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chaptersleftunwritten · 9 days

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Darkest Desire

Based off of this nonnie request! It’s a bit scarier than intended and I do apologise for that teehee. There’s also no smut…

Blurb: With a group of friends you visit the local Halloween Scare walk, an event that is hosted annually out in the creepy plaines of Hawkins and whilst it’s masks on for the locals, it’s very much masks off for the scare actors…

Pairing: Scare Actor!Eddie x Reader

Warnings: 18+, the holiday of Halloween is mentioned, talk of blood/gore, faux blades/knives, cursing, reader is referred to as girl, use of pet names, degrading, praising, stalking (cat&mouse), sly/cocky and slightly mean!Eddie. Characters are all 20+

divider by @reveriesources

Crunchy dry blood orange leaves litter the earth and frost tainted wind nips at your nose and cheeks. The squeals of excited children racing by your costume clad frame fills your ears with immense joy and you giggle airily as they launch themselves into one another. Racing toward the brightly lit luminescent funfair games in hopes of winning a stuffed animal or a goldfish in a bag.

Their parents lug behind them, their attire consisting of some makeshift costume they had thrown together at the last minute in hopes of pleasing their tiny humans and earning themselves a quiet car ride without any tantrums or fuss.

Your group, on the other hand, weren’t here for the childish and conning games. You were all here for the Scare Walk.

You hadn’t agreed on a coherent group costume so it was a pick and mix of totally different genres and ideas and from an outside perspective it was abundantly clear that there was no communication on the matter whatsoever.

Steve was dressed as the main character from Nightmare On Elm Street, Freddy Kruger. Nancy clearly had helped with the makeup aspect of the costume assemble but everything else screamed Harrington. He cropped the stripped knitted jumper to better suit his athletic frame and his hair was still very much classic Steve.

Robin had taken a whole new approach, dressing up as the colourful Rubik’s Cube puzzle toy. Deriving inspiration from the colourful squares she wore a long black jumpsuit covered in humongous reflective and vibrant square sequins. She more resembled a neon glitter ball, but you gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Nancy’s body was hugged by a khaki green boiler suit that had the long legs cut off and on her back she wore a black backpack with some DIY altercations made to it. She has begged Mike to help her create her costume, and that’s how she ended up dressed as a Ghostbuster, putting a strong feminine spin on the male dominated film. You hadn’t expected anything less from Nance, she was always looking for ways to empower women and her costume made you smile. Proud.

Jonathan had chosen a much whackier costume to better fit with his personality. The pungent smell of weed radiating from his body only complimented the fluorescent green costume he was wearing and the radioactive orange bandana blindfolded over his eyes. He had opted for the beloved character from the children’s series Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’, Michelangelo. Which shouldn’t have surprised you— but it did.

And finally, you had chosen something distinctively different from your friends. You had made the bold choice to go as a flapper girl from the 1920’s, inspired by Fitzgeralds novel The Great Gatsby. It was a bold move because you paired the costume with kitten heels and although they were small you knew by the end of the night your feet would be crying out for rest. It is a Scare Walk after all. Your body was adorned by glitter and lace and the fringe of your dress tickled at the exposed skin of your legs.

It was a bit chilly tonight, but you were having too much of a ball to really hone in and pay attention to the sharp gusts of wind. Steve and Robin were arguing over whose costume was more original and whilst Robin’s was, Steve always somehow managed to argue himself into being ‘right’.

“Talk to me when you have hand sewn a bazillion sequins onto something and not just took a pair of shears to a ratty old sweater.” Robin remarks with a smirk, crossing her arms over her chest and marching ahead of Steve.

“Hey! I’ll have you know that it was surprisingly difficult to cut this thing into a straight line— and it isn’t ratty or old, I literally bought it like two days ago.” Steve fires back with a squinted gaze as he follows closely behind Robin’s reflective beacon of light that seems to lead us through the dimness. Nancy grumbles inwardly to herself.

“Can you two stop bickering like babies? We’re here to have fun! So let’s go and do that!” She hooks her arm with yours, charging forward, “I heard that some people from campus are working here this year. I don’t know what they’re doing but isn’t that exciting? We might bump into them!” You admired how Nancy could make a good situation out of everything, however you didn’t quite share her enthusiasm for meeting people you already knew. Nancy was all about making and strengthening connections whereas you wanted to just have fun— judgement free.

And now that you knew that your peers were watching your every move you couldn’t help but feel your confidence shrink slightly and your words clam up. Dying in your throat before they could ever be heard aloud.

The walk started off relatively slow and rather boring. You kept mistaking your dress tickling your calf’s as insects running up the skin of your legs and Robin would giggle at the way your head was constantly shooting downward.

