down. You're a good kid, you're sweet, you're polite, you lack nothing to be less than others." he reminds you making you feel special for a moment, you who have always been like a fish out of water, out of place, partly because of your manly nature and partly because of how your mother treats you. You always thought that no one appreciates you beyond your dullness.

You smile at him, "Thank you."

He smiles "And then I like your sweetness mixed with the will to fight all the time." he says reaching out a hand to your face and caressing your cheek with the back of his hand in a very sweet gesture.

"You're perfect just the way you're." he tells you, making you widen your eyes in wonder. You are almost shocked by his words.

"I don't… I don't know what to say."

And it's true, you don't know what to say. What do you say when someone - someone like him - tells you that you're perfect just the way you are?

He smiles at you, "Don't say anything."

You don't really know why your eyes rest on his lips, they're so perfect, they're -- you've never wanted a kiss like in that moment. You've already kissed or, rather, been kissed a couple of times at school, but the feeling wasn't as good or romantic as you would have liked or hoped, and most of all maybe the two boys weren't people you'd want to kiss as much as you'd want to kiss Joel Miller right now.

A horn honks not so far from you breaking that flow of thoughts and bringing Jack back to your mind.

You'd like to know Jack, you feel there may be a connection with him, but at the same time you want to know Joel and you enjoy his company.

You remain almost silent on the road to his house, or at least you think you are going there, you just give each other long silent glances.

You don't know how it's possible, but between the you of you it's growing a singular and curious relationship in such a short time, it's so natural, so willing. You feel as if you're crossed by unexpected and unfamiliar shocks that shake and shock you at the same time. Joel is this shock, his warm dark eyes, his hypnotic gaze, his smile or even just that little grin that ripples one corner of his mouth creating those extremely sexy wrinkles.

You never thought you'd look at wrinkles as something sexy in a man. But as you've had occasion to think several times these days, Joel is an exception.

"Can I ask you something?" he says breaking the silence.

"Sure." you answer, looking at him.

"Why did you treat me that way when we first met?"

You remember the feeling you got at first sight, a fine - looking man, dark eyes, grim look at first and then curious, hands on hips, but most of all the way he talked to you, sharply and most of all he hurt your feelings.

"Hear those words like get back to your bubble or hurry back to Mommy … they … kind of shook me up, that is. No one had ever spoken to me like that, no one had hurt me like that in that tone," you answer him.

"And did I?" he asks you.

"Yes." you decide to be honest. It hurt you. "That's why I used that tone with you." you see him nod "Do you still think I'm a little thing that just shuts up and keeps quiet?"

He looks at you with a half-smile "'m I wrong or I called you pretty little thing, ain't I?"

You look away and observe the landscape outside, realizing you left the town "Where are we going?"

"Into the woods." he replies, you look at him with curiosity "I'm still the big bad wolf." he adds laughing and making you shake your head with a half-smile.

Maybe you shouldn't trust him. Your mother always told you not to trust strangers, never to accept anything from them, never to get in the car with any of them.

With Joel it's different, too. A bad person wouldn't fixed the boiler, wouldn't waited for your mother to pick you up, wouldn't said those nice words to you like he did.

You don't know much about it, but you know you can trust him.

"Scared?" he asks, looking at you briefly and then looking back toward the road.

You shake your head "No, curious."

He smiles, you are sure he is smiling. You, on the other hand, observe the road covered - and getting covered - with snow.

It's true. With him, you are not afraid.

You are agitated, yes, but it is an agitation different from fear and worry. It is something new that you have never experienced, but that you intend to discover, and you can only do so if you are next to him.

"Aren't you afraid to drive in this weather?" you ask him sincerely curious.

"I've driven in hail, with sheets of ice on the road, no one has ever stopped me," he answers you with the wink of someone who knows better.

You swallow.

Why do you get the feeling he's not just talking about the weather?

You breathe deeply.

"I need to give you a few more lessons, I guess." he says causing you to turn suddenly in his direction "I was talking about driving lessons." he clarifies probably noticing your shocked look.

You swallow again.

You feel like an idiot.

Now he'll have bad thoughts about you, he'll start to think you're just a stupid, inexperienced, useless little girl.

"Okay." you just say.

"Don't." he says pressing very slightly on the brake pedal.

"What?"

"Don't think badly of you." he replies in an obvious tone as if he can reads your mind even though you didn't expose your thoughts "You'll learn. Everyone does. Why shouldn't ya?"

He told you a lot of things since you met, all beautiful things that warm your heart and soul. How strange life is! Until a few days ago you believed your whole life would always unfold with a precise, regular cadence and that nothing would ever interrupt that predetermined flow. Then, Joel arrived and with him so many words, so many special situations, so many looks you never received before.

You're sure, he's just nice, maybe he's like that with everyone. After all, you don't know anything about him!

The car stops.

You are in front of a very small cabin in the woods with a sloping roof and a chimney. You get out with a giant smile forgetting about ice and indeed, as soon as you put your feet outside of the car you slip sideways.

"Are you hurt?" asks Joel coming toward you putting your hands and helping you up.

You don't know if your knee hurts more or your already weak ego.

"No." you reply, but a grimace appears on your face immediately unveiling you.

"Doesn't look like that to me." he says looking at your legs "Stop here, 'm going to open it." he says moving away.

"I'm good, don't worry," you tell him, but after a half step, your face winces into another grimace of pain.

You hear him open the door then he turns around "You're such a stubborn little thing!" he exclaims.

He makes to duck, but you block him by placing your hands on his forearms "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking you inside." he replies and without adding anything else, he lifts you up in his arms and with great strides you go inside. His grip is firm, holding you by the shoulders and popliteal cord. Your heart speeds up.

It lays you on what you feel is a chair. You see nothing, everything is dark. You see only the light coming through the door. You hear him open the windows and the light invades the interior, which, judging by the smell, had not been opened in several years. All the furniture and armchairs are covered with more or less large sheets, there is even one on the floor not far from you, and you sense that the chair on which you now stand was also covered. You see him walk over to the door and close it.

"I'm sorry for the mess, but…" you see him looking around and see him intent on removing the sheets, you notice small knick-knacks and also some pictures "it's been a long time since I've been here." he approaches you "How do ya feel?" he kneels before you laying a hand on your knee.

"Well, it hurts a little," you answer him with a small grimace on your face "I'm sorry."

"Don't even joke!" he says gently taking your chin between thumb and forefinger with his other hand "It happens." he adds and then lets your chin out of his grip "You helped me come here and…" he looks around swallowing "well, thank you."

You look at him quizzically "I didn't do anything. You drove all the way here, you brought me here. I…didn't…"

He whispers and looks you in the eyes "Okay, maybe I need to explain… this was my parents' house and for a while I lived with…" he lowers his gaze taking a deep breath "since it happened, I haven't… I never came back here and I moved to the town." you nod as if you understood, actually you didn't understand much. Something bothers him, and you think it probably has something to do with the little girl in the picture or the woman who broke his heart. You don't tell him, however, that you know about who you think is his daughter, he might get furious and maybe throw you out of that cabin and with your knee in that condition you'd have trouble walking.

"What's bothering you?" you ask him, looking into his eyes.

He looks down, he's about to say something, but then he thinks better of it, you see him swallow and tighten his grip slightly on your knee. It doesn't hurt, but it makes you feel odd, an unfamiliar tingling.

"Time." he replies, "Have you ever had that, in spite of everything, time is running ahead of you and all you can do is go on, in spite of everything? Even if your heart and soul are broken, time, things go on anyway." he says taking a sad expression "I don't think I can accept it."

You let him talk by listening to him and trying to tell him what you can tell, you don't know what exactly happened and you don't want to upset him even more.

"If you want to talk, I'm listening," you tell him, stroking his hair in a spontaneous gesture. He looks at you and you stay like that, speechless, maybe he's bothered by the gesture, maybe he liked it, you can't understand his look. You stop immediately that pat not knowing if it bothered him or not, "I'm sorry if I off…" your words are interrupted as Joel comes dangerously close to your face, his forehead against your.

You raise an eyebrow, heart in your throat.

What's going on?

Your mouth is dry, you swallow vacuum.

You're in a complete silence that he can probably hear the beat of your heart, it beats fast, very fast. You're so inexperienced that you don't know what the next move is, well if you'd have a clear situation, you'd waited for a kiss from him, but you don't known him, you know nothing about each other.

He knows about you that you are a young woman caged by an apprehensive mother, and you about him that he's a very lonely man, but with a big heart. Is that enough?