“You seem awfully jittery— is someone scared already?” She taunts, wiggling her eyebrows at you and grinning widely as she did.

You scoff in response, “Please. I’m nearly dozing off back here.”

An eerie dark silence falls over the group and the golden haze from the spooky funfair starts to fade into the background behind you as you venture further and deeper into the doom and gloom of night fall.

The smell of sweet popcorn no longer lingers in the hairs of your nostrils and a sinister chill runs down the back of your spine; like fingers tickling your bare skin.

“Are we sure we are sticking to the trail? It’s getting pretty dark out here— OH MY FUCKING GOD!!” Two little girls dressed in bloody dresses and horrifying makeup charge toward you from a nearby hidden brush. Their eyes glow a disturbing shade of white and they hold faux knives that still look devilishly real. You stumble backwards, nearly collapsing from shock however before you could fall to the ground you feel a hard body hit your back which makes you scream out in terror.

The figure laughs at you, jeering and sharp as you whip around to meet him and your hand is quick to find your chest. Your fingers claw at the fabric of your dress and you fist the fabric with a shaky grip. You’re panting, struggling for breath and the skull painted face looms over you for a moment too long; cocking his head to the side as he examines your costume.

That’s when you realise something. Something that you immediately recognised as a dark secret. A dark desire that should be kept hidden.

As his onyx orbs gleam and glare down at you, you feel a wave of heat feather your cold skin. Your core pulses between your thighs and your mouth hangs open in dreadful clarity; you were fucking turned on by this.

His chiselled face is painted to resemble a bare skull. White with inky dark circles that deepen his eye sockets and his cheekbones are defined with thick blended shadowy lines. His lips are painted black to match his contours and he has hand drawn on a stretched toothy smile and an empty nose cavity.

He doesn’t speak a single word.

He just stares at you. Almost as if he is furious with you.

And before long he drags himself away from you, like the simple task is deemed painful and impossible for him.

His torso is dressed in a fitted white button down shirt which is rolled up to his elbows and it exposes his tattooed forearms. On his legs he wears a simple but professional pair of black trousers paired with black suspenders that sling over his shoulders. On his feet he has combat boots supporting his ankles and some sort of padded device strapped around the joint of his knees.

You gawk at him as he skates across the concrete on his knees at an alarmingly fast rate toward another group of poor people; leaving sparks of light in his dust as they squirm and scream. Some of them even go as far to sprint off into the darkness away from him; which leaves the masked man cackling darkly and running after them.

“Holy shit! I had no idea he would be working here this year!” Steve slaps the palm of his hand onto your shoulder as he chuckles heavily and you pull away from him confused and slightly annoyed.

“Who is ‘he’ and how do you know him?” Steve’s laughter dies out slowly and his hands come to rest on his hips. A stance that he did often. The rest of the gang come to join you with curious expressions on their faces.

“Seriously? You don’t recognise him?” There’s a pause as you shake your head ‘no’ and Steve rolls his amber eyes dramatically, “That’s Eddie Munson, dipshit. He’s always smoking weed out in the courtyard on campus? Playing with the fire from the benson burner during chemistry— is this ringing any bells?” You shrug, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.

Is Eddie Munson someone you should know about?

“He has long, curly hair— not better than mine but hey, it’s definitely up there.” Steve’s hand smooths over his slicked back hair that is thick with gel and you laugh, now being able to form an image of Eddie in your mind.

“Ohh, the metal head? He sometimes walks around with his guitar slung over his back?” You reply as you begin to walk off after realising that you have all come to a stand still— and partially because you want to see Eddie again.

“Yeah! He is wicked with a guitar! I’ve seen him play.” Robin chirps from your left and Nancy hums on your right.

“He is pretty good.” Jonathan speaks through a mouthful of candy and you try to disguise your disgust as you unfortunately get a glimpse of the food on his tongue.

“Right…” is all you quietly reply as your eyes scan the bluish darkness. You can hear an owl hooting off in the distance and if it weren’t for the jump scares waiting for you, you would find this promenade quite peaceful.

Crickets whisper conversations from the tall blades of grass and you can see lanterns dotted up ahead of you. They cast ghoulish shadows all around the dirt path and your head twitches from side to side— trying to catch any of the silhouettes moving.

But they don’t.

You have strayed further ahead of the group, their voices hitting your ears in the form of muffled sounds but you don’t bother to wait on them. They are too busy laughing and booing at some of the scare actors whereas your heart is still palpitating at a ridiculous rate from the last scare.

Some of the actors were so gruesomely scary that you felt transported into your favourite slasher films whereas the others were just looming and ominous— more human. Humans are the scariest creatures after all. You fear your own kind in opposition to the unknown.