Of course not.

But then why do you yearn for contact with his lips?

You're sure, if you'd had more experience, he would have kissed you already and…?

Oh, watch your thoughts, please!

Weren't you the one who wanted to meet the boy in the bar?

Then why are you thinking about Joel and would you like to kiss him?

Suddenly a flash of lightning, followed by a very violent clap of thunder that rattles the glass of the cabin, rips through that oh-so-perfect-yes, perfect-moment. You retreat and he does the same. You look toward the window, he gets up and goes to the window, you see him looking out, laying his hands on his hips, sighing heavily, and you see him shake his head.

Is he also thinking about how many strange moments are being created between you in such a short time?

The rain becomes torrential, then ends up as hail and finally snow. Joel looks outside several times, while you are lying on the double bed with your leg stretched out, ice packs and your head resting on the pillow. You would like to make yourself useful, but Joel has ordered you not to move. You hope with all your heart that you will soon be able to return home. You fear that your mother might return and not find you.

"I have bad news," Joel says at the door.

"What?"

"We're stuck." you swallow "I don't mind your company, but…"

"Did you try to-" you're about to say throwing yourself out of bed "AH!" you exclaim in pain.

"Stop!" he exclaims as he enters the room and comes toward you "You certainly for the time being better not rest your leg or walk on it! I'll take care of you." a warm feeling spreads in your chest "For the night I'll sleep on the couch and you here…"

"No way, your house, your bed."

"A lady always sleeps in the bed." you swallow "Seriously, I sleep over there."

"That couch can't hold me, how will it hold you?" you ask him sincerely concerned.

"Then I'll sleep on the floor, a safe sleeping bag is there somewhere," he says looking around and opening the closets. He picks up a thick red and green wool blanket and is about to leave the room, you stop him.

"Joel, I mean it. I'll sleep over there. Please don't make me feel like a burden." you say getting up anyway feeling a great pain in your knee.

He sighs heavily, shakes his head and comes toward you again "You are not a burden. You're a beautiful girl, you're so sweet, you're -- " you look into each other's eyes for a long time.

Why doesn't he speak?

What is he thinking about?

He looks away, "Nothing, um, never mind. Don't move, just lie back down. I'll get you more ice."

"If you open the door you'll find some fresh!" you exclaim.

He turns to you with a small smile, a smile you return with an amused air, then walks away.

Only then do you find yourself swallowing hard and realizing your heart is pounding. Is it not that you are beginning to like your music teacher?

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pukanavis · 26 days

Text

Nanaki Nanamegi SSR Card Story "Serving Diligence With Style" Track 1

Location: Cruise ship ・Party Hall

Nanaki: Allow me to guide you to your seat, ma’am.

Lady: Please, lead the way.

Nanaki: Might I recommend this alcoholic beverage to accompany your meal today? Its fruity flavour makes it go down smoothly, so do let me know if that interests you.

Gentleman: My, my, aren’t you well put-together for your age?

Netaro: EMERGENCY! We’re outta leaves!

Nanaki: …Sounds like the salad bar needs tending to. Yowa-san, I’ll be right there!

Muneuji: Nanamegi, I’m sorry to ask this of you, but would you mind clearing up some of the tables?

Nanaki: Sure thing. I’ll be just a sec.

Nanaki: Phew…

Ryui: Hey, kid. Don’t tell me you’re already worn out?

Nanaki: Of course not, Ryui-san. We're only just getting started.

Ryui: Good.

Nanaki: This has been an incredible turn out, hasn’t it? To think a revamped night cruise would see a crowd like this on its very first trip.

Ryui: They’re doing a little too well, if you ask me. Goddammit, if they had just set up the waiter robots in time, we wouldn’t need to be running around like a load of headless chickens all night…

Nanaki: At least we're managing to make it work. Customer service is just another part of the job.

Netaro: Esteemed guest, your dessert has arrived! I present to you a miso soup made with a broth composed of reconstructed tyrannosaurus bones! I call it ‘tyra-misoo’ for short. [1]

Ryui: …

I’m gonna tie him up and throw him in the boiler room.

Nanaki: Ahaha…

(I know I said we’re managing, but honestly…)

It’d be a real relief to have just one more person helping out—

Momiji: Nanaki-kuun!

Nanaki: !! Chief!

Momiji: Things were running smoothly up on the sun deck so I thought I’d come and pop my head into the party hall, but it looks like you guys are pretty swamped with guests in here. I’ll help lighten up some of the workload.

Nanaki: I really appreciate it. I was actually just thinking about how nice it’d be to have an extra pair of hands on board. This must be divine will… [2]

Momiji: Divine veal?

Nanaki: Uh—the veal schnitzels!! At the buffet!!! People are saying they’re divine!!!!

Momiji: Oh, that's great to hear!

Nanaki: L-Let’s move on…

To start off with, could you help me carry these meat pie platters around?

I know this is a buffet style dinner, but I thought some of the guests might prefer to have food while it’s still fresh out of the oven.

Momiji: Sure, I’ll give you a hand! That’s a really thoughtful idea.

Nanaki: Why don’t we start making the rounds from over there? I’ll just grab a few plates, and…

Momiji: Woah, you can carry three plates at a time? That’s impressive, Nanaki-kun!

Nanaki: No no, it's a piece of cake, really.

(There’s actually a trick to pulling this off…but if I bring that up, it’ll make me sound like I’m trying to show off my smarts…)

Momiji: The secret is to hold your thumb and pinky over the two plates in your hand, right?

Nanaki: Ah, I should’ve known you’d be clued into the trick. I'm sure you’d be able to get the hang of it right away if you gave it a go.

Momiji: You think so? I've seen you practicing it lately, so maybe I should try to follow your example…

Nanaki: …

Huh?

Notes 1. 'Tyra-misoo' is supposed to sound like 'tiramisu'. 2. To clarify, Nanaki originally says that it must be fate (運命 unmei) which Chief mishears as plum (梅 ume) and Nanaki responds in a panic by saying “The plum juice has been popular!! On the drink menu!!!” to cover for himself. I am not good at localising miscommunication jokes, forgive me ORZ.

#18Trip Translation #Nanaki Nanamegi

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ikkaku-of-heart · 3 months

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Of Bodice Rippers and Delightful Discoveries

(Ikkaku visits an old, used bookstore while in port, hoping to hunt down some classic bodice rippers to entertain herself with on the next voyage. What she finds is a new subgenre, complete with some unexpected - and likely unsuspecting - stars.)

The scent of the used bookstore was so different from the Polar Tang. Instead of steel and salt, Ikkaku breathed in the earthy, musty smell of paper and ink. She may have been an engineer, thriving among gears and pistons, but she had found a love of more organic materials like books.

In particular, hunting down unique bodice rippers.

“Looking for something in particular, dearie?” the proprietress asked, giving her a curious smile. She didn’t seem to mind that her new customer wore a pirate’s jolly roger on her boiler suit – business was business, and all who loved books were welcome.

“Got any classic bodice rippers?” Ikkaku asked, looking around. “I’m due for a long voyage.”

“Ahhh need something to entertain on lonely nights?” she replied knowingly. “Those happen to be my favorite. The back shelves are dedicated to those. Got a lot of newer publications, but there’s just nothing like the classics.”

Ikkaku nodded enthusiastically in agreement before heading off to peruse the back shelves. She’d read everything in her expansive collection at least twice, and she was in need of something new. Something to titillate her, but also torment her nakama when they dared to tease her. Books starring Fishmen and Zoan lovers had done the job for a while, but the boys were starting to become immune. That was a sure sign it was time to switch it up.

Pulling out books at random, she shook her head in disappointment. Many of the newer books just didn’t have the lovingly painted, elaborate covers that older, classic bodice rippers had. For all people said not to judge a book by its cover, in her mind, that was half the appeal. Getting to read a book with a hunky man in an open shirt embracing a beautiful woman often got her hilariously mortified or judgmental books. Occasionally she found books that starred two women, but those beautiful covers tended to be more understated and romantic, which sadly didn’t get quite the same reaction from her friends.

She had nearly given up, ready to throw in the towel and accept she’d just have to go through her library for a third time, when she struck gold. An old paperback novel peeked out from the stacks, and she could tell right away that the cover was that classic style she so loved. Tugging it out almost reverently, her gaze greedily ate up the image.

The woman was a beautiful, buxom nun, dressed in the classic black gown and habit, clutching a cross as she attempted to resist the charms of the man embracing her. Though, by the look on her face, she was failing spectacularly, eyes shut and head thrown back in pleasure. The man on the cover was what really drew the eye, however. The artist clearly put a little extra effort into him, like he was the main draw of the book. He towered over the woman in his arms, biceps bulging as they wrapped around her petite waist, his purple shirt open to show off a tantalizing glimpse of his hard pecs. His jaw and chin were chiseled and his cheekbones could have cut glass. Long hair as black as engine oil and smoke were pulled back in a sleek ponytail that dangled over his shoulder. His lips were curved in a devilish smirk, a long cigarette dangling tantalizingly between them.

The First Mate's Dangerous Temptation the elegant cursive of the title read. The tagline was just as cheesy; She devoted herself to God, but then a devilish pirate sailed into her life.

“Ok, you’re showing some promise,” Ikkaku chuckled, cracking open the book and flipping through the pages in hopes of finding a decent sex scene. Hopefully it lived up to the cover’s hype. Quickly, she found some smut, and eagerly she began to read.

“God really blessed you in the chest department, doll,” the pirate purred, his pectorals glistening with sweat as he pulled his pretty captive against him. The smell of the sea and tobacco paired beautifully with his masculine musk, and Chastity tried not to be taken in by way his deep voice rumbled like an earthquake, shaking her resolve. He was sin incarnate, and she mustn’t give in to the Devil’s servant.

“I’m blessed by His love every day. Perhaps you’d be similarly blessed if you ceased your sinful ways,” Chastity replied primly.

“I wouldn’t be much of a pirate if I were virtuous. Anyway, sin’s more fun. More pleasurable.” Benn gave a low chuckle before taking a long drag of his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling, releasing it like a dragon. It suited him, considering the virgin damsel he held in his clutches. “And I haven’t had any complaints about my chest. I’ve seen you stare plenty.”

She gasped, outraged, though liquid hellfire shot down to the secret place between her thighs. A blush bloomed across her cheeks, and Chastity’s scolding reply died on her lips as the burly first mate released her, only to drop to his knees before her. The cigarette smoldered on the ground beside them, the thin trail of smoke even headier than the church’s incense. She attempted to step back, but a big hand wrapped around her hip, keeping her in place as he hoisted up her skirts, exposing her knickers and pale thighs. “What are you doing? This is improper!”

He chuckled again before he began peppering kisses along the smooth, untouched skin. Tongue and teeth joined his sensual lips, licking, sucking, and biting the tender flesh without a shred of shame or remorse. “Showing you what a man should really be doing on his knees,” he growled, a panther that had concerned his delicious prey and was planning to take its time devouring it. “God can’t make you scream like I can.”

Gasping again, the nun buried her fingers in his jet-black hair as his mouth delved into the apex of her thighs. Her knickers had already been growing wet just from being in his presence, but now they were soaked in anticipation and the saliva from his tongue. It stoked tantalizingly against her pearl, and Chastity felt her knees wobble almost as unsteadily as her resolve to remain pure.

“Ah! Beckman!”

“Wait,” Ikkaku gasped, staring at the name, then flipping back to the front cover. The man on the front was at least a decade younger than the wanted poster she’d seen, but if she replaced the black ponytail with a silver one, added a few years and scars to that chiseled face, and a purple cape…

“Holy shit. What’s Benn Beckman doing on a romance novel cover?!”

This was utterly insane. Of course the first mate of the Red Hair Pirates was hot, both in his youth and now. He was known as a playboy, too, with admirers and lovers across the Grand Line. But the star of a bodice ripper? It wasn’t even trying to hide his identity!

Flipping the paperback over, Ikkaku scanned the back cover, looking for clues. The publication date was fifteen years ago, and it was apparently part of a series. An extensive one, from the look of things.

Pirate romance novels. Ikkaku shouldn’t have been surprised they existed. Outlaws like them weren’t exactly protected by copyright laws or could make cases against libel. And people did so love their forbidden fruit, but not everyone had the guts to actually proposition a pirate. So no wonder someone decided to make a buck off of the fantasy. The real question was, did Benn Beckman know?

Curiosity piqued, Ikkaku glanced along the shelves and quickly found another book by the same author. Once again the cover was lovingly and beautifully painted. The woman was once again beautiful, though this time her generous cleavage was on full display thanks to a low-cut blouse and cinched corset. She was being embraced by yet another muscular man. He was shirtless and his trousers hung loose, threatening to slip down his hips to expose himself. The cocky smirk and come hither expression made it clear he had nothing but impure intentions with the woman he was holding. One arm was beneath her thighs and backside, hoisting her up into the air, while the other held the ropes dangling from the sails of his ship. For a moment, the two arms threw her off, but it was soon clear by the blood red hair and three familiar scars over his left eye that this was, indeed, Red Haired Shanks.

The title was once again in fancy cursive but this time didn’t bother to hide the star’s identity. Ravished by the Red Haired Captain – She yearned for adventure on the high seas. What she got was unfathomable pleasure in the captain’s quarters.

“Damn,” Ikkaku muttered, once again seeking out a sex scene. She absolutely needed to know what the deal was with these books. “This must’ve been early in his career, but he was already building a fanbase. And probably didn’t get a single berri in royalties. Poor bastard.”

Cassandra gasped as she was bent over the bar counter, heaving chest pressed across the cool, polished wood decadently. Shanks’ left had splayed across her back, keeping her in place as he pressed his throbbing member against her pert bottom.

“That’s a good lass,” he murmured, rolling his hips so she could get the full understanding of just what her lovely curves did to him. He may have been a mighty pirate captain, but he was only a man, after all. And there was only so much a man like him could take. “You’ve been temptin’ me all day, serving drinks while shaking that ass and fluttering your lashes at all the customers. But now you’re gonna get a reminder that you’re my pretty wench.”

“I wasn’t—Ah!—tying to tempt you,” she insisted, though the mewl of pleasure at the feeling of his thick mast prodding at her most secret cavern through her skirts made that difficult to believe. The truth was, she hadn’t consciously been trying to tease him, but it was hard not to sway her hips a little more when she felt his eyes on them. Nor could she avoid lowering her neckline a bit more to relieve herself of some of the heat his presence sparked inside her.

Another gasp escaped Cassandra’s plump lips as she felt Shanks pull up her skirts to expose her wet and waiting netherlips, the cool air kissing them gently. “No knickers? Now you can’t tell me you didn’t plan this.”

“I just forgot to put them on this morning—”

Her excuse was interrupted by a firm smack to her buttock, the sting a delicious pain even as the tavern maid yelped in surprise and outrage.

“You’re lying to me. If you really want to come aboard my ship and sail with me, you’re going to have to learn to be honest with your captain,” Shanks growled sensually, trailing his fingers across the bright red welt his big, rough hand left behind. “Now let’s try again. Why aren’t you wearing knickers, Miss Cassandra?”

He squeezed the soft meat of her shapely rear end, fingers dancing dangerously close to her oh-so-wet entrance, and Cassandra knew she was done for. How could she resist the sexual magnetism of such a charming pirate?

“Because I wanted you to be able to fuck me whenever you pleased, Captain Shanks!” she cried, and was swiftly rewarded by the feeling of his thick rod plunging into her without hesitation.

“Wooooow,” Ikkaku mumbled to herself, snickering slightly at the writing, though she could admit that the scene was still fairly hot due to Red-Haired Shanks being the star. “Gods, I wonder if he knows this exists. What would he think of this? Would he and Beckman compare books?”

Another thought came to her, and once more she began looking through the books. Who else has been featured in these?

She got her answer, a surprised and delighted laugh bubbling up in her throat upon finding the next book in the series. This time, the heroine was clearly a Marine, her white uniform tastefully disheveled from a struggle as she was pinned against the wall by her opponent’s hips, though the way her long leg was wrapped around the man’s waist, it was clear this was a fight that was meant to shift into something more pleasurable. Of course, the man in question was unmistakable, even without his trademark long coat. After all, his pointed sideburns and goatee, along with those golden, piercing eyes, were nearly as iconic as the wide brimmed feathered hat on his head. Yoru was strapped to his shirtless back with a leather harness that was probably rather impractical, even if it did accent his back muscles nicely. But what was most striking was the sensual grin on his lips, curled in both arousal and amusement.

Prey of the Hawk-Eyed Hunter – Her mission was to apprehend him, but he takes her heart prisoner instead.

“He’s smiling? Well now I know this is a fantasy,” Ikkaku quipped, recalling the few times she’d seen him at the Warlord meetings. The man was grim and antisocial at best, and the few times she’d heard him speak, his comments had been bored and biting. Honestly, Ikkaku felt those made the otherwise irritating and dull meetings more entertaining.

For the third time Ikkaku cracked open a bodice ripper, eyes glittering with mischievous delight as she greedily took in the pages.

“You keep trying to fly away from me, little dove,” a deep, accented voice purred from the doorway. Calliope froze, the incriminatingly wide-open window to her bedroom making it undeniable that she had once again attempted to escape his fortress hideaway. “And dressed so indecently, too. Didn’t your superiors teach you about proper dress protocol?”

The Marine captain spun around, defiant even as she trembled a bit under his stare. Heavens above, those yellow eyes were always so intense. It didn’t matter if he was talking to her, fighting her, or staring at her in silence, they made him appear like he wished to devour her.

Calliope’s tongue darted out to wet her lips nervously, and that gaze flicked down to watch the movement. Heat shot between her legs while her nipples hardened against the thin blouse that was her only barrier between her skin and the cold air.

Golden eyes swept down her shapely figure, down to her chest, her slim torso, her bare thighs, her long legs, and then traveled back up again to meet her gaze, lingering on the comely flush that colored her cheeks. A devious smirk curled his lips as he stalked towards her. “Perhaps I should chain you to the bed, as your cage is proving insufficient.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Calliope insisted, attempting to strike him, to make an attack against the infamous Marine Hunter she had been tasked with arresting, but he deftly caught her wrist with speed only an expert swordsman could manage. He snatched her other wrist before it could even think to lash out before flinging them both onto the bed, pinning the smaller woman’s hips beneath his muscular thighs. He adjusted his grip to lock both of her narrow wrists in one palm, freeing up his right hand while keeping her trapped beneath him, helpless.

“You are my prisoner. My prize. I’ll do as I please with you.” As if to prove his point, he trailed his long, calloused fingers down the soft, delicate skin of her throat, down her collarbone, over her thundering heart, before cupping a full breast. Calliope released a shuddering breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding at his bold touch. Why did this murderer’s touch inspire such feelings of desire in her?

She attempted to buck him off of her, but he wouldn’t budge. In fact, he let out a husky moan in response. Surprised, she looked down between their bodies to find the telltale bulge of his manhood straining against his leather trousers. “Is…is that a sword in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” she quipped, attempting to hide her mortification and, worse, arousal.

Alas, Mihawk could detect her desire like a shark smells blood in the water and was not fooled. Instead, he laughed before capturing her lips in a fierce, dominating kiss. Calliope attempted to struggle, to resist, but his sensual tongue and teasing teeth coaxed her lips to part for him. His tongue delved between them, conquering her hot, moist cavern, giving no quarter and showing no mercy, leaving her gasping and flushed when he finally pulled away so she could breathe.

“Oh, I’ll be very happy to see you writhing and moaning beneath me as I make you a sheath for my most powerful sword,” he purred, nipping at her throat as he rolled his hips against her, swollen member growing harder at the friction the motion caused.

“Tonight, I’m claiming you completely, my dove. No more escape attempts – I doubt you’ll be able to walk after I’m through with you. And even then, I might just keep you impaled on my cock for good measure.”

“Ha! I don’t remember Mihawk being even half that talkative at Warlord meetings,” Ikkaku snickered, though there was a faint dusting of a blush on her cheeks.

Damn it. These books were over-the-top and flowery, but they were raunchy enough that she could completely understand the appeal and wanted to read more. Besides, weren’t over-the-top, ridiculous bodice rippers what she came in here for in the first place? Her fellow Hearts would be utterly mortified if she started reading aloud sex scenes starring a Yonko, his first mate, or the World’s Greatest Swordsman.

Plus, she needed to prove these existed. There was no way any of the guys would believe her on just her word. It was too crazy! So it was important that she buy all three books so she could prove they existed. And what if she ever ran into the stars themselves? Didn’t they deserve to know they had starred in fictional sexual encounters and weren’t paid a dime for it? Informing them was the moral thing to do in that case. She may have been a pirate, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a good deed.

Yes. That was totally why she was buying them and not because, despite herself, they were rather titillating. She would simply be reading them for blackmail and tormenting purposes. Not because any of the three men were quite the hotties in their prime.

Or in present day, but she certainly wouldn’t admit that aloud.

“Find what you were looking for, young lady?” the shopkeeper asked as she rang up Ikkaku’s purchase. She smiled down at the books, clearly pleased with her choice. “Like I said, nothing beats the classics.”

“You’re not wrong,” Ikkaku chuckled, giving her a curious smile. “These, ah, seem to be part of a series. You don’t happen to know if there are any starring women? Like, a female protagonist and a sexy lady pirate as the lovers?” She tried not to get her hopes up, but today had been full of surprises. Perhaps her bisexual prayers would be answered.

The shopkeeper gave a knowing smile. “Come back tomorrow. I know for a fact that I have a copy of Seduced by the Ice Witch somewhere around here. Whitey Bay does quite a good job making the heroine swoon and tremble. Not that I can blame her in the least.”

The engineer’s smile could have illuminated the darkest ocean as she nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll take it, along with any others you might dig up!” she exclaimed as she handed over her berri, already eager to start her newest book series and method of messing with her dear nakama.

Though, she had already decided that Seduced by the Ice Witch would be kept to herself.

#Imaginative Blueprints (Drabble/Fanfic)#Engine’s Pulse (Ikkaku)#Nocturne Blade (Mihawk)#Sanguine Emperor (Shanks)#Left Hand of the Emperor (Benn Beckman)#Not Safe for Working (smut)#(in honor of the bodice ripper fanart I found I give you this)#(I made my own descriptions of covers and wrote my own excerpts so no one would be accidentally made fun of)#(and because it was WAY too much fun to do it all myself)#(especially since I was going for intentional female gaze and mild cringe)#(anyway enjoy and feel free to reblog!)

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smirk-mode · 10 months

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Some Red Dwarf Uniform Headcanons

Series 1 is the bonafide Space Corps uniform, at least for people working in commercial branches like JMC

Series 7 Flashbacks to that hideous blue uniform are specific to Kochanski's dimension

Series 8 is what the nanobots thought would be an improvement on this design - because they also recreated the crew, the crew didn't notice any difference

As for Rimmer and Lister's 'uniform' choices

Series 1 and 2 - They're both still lost and trying to figure out how to actually cope with their situation, so Rimmer holds fast to his pre-death routines, which includes a smart uniform. Lister just stops caring, but continues wearing hawaiian shirts and London Jets shirts like he did before as a way to buck authority. These also represent him trying to keep a link to his homeland (England) and his dream of retiring in a tropical paradise (Fiji)

Rimmer in Series 3 onwards - There have always been specific uniforms for Hologrammatic crewmen to wear, however most ships don't enforce this as having an H glued to your forehead is bad enough without further 'othering' the dead. Rimmer only stops wearing his original uniform when he finally accepts his new status, with Green meaning he's a hologram purely generated by Holly, Red meaning he's operating via Light Bee (likely something the crew scavenge at some point), and Blue as we know meaning Hard Light. He sticks with the blue from thereon in (apart from his Ace Rimmer stint) as he's fairly comfortable with the uniform.

Lister in Series 3 onwards - After reasonably adjusting to his lot in life as much as he can, and accepting he'll never see England again, or see Fiji at all, he discards the last of his uniform to try and be himself and tries to return to being the wannabe arty-farty type he always wanted to be (see 17 year old Sham Glam Lister for reference), resulting in his Space Biker look. But when he actually truly adjusts to their situation he ditches the biker jacket in favour of the Ripley-esque Space Trucker boiler suit, cos it's easier for him to do repairs while wearing it compared to a heavy jacket. But after losing Krissie he returns to his Space Biker outfits, having kind of given up on improving his lot. By the later series he's wearing the biker jackets and hawaiian shirts to try and recapture his youth.

As for the cat? He makes what he can with the materials he has at his disposal and deems whatever he makes at that time to be what's in fashion.... And Kryten? Well they just kind of cannibalise body covers off the dead series 4000 mechanoids they come across (a bit morbid but probably necessary), with Lister making custom parts if needed...

#red dwarf #arnold rimmer #dave lister #the cat #kryten #edit - fixed some types

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rhosmeinir · 11 months

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Fictober 2023 #27

Prompt #27: “I don't know if they will accept this.”

Fanfiction: Good Omens

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Pairing: Ineffable Husbands/Aziracrow

Other Notes: In which Aziraphale has to make a confession, and Crowley is unhelpful. 510 words!

“I don’t know if they will accept this.”

“Well, they’re going to have to, aren’t they?” Crowley retorted, shoving his hands in his pockets. Aziraphale was rubbing has hands anxiously together, but nodded.

“Yes. Yes they shall.”

“Well come on then,” Crowley gestured impatiently towards the stairs, “Let’s go!” With a why me glance over his shoulder as he went, Aziraphale led the way downstairs into the bookshop. It was, mercifully devoid of customers, and Crowley strode across to the door to flip the sign over to ‘closed’ as Aziraphale called,

“Muriel! Eric!” Simultaneously, their heads popped over the railing of the upper gallery, and the Demon Eric called out,

“What can we do you for, Mister Fell?”

“Would you two come down here, please?” Aziraphale turned to Crowley desperately. “Don’t make me do this.”

“It’s your bookshop, Angel, you should be the one to tell them.”

“Our bookshop,” Aziraphale hissed, and Crowley smirked. Eric clattered down the stairs to join Muriel, and Aziraphale turned back to them, grinning nervously. “Ah! Well. I— that is, we have something to tell you.”

“Has the boiler broken down again?” Muriel asked brightly, “Because I know how to fix that now you know—”

“No, no, Muriel, the utilities are all in order,” Aziraphale laughed slightly, glancing sideways at Crowley, who raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Yes. Well. You see, Crowley and I have decided, to move out of London.”

“Sweet!” said Eric, “When do we leave?”

“No, no, no,” Aziraphale gabbled, raising his hands for forestall the eager Eric, “you misunderstand. Crowley and I are moving together, retiring to the South Downs—”

“And you are not invited,” Crowley interjected, leaning around Aziraphale.

“Yet!” Aziraphale shot a sharp look over his shoulder at the demon, who was enjoying himself entirely too much. “We’ll need to get settled in before you can come for a visit. But,” this time he raised his hands in reassuring placation, for Muriel’s lip had begun to tremble, “not to worry. It’s only Sussex, so not too far away at all. Now, dear,” Aziraphale reached out to Muriel, who came forward and took his outstretched hands. “You’ve done such a lovely job keeping the bookshop running. And seeing as I won’t be around much anymore, I would like to formally hand it over to you.”

“Really?” Muriel gasped, eyes lighting up in awe, “The whole bookshop?”

“Well, I hadn’t exactly planned on selling off bits,” Aziraphale chuckled, “Yes, and I’m sure with Eric to support you, you’ll go on marvelously. And of course, I’m only a phone call away! Is that alright?” Muriel nodded furiously, and Aziraphale squeezed their hands before letting go. Muriel ran back to Eric, and they immediately began jumping up and down together in excitement, which provided the perfect cover for Crowley and Aziraphale to slide out the door.

“Phew!” Aziraphale exhaled in relief, “Well, that wasn’t so bad after all.”

“See Angel? Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh really,” Aziraphale looked levelly at the grinning demon beside him, “Well then, you can tell Mrs. Sandwich.”

#fictober23 #fictober #good omens #gomens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #fanfiction #fanfic

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sweethoneyrose83 · 9 months

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Bonnie Bites: Berries and Chocolate

Ingredients:

- Fresh berries (e.g., strawberries, blueberries, raspberries)

- Dark chocolate (chopped or in chip form)

Instructions:

1. Wash and dry the berries thoroughly.

2. Melt the dark chocolate using a double boiler or microwave, stirring until smooth.

3. Dip each berry into the melted chocolate, coating them partially or entirely as desired.

4. Place the chocolate-covered berries on a parchment-lined tray.

5. Let them cool and harden in the refrigerator for about 15-20 minutes.

6. Once the chocolate is set, your Bonnie Bites are ready to be enjoyed!

Feel free to customize the recipe by adding a sprinkle of sea salt, chopped nuts, or even a drizzle of white chocolate. Enjoy!

#video game #five nights at freddy's #spooky vibes #fnaf security breach #pizzaparty #fnaf movie #glamrock animatronics #glamrock #fnaf help wanted 2 #fnaf help wanted #fazbear entertainment #freddy fazzbears pizza

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a-land-of-shadow-and-substance · 1 year

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Monsters After Dark fun facts!

Apologies for the delay on the major Tower posts; real life is busy, you know how it goes. But in the meantime, here's some interesting things I just learned/confirmed about the only version of Mission Breakout I like, Monsters After Dark:

Aside from the launch, and the timing of the show stops, the drop profile is the same as original DCA Tower of Terror. This is most obvious in the "final charge" up the drop shaft to the big final plunge. During regular Mission Breakout, "Born to be Wild" also uses this combination of drops.

At least one of the Hallway Scenes is still installed in the ride, just covered over by the screen in front. It's in poor condition, as one would expect, but it IS still there.

In the junk section in front of the old "face shaped boiler", not only are there the King and Queen portraits (although the Queen seems to have been missing from her frame for a bit) and one of the dragon statues from the lobby, but allegedly some of the cables hanging down are actual retired drop shaft car cables from the Tower of Terror era. Supposedly they're near Harold the Yeti.

The interior black paint in the loading/unloading zone is EXCEPTIONALLY peeling. In one first-floor zone (I believe it was far left), an entire section of wall had peeled back to expose the original Tower of Terror beige and teal coloring. Seriously, was there no budget for paint that actually sticks to the wall???

The source for 1-3 was a cast member I chatted with while waiting in line; apparently he's one of the few who's worked there since the Tower of Terror era (he said the combination of the re-theme swiftly followed by covid closures meant many other CMs left). #4 was merely an observation I had while riding the ride. Seriously, there was like a 2.5-foot circle of wall that was just... Tower of Terror's wall.

I'm not sure I'd personally say Monsters After Dark has "the same" drop profile as Tower of Terror--changing the launch and the placement of the show stops IS changing it, in my opinion. However, I did notice it felt similar from my first ride on Monsters After Dark, and from the start felt like the Halloween overlay was very much "let's get as much of Tower back as we can within GOTG constraints." Apparently I was far more correct than I thought! I also thought that Born to be Wild had the drop profile that least fit the intended song--perhaps that's a result of it using a "recycled" profile. Meanwhile, Monsters After Dark fits its drops perfectly, likely because the music was custom-composed for it the same way Tower's score was.

I'm curious about the remains of the Hallway Scene. I assumed that the GOTG elements required all of the space it had taken up, so the fact that at least one is left is intriguing. Unfortunately, we'll probably not get answers regarding that anytime soon.

#monsters after dark #mission breakout #guardians of the galaxy mission breakout #guardians of the galaxy monsters after dark #disneyland #disney california adventure #disney's california adventure #dca #gotg tower #dca tower #tower of terror #the twilight zone tower of terror #fun facts #original post

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plusheat · 1 year

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uselesssomebody · 2 years

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𝕗𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕪 𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕤 - eddie munson x sex worker!reader (nsfw)

complete masterlist | stranger things masterlist | eddie munson masterlist

“𝕚 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕙𝕖𝕣” - her | chase atlantic

words || 𝟞𝕜

summary || in which eddie spends a night with a woman of the night - who's also his ex best friend

a/n || it is so embarrassing that a white man has a chokehold on me like this. you're a special breed, joe quinn, you are. god put some garam masala in you for sure. also this is kinda dogshit hahaha. more eddie tho, so strap in ➵ ! allusions to smut ! , making in 18+ content. please do NOT interact if you are under 18 ➵ not yet proofread ➵ send me requests if you have ‘em. enjoy!

warnings || fluff/smutty for like a minute/angst ➵ like super non-descriptive smut for a minute (though it is still 18+ babe, don't try anything, minors)➵ !disclaimer! reader's a sex worker, so some things about that are mentioned. this is not a glamorous take on the life style, and it also bounded by the norms of the 80s. the opinions of the characters on sex work are not my own: it is a totally normal, real job that should be respected. understand that this is through a certain lens for the point of storytelling

her hands absentmindedly fiddled with the hem of the skirt she was wearing. it wasn’t exactly like the pristine, white and green clothes that the cheerleaders wore, though it was just as short. no, it was a dark navy, and it didn’t exactly have attached athletic shorts.

similarly, the tank-top she was wearing wasn’t exactly made for the september weather, with the occasional smattering of goosebumps appearing on her arms, even in the warmer classroom. she didn’t make any attempt to cover herself though; instead, she was reminded to stick her chest out just a little bit further and to fix her posture.

she could feel several pairs of eyes looking at her, and she placed a look of innocent focus on her face, staring up at the teacher, though she could not care less about what he was saying. finally, she turned her head just a slightest bit to see the guy next to her staring at her tits almost unashamedly, and, when he caught her eye, she tried to return his bright smile. gross.

but she supposed this was all part of it - the job. advertise the goods, reel in customers, get ‘em to really stick. it worked well enough, and she usually had the ability to rake in a solid income of 30 to 50 dollars on most days. it was enough to pay the bills anyways.

she heard the bell ring, and she was out of her seat smoothly. knowing the guy behind her had been ogling all lesson, she bent over slightly as she gathered the rest of her things, walking out of the room with a forced but subtle sway to her hips. just routine, really.

she reaches her locker with just a few glances thrown in her direction, and she almost immediately notices the upside-down envelope at the bottom of her locker. she doesn’t look at it right away, though, knowing its contents already, as she instead focuses on putting her notebook away.

finally, she flips the paper over, being careful to make sure it can’t be seen by any particularly curious passer-bys. the front’s also blank, so she slips her fingers into the unsealed opening, fumbling until she feels three separate pieces of paper. pulling them out, she realizes she’s holding two 5 dollar bills, and a note.

down payment. boiler room alleyway. - c.r.

it was from a regular, and she pressed her newly acquired 10 bucks into the bottom of her hand bag. the small mirror she had hung on the door of her locker was what she then used to fix her appearance, tousling her hair so that it fell better over her face, reapplying a thick layer of mascara to her eyes, and applying a darker shade of red to her lips. the product transferred easily - which was actually preferable for her, as guys adored seeing those red stains.

she had a slight headache as she walks towards the back alley between the school building and the boiler room. no one ever came in there, and it had become the base of most of her operations.

chase was waiting for her there, with a smile that screamed that he was just a little too excited. she placed her handbag down as she neared him, and let out a small ‘oomph!’ as he pulled her into a hug. he was always one of the more touchy ones, but she could hear the crinkle of bills in his pocket, so she breathed a sigh of relief as she let his hands travel from their conservative hold of her waist and down to cup her ass. she lets out a fake, playful gasp, as if he didn’t do this every time.

he ate it up, though.

he’d handed her the money as soon as he’d let her go, tapping his foot rather impatiently as she placed the remaining 30 dollars into her bag.

he’s always a little rough with her after that, not even pulling his trousers down past his ass and not doing much more than letting her unbutton the top two of her blouse, pulling her tits so that they rested over the constricting fabric. her knees hit the gravelly pavement with some force, knowing her tights would, at best, be quite dusty when she stood back up.

she knew his type, only paying for a blowjob and rushing his way through it, leaving her chin glossy and her jaw sore, with a lopsided, though satisfied, grin on his face. he worried almost as much about someone seeing them and his reputation being ruined as he did about actually getting his rocks off.

she had a packet of tissues in her bag that she reached for as he zipped himself back up, taking another moment to collect himself.

“goddamn, that was money well spent.” she smiled, but it didn’t really feel like a compliment.

“duly noted, chase. you know i have other options, right?” she did, with different rates for different acts. he never seemed to differ from this one, though.

“next thursday?” he ignored her prompt, and she pursed her lips at his response.

“if you bring the cash.”

when she was 5 years old, she wanted to be a fairy princess. she would prance around, swaddled in her blankets to mimic a ballgown, with a spoon in her hand to mimic a wand, and with a thick hoop-shaped toy from when she was a little younger balanced precariously on her head, to mimic a crown. her father would play with her as she pretended to enchant him, as her mother would add decorations to her adorable ensemble.

when she was 12, she wanted to be an astronaut, with galaxy-themed pictures littered all over her room. she’d read every book the library had to offer on space, and had watched vhs after vhs about the moon landings. she had just the ittiest, bittiest little crush on neil armstrong, but she found him more to be cool that anything else. her mother would walk her to the library to rent out the books, and her dad would go to family video to find movies centered on sci-fi and space, and they’d all watch star-trek reruns on the weekend.

when she was 14, she wanted to be a teacher, as she’d begun to tutor some younger kids. her mother worried for her, but she worried more for herself. her father didn’t care where she’d been. he didn’t care about anything except his younger colleagues anymore.

when she was 16, she wanted to graduate. she wanted to get into college, maybe travel and visit california, before settling down somewhere that felt like home, a small town just like hawkins - as long as it wasn’t hawkins. her mother would work late nights and curse at her as she tried to clean up the deteriorating house. her father had stopped calling a year ago.

when she turned 18, she’d been kicked out of her house with just a suitcase and 100 bucks to her name.

it wasn’t too bad, though, enough for rent for a few months in a house on the outskirts of town as she tried to figure out what she could do to work. she’d debated finding a minimum wage job - maybe a clerk, or a fast-food employee, or baby-sitting. that had been until she read about something in a rather taboo magazine - sex work.

she was, frankly, disgusted by the notion, until she realized how much it paid. if you had an audience - that is - and, unfortunately, she did. she was subject to hoots and whistles anytime she’d walk past her male classmates, her assets drawing the attention of every shitty guy in a mile radius.

that’s where it had started - teasing guys until they’d be willing to pay to have sex with her. word traveled fast, and her small business had become successful over the past few months. her clients included regulars, guys who wanted to lose their virginity, guys with frigid girlfriends, guys with no game, and guys who had a lot of money to blow.

the women of hawkins high hated her. the men degraded her. she clutched the bills in her hand a little tighter, remembering what it was all for, as the cold air sliced into her arms once again. her eyes prickled as she thought of that sweet 5 year old she once was, sighing softly.

being a fairy princess is overrated anyways.

eddie could tell she was cold.

he could tell that no one else was noticing that - and why would they? they were admiring her beauty, as he had done so many times before. he supposed it was different, though, as he knew their appreciation was one only interested in the superficial: the swell of her tits and the curve of her ass. he liked to think his was just a little bit more intimate, as he thought about how nice the slightly crude flower nail art was on her nails, or how her pencil was definitely tapping along to the rhythm of crazy little thing called love.

how did he know that?

well, because it had somehow remained a song that she loved for the past 6 years. impressive, he knows, but he gets it. queen does have that effect on people. he still remembers handing her the cassette with that song as the first track, watching her face morph from slight unsure to excitement as the song continued playing. she’d given him a big hug after that, joyously telling him that she couldn’t wait to hear the rest of it.

sure, they hadn’t talked for nearly 3 years now, but that wasn’t really anyone’s fault. some people just drift apart, you know?

she and eddie had never exactly been attached at the hip, but they did talk a lot in middle school. he’d been two grades above her, and he’d always acted as more of a guide than anything when they’d first met. feeling decidedly lost in one of the school hallways, he had been the one to help her back to class. when feeling unsure what exactly to look for in the library, he’d given her a ton of suggestions. and when she had sat on the hill behind the recess playground, crying because of a bully, he had tentatively put an arm around his shoulder, trying to console her with soft words and light jokes.

they had become close friends - as close as you could be in middle school, when you didn’t share classes. she remembered being heartbroken when he’d gotten a buzzcut, already missing his long, wavy locks. he remembered her, very poorly trying to play guitar, and him helping her to learn her first chord just as she was about to give up.

eddie sometimes wondered who the girl in his history class was, considering how different she was from his middle-school friend. she’d stopped speaking to him when he was about 16, and she was 14, and he’d noticed her coming to school with sullen faces, and ever-present, faint black mascara streaks on her cheeks. she stopped speaking to - well - everyone by then, and, to the rest of hawkins high, she’d sort of just faded into the wall.

not for him, though. he’d always wonder if she was alright, but she never gave him the chance to ask.

then, as she finally stepped up to join him as a senior, the student body collectively found a renewed interest in her. at first, he attributed it to her sudden change in style and behavior, but, through word-of-mouth, he was quick to realize that that was only a small, small part of it.

he had been shocked by the career choice, as he never really imagined the girl he knew - the girl that so badly wanted to be an astronaut - to make it. he didn’t really care, though - figuring it was her choice, until he realized - nay, remembered - just how sad she seemed all the time.

he remembered the genuine smile she’d beamed when he’d given her a small saturn keychain to her on her 13th birthday. he wished he’d see it again.

care to meet an old friend? you’ll find me at the forest clearing behind the football field, 3:30.

the note’s eccentric, and the handwriting’s a little erratic. she could tell this wasn’t one of her regulars, as they always tended to be more direct with their messages, and almost always made sure to include a down payment. this note had neither, and it ended up infiltrating her thoughts constantly through the rest of the day.

finally, when the clock had struck 3:00, she found a little bit of a bounce in her step as she made her way to her locker. she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the note screamed fun, exciting. she hadn’t had that in ages. and - to be quite frank - there was something childish about it all. she knew it was a little odd to think, considering what the she figured the note-writer would want from her, but she clung on to that innocence as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

without too much attention to her surroundings, she slowly - discreetly - made her way to the football field, around its fence, and to the small trail that led into the woods behind it. she listened to the soft crunch of leaves behind her feet, listening to the small melodies of birds in the distance.

finally, she finds the spot - a secluded, as described in the note, forest clearing with a bench at the center of it. she looks around and, seeing no one, places her bag down, sitting at the edge of the bench. she glances down at her nails, picking nervously at a hangnail. she cringes a little at the splotchy daisy design that she had attempted to make on them. when she’d finally finished it over the weekend, she’d been real proud of it, but as the days continued, she found herself hating it.

she’d spaced out, so she doesn’t have much time for a reaction between hearing footsteps behind her and whipping around. so, instead, her mystery guest places a light hand on her shoulder to guide her look at them.

she gasps in shock at the sudden touch, but she wished she’d saved it for when she’d actually seen them, as her jaw hung open at the face staring back at her.

his black, curly hair was the same as how it had been in middle school, and the smile lines around his smirk was something she still remembered. though, since then, he had grown quite a few inches, and he had just the slightest fuzz of facial hair on his obviously-not-shaved face.

“eddie?” it escapes her in a whisper, but it cuts like a foghorn through the silence.

she gulps, realizing that the job had finally caught up to her. as she looked into his big, doe eyes - the same eyes that she looked into whenever she needed guidance, help, or consolation - and she knew she couldn’t treat him like everyone else.

she couldn’t casually give him a blowjob, or have sex with him. it would hurt her heart too much.

“yeah, hi! how’re you doing?” oh, god, he was talking as if they were good friends, like they’d remained speaking for the past 3 years, like he wasn’t here simply to fulfill his needs. she felt her jaw clench just slightly, in the hopes of not letting a tear escape her.

“i’m fine. my rates are -” as she’s ready to list her regular prices, he stops her by a sudden gesture of reaching and digging into the front pocket of his jeans. he procures a very crumpled note that he’s then pressing into her hand. she looks down in shock, seeing a crinkly 50 dollar bill in her palm.

“uh, i hope that’s enough - i didn’t really know, uh-” she shakes her head, clearing her mind as she pulled her hair into a shallow bun as she reached to unclasp the buttons of her blouse.

“it’s enough, you’re fine.” she knows she’s being far too forward and - honestly - a little pushy, but she wants to just get it over with so that she doesn’t cry in front of him.

“wait - wait, stop.” he lightly grabs at her hands, that were making their way down to her skirt, and he’s got a look of shock on his face when he looks back up at her. his eyes are trained harshly on her hands, as if he’s trying very hard not to let his gaze wander to her chest, “you don’t have to do that.” her mouth falls open a bit in confusion.

“it’s - it’s what you paid for, munson.” he cringes at the use of his last name, the formality of her sentence making the air around them just a little bit more frigid.

“no, i don’t want to do that.” he finally lets go of her hands, gesturing that she can re-button her blouse, as he looks away, threading his fingers through his hair, “i’m paying you that money for your time.”

“my - my what?”

“your time. i just wanna spend some time with you.” the last part’s a little fumbled, and she knows why: this was far out of the realm of what she usually offered.

“spend some time with me? munson, i don’t know-”

“eddie, and you’re fine. i just need ya for a night.” she looked down at the bill in her hand, before shaking her head.

“i - uh, i can’t take this, please just-” she pressed it back into his hand but he didn’t grip it.

“how much will it be? because i really can’t afford over 70-”

“no, no - i can’t charge you for spending time with you! i’m not even giving you anything.”

“you don’t need to-”

“eddie-” he smiled at the switch of moniker, “you’re not paying for anything.” she tried to reason with him, not wanting to look at his face for fear of that soft, understanding expression being on it.

“i am.” she closed her eyes, sucking in a sharp breath.

“look, i’ll spend the evening with you. but you are not paying me.” she curled his fingers around the bill, moving back before he had a chance to give it back to her, “alright?” he looked at her with a small smile, before nodding.

“deal.”

he’d driven them out of the school lot after that, as she fiddled with her sleeves. they weren’t talking much - well, he was trying to start conversation: about his hobbies, about things to do together, about how she was doing. her answers were curt, as a bubble was growing in her throat, and she really didn’t want to cry in front of him.

but how could she stop it? she’d had the biggest crush on the senior since they’d met all those years ago, thinking that he was the kindest, funniest, most talented person in their school. he’d let her ramble and ramble about her various interests, he’d introduced her to good music, he’d entertained her as she, transfixedly, watched him play guitar. he’d been there when she’d been hurting - and even at the very beginning of her parent’s split, letting her stay at his place, or do things with him during those first few months of arguing.

but it was too much. when the arguments had happened once or twice a month, she wasn’t too guilty about sharing the burden with her close friend. but, when they started becoming a weekly (and then a daily) occurrence, she couldn’t continue exploiting his kindness. she couldn’t bear exploiting anyone, owing to her sudden seclusion.

the tape he’d given her - made by yours truly, as he put it - was what she’d listen to all the time, finding the music on the player give her a sense of soothing in her otherwise tumultuous life. it wasn’t as good as the sense of soothing he gave her but, once again, it felt like she was imposing on him.

and did it become so damn hard to see him in the school hallways, pretending she hadn’t seen him and, even if she had, that she didn’t care? it was the worst thing in the world, especially as she saw that the small greetings and waves he through her way fading until his only acknowledgement of her was the occasional glance in her direction. and she couldn’t even complain, as it was all her own fault.

“how’s your mom?” the question takes her out of her thoughts, as it rings out over the soft melody on the radio. when eddie had heard of her father’s initial actions, he’d tried to help her out, which included become acquainted enough with her mother in order to convince the older woman that he wanted to help her daughter. it had worked - which is why her mother had entertained the friendship for that long - and he was always asking to make sure both women were alright. of course, he didn’t know who her mother had become.

“i - uh, i don’t know.” her voice is quiet, and her words are mumbled. out of her peripheral, she can see a look of confusion wash over his face and, out of his peripheral, he can see that she’d become significantly more uncomfortable and upset, and he dropped the subject immediately. instead, he stopped his van in front of the middle of town, a little establishment she’d been previously familiar with in front of her.

“what movies you like? you still a fan of e.t.?” even after her astronaut phase, e.t. had been a comforting classic that he’d been kind enough to go watch with her in theaters. he doesn’t miss the fraction of a smile that graces her lips, nor does he miss the way her eyes light up. he’s quick to get out of his seat, walking over to her side and helping her out in his common, gentlemanly manner. he leads her into the building, ducking his head as he walks in.

immediately, he greets the two clerks, both of whom had been obviously goofing off just a few seconds earlier. there’s no one in there except the four of them, and he’s already striking up a conversation with them. for a moment, she zones out, looking around at the lined shelves of movie rentals.

“- and this is my friend-” he gestured to her, and then individually pointed out the two clerks, introducing them to her. they both smile widely at her, and she’s a little confused. she wasn’t used to positive reactions to her - and she knew that at least the blonde, robin, knew about her, as they shared a history class together.

nonetheless, the girl didn’t say anything, didn’t give any backhanded compliments, didn’t have any look of judgement that was present in her eyes.

“anything you guys’re looking for in particular?” eddie nods, placing his fists lightly on the counter as he tapped it along to the song playing over the speakers in the ceiling.

“yeah, can we rent e.t.? and, oh, do you guys have any suggestions for space or sci-fi movies?” as steve rung up his first request, robin began listing off movies like she was an encyclopedia. as she wrapped up, eddie looked back at her.

“whad’ya wanna watch? i’m personally leaning towards star wars, you watched it before?” she doesn’t say anything, shaking her head. the first movie had always been on her list, but she’d been just a little too young to watch it when it’d come out, “alright, we’ll take a new hope too.” robin nods happily, grabbing a copy.

soon, the two of them were back comfortably in the two front seats of his van, with her holding the two rentals and his hands on the wheel. at least she’s smiling now, even though she’s not saying much, and eddie feels like it’s been a success so far.

he takes her back to his place, knowing wayne won’t be coming back until the afternoon on the next day. he, once again, opens the door for her and helps her out of his car, and similarly helps her into his house.

not much has changed since the last time she was there, nearly 4 years ago. there’s still very basic - yet homey - decorations on the walls, and the kitchen and living room look the same. eddie’s room’s door is slightly ajar, and the multitude of rock band posters were still on his walls, though they were slightly more dusty now, and they were peeling at the corners.

he offered her a drink, which she declined, before lowering down to his haunches in front of the chunky t.v. box in front of the couch. she stands, rather awkwardly, at the front entrance, while he sets up the movie. finally, noticing her lack of movement, he’s quick to usher her in, offering her a drink on her way to the couch.

“no, i’m - uh, that’s alright.” shrugging, he nods, letting her find a semi-comfortable seat on the end of the couch and, realizing her hesitation, he sits down a small distance from her, propping his feet on the table in front of them and his elbow on the arm rest. he presses the on switch for the remote, and, in just a few moments, the opening scenes of e.t. start playing. he looks at her out of the corner of his eyes.

she’s got a bright smile on her face and, in that moment, she looked just like his old friend.

it hadn’t been too late when they’d finally finished the movie and, for the first half of it, they’d both been eerily quiet - her enjoying the movie and him being too worried about saying something to take her out of that joy. then, midway through, she’d let an off-handed comment slip about one of the events and, soon, they were maintaining a semi-frequent dialogue about their opinions on the actions, characters or special effects - the both of them occasionally gasping at or scolding character’s actions in unison. it made her chuckle, and that made him laugh along with her.

now, though, she felt her eyes prickle lightly from a new - yet lesser - wave of tears that overtook her as she remembered the ending they’d just watched. sure, she’d watched the movie tens of times before, but that didn’t stop her from choking up as the extraterrestrial said goodbye.

a thin white object appeared in front of her and, through he blurry eyes, she couldn’t exactly tell what it was. she took it off eddie - who was trying to hand it to her - anyways, and realized that it was a tissue.

“oh my god,” she grins, but the act of her closing her eyes makes her tear slip, and she can hear eddie chuckle slightly as she used the tissue to dab at the corners of her eyes.

“hey, at least you’re better than last time.” by last time, he was referring to when she’d bawled her eyes out in the middle of the theater, clutching his shoulder tightly to find some grounding in her misery. she didn’t know why she was so keen to watch movies that made her cry, but - then again - a lot of movies made her cry.

eddie didn’t think about it like that - he also knew that many movies made her laugh, made her excited, content, scared, or anxious. movies made her feel, and he was happy that he was bearing witness to that once more, as it reminded him of her all that time ago.

she went to reach for the next movie - as a silence had grown between them, and eddie also got up, offering her something to eat. she snorted at that, and he whipped his head around, confused by her reaction.

“i know we haven’t talked much, but i can guarantee you’re still a shit cook.” he scoffed in a playful indignance, waving his hand at her.

“hey, hey, hey! i make a mean tinned macaroni, i’ll have you know.”

“that’s not cooking! that’s just as bad as you saying you can fry an egg and call it a meal.” it’d been something he said when she’d come to him, looking for support from her parents, and he had decided to make her some comfort food. it seemed like a fantastic idea until, of course, he realized he couldn’t cook. so, instead, he’d fried her an egg, plated it, and had sprinkled some pepper on and hoped for the best.

she had loved it. of course, she teased him to hell and back for the lack of a meal in his meal, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t appreciated the effort.

she’s rolling her eyes at the memory as she’s coming down from her giggle, and she looks to see eddie smiling fondly at her. she couldn’t hold his gaze - knowing exactly why he had a look of familiarity in his eyes, and she didn’t want to address it. luckily - or maybe unluckily for her, he did.

“we don’t talk much anymore, huh?” he said it like it was a recent revelation. it was not, “why don’t we?” she didn’t look at him, finding herself more invested in the threads of her skirt.

“i - um, i don’t know why, ed.” that was a nickname she hadn’t used in a while, and it made him want to turn back time - to get back those years that he’d spent without her. after a moment, he moved closer to her: close enough to take her hand in his; close enough to pull her chin to look at him. her eyes were so pretty - so bright, so hopeful and so playful - but the deep sadness in them caused an overcast on his heart.

“i - i liked talking to you.” he sighed, unsure of a poetic way to say it, “i wish i could just do it more.” sure - it was direct, but it got his point across. she gulped, suddenly breaking away from him.

“no - no you don’t.” he looked at her retraction in shock.

“why not?” she looked ready to pack up and leave, but he found himself unable to understand if he’d done anything to provoke it.

“i - i’m not the kind of person you wanna be friends with. i’m - i’m too fucked up.” the last sentence is a whisper and, for a moment he can’t process it.

“you - what’re you talking about?” she crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly wildly self-conscious of the attire she’d chosen for her job.

“i’m - god, eddie - i can’t do this. i need to go home, i’m sorry.” she’d started taking her things, and he restrains himself from trying to stop her. before she reached the door, though, he spoke again.

“will you at least tell me why?” she looked at him with a pained gaze. she looked at the mess of hair in his head that she wanted to pet, she looked at the big doe eyes she could sink into, she looked at the full lips that she wanted to kiss so badly.

“i - i can’t be your friend.” her voice cracked, and she looked away, the bubble from earlier bursting and a tear falling down her cheek. he sprang up, careful not to come to close to her, but heartbroken to see her cry.

“oh, god - please don’t cry. look, i don’t - fuck, how do i say this - i don’t want to be your friend.” it sounded harsh, and he realizes it through her look of incredulity, “i - i mean, i don’t want to be just friends.” she blinks up at him, the saline in her eyes being slowly replaced by confusion.

“ed? i don’t-”

“fuck, look. just, you’re so pretty, and you’re funny, and hard-working - you have great taste in music and movies and you can be a little stubborn sometimes but - but goddamn. i like you.” the confession leaves her mouth ajar, as his face drops, hair covering his concerned eyes as he shook his head at his own stupidity, “fuck, i shouldn’t have said that, i’m sorry, i -”

“’re you serious, ed?” she looks at him with earnest - and he interprets - hope.

“as a heart attack.” it’s a whisper, as he’s anticipating her response.

“i - i don’t think you’re being serious.” she can’t believe him.

“why not?”

“because i don’t deserve that, i don’t deserve you.” it’s rushed, like it’s a sudden revelation, but the incredulity of the statement makes eddie tentatively approach her. He held out a hand slowly, and he threads his fingers through hers, until he finds a comfortable hold on her palm. he brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, before smiling a wide, genuine smile at her.

“can i kiss you?” she looked at his eyes, and at his lips, and she nods - and he leans down to find her lips with his. hers are a little chapped, a byproduct of the cold weather, and she’s got a distinct cherry lip gloss on, the red on it smearing on his own lips and skin. she breaks away from his face, but not his body, her other hand clutching tightly at his forearm, as if it would be detrimental for her to let go.

“you can’t kiss me like that.” it’s almost playful, her sentence, but there’s a serious undertone to it. he looks at her in worry, scared he’d taken it too far, before she clarifies, “i’m the whore of hawkins high, nobody should kiss me like that.” he felt a deep sadness at her diminishing words.

“you - god, you are not a whore.” she laughs at the attempt to cheer her up, but he doesn’t let that falter him, “do you want to keep doing this?” he gestures to her outfit. she thinks about it for a moment.

“no. but, ed - i can’t pay the bills-”

“we’ll figure it out.”

“ed, you can’t just say-”

“i’m being serious. we’ll work something out. we’ll find jobs - i’ll find a job, and then we’ll get out of this hellhole. you and me.”

“just like old times?”

“just like ‘em.” she goes silent for a moment, pondering the idea. finally, she nods lightly, and he sighs in content.

“can you kiss me like that again?” she whispers it, and he obliges, kissing her with the fervor of passion.

it made her feel beautiful, feel elated, feel loved. it made her feel like she was wandering the moon and the stars.

it made her feel like a fairy princess.

#stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things 4 #eddie munson #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #joseph quinn #eddie munson smut #stranger things smut #sexworker!reader #fairy princesses and astronauts

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