That’s why when the familiar skull skates over to you on his knees, you freeze this time. No fight or flight; just freeze. Your mouth gaping wide as his nose nearly brushes yours.

“Eddie.” His name is a breathless squeeze from your lungs as it leaves your mouth. You have to say his name aloud in order to ground your thundering heart. Were you excited or frightened? Maybe it was a mixture of both.

Whatever it was, the man stood in front of you wasn’t best pleased. His eyes narrow into irritated slits and his fingers toy with a piece of your hair— twirling it before yanking on it playfully.

Steve, Nancy, Robin and Jonathan all sprint past you in urgency. They screaming until their throats run raw as a deranged man with a faux chainsaw chases after them. Hot on their heels.

You and Eddie go unnoticed by them… and now…

Now you feel afraid.

“Y’know you aren’t supposed to address the actors personally, right?” He sneers through a tight jaw.

“He speaks.” You quip back sassily and Eddie huffs a distorted laugh.

“I’ve seen you around campus— even prettier up close. It’s a shame your attitude ruins that.” He circles you like a shark in water and you follow him. Twirling around makes you dizzy but Eddie’s chuckle makes your dizzier.

“Like a little lost lamb.” He coos, “Where are your cronies? Seems they’ve ditched.” His glove clad knuckle grazes your cheek and you flinch away from his soft touch. Taking a few steps back you widen the close distance between the two of you.

This causes Eddie to grin hugely; showing all of his teeth as he did.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re scared now?” He prowls toward you however you are quick to match every one of his steps. He takes a stride forward? You take a step back.

“You could run away if you wanted… but that’ll only entice me more. Didn’t they tell you? I love the chase.” His voice is a low animalistic growl and you couldn’t understand if this was Eddie or his character talking to you. Was this all an act or was he genuinely this menacing?

“I thought you actors weren’t supposed to get this close to the public…” You hunch your shoulders upward toward your ears as you cower away from his stalky frame and he stares through you; the gears in his head turning.

You shift on the balls of your feet uncomfortably and your skin blazes beneath his intense gaze.

“You’re blushing.” He says matter of factly and suddenly you feel the need to straighten your posture and try to get as far from him as possible.

“I am not.” The lie is pathetic as it meets the frosted air and Eddie smiles eerily.

“It’s the makeup, isn’t it? You like the makeup.” His head strains back on his neck as he lets out a loud laugh, “Fuck— that’s pathetic. You must be into some really weird shit.”

“I- that’s absurd!! I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You squeal and slink your arms around your torso. Partially because you were cold but also to be protective and assertive of yourself, “You don’t even know me—“ Eddie interjects, his finger tapping impatiently against his painted lips.

“Shhhh.” You feel the soft grain of his leather gloves as they tickle your skin and Eddie’s hands fully embrace your bare shoulders, “It’s okay— I like your costume too, I suppose.” He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, “I mean, it’s a bit outdated and boring but hey, you look good.” He flashes you a teasing wink that is nearly enough to make your lungs implode with lack of oxygen.

“Goodbye, Munson.” You swivel on your kitten heels and briskly find the frozen dirt path again. Your head involuntarily looks over your shoulder, trying to catch sight of Eddie one last time as you leave him behind but to your total disadvantage the metal head was no longer standing where you had left him.

He too, had taken off.

And unbeknownst to you, you had just pressed play on one of Eddie Munson’s all time favourite games; Cat and mouse.

It was getting later and later with every passing second and you couldn’t find your friends anywhere. You had last seen them run off whilst laughing and screaming in total horror but you hadn’t seen them since.

Had they actually ditched you and went home?

Once the thought infiltrated your psyche you contemplated on cutting the scare walk short and heading back to the funfair to search for them. However, going back meant that you had to go alone and there was something devilish about that.

To your left, through a thick canvas of sweetgum trees you can hear the owl again. Hooting softly— a sound that should calm your nerves but instead it tugs on them viciously. It’s more like an emergency siren warning you. A sign for you to run and to never look back.

A man made whistle slices through the chirping of the birds and it cuts at your skin like the edge of a blade. You look left and right, frantically dancing in circles as you try to determine where it’s coming from; but you are met with nothingness.

“Eddie, if that’s you then cut it out! This isn’t funny!” Your fingernails pinch at your skin as you begin to walk panicked in the opposite direction. Never paying attention to what’s in front of you, your gaze always trailing off to the side and behind you.

That’s when you see him— the skull peering at you from a dark line of trees in the distance. Your feet come to a staggering stop as you eye him. Was your mind playing tricks on you? Was Eddie really staring back at you or were you deluding yourself?

You swallow thickly, your mouth dry as you watch him emerge from the greenery. Before your brain can compute what your body is doing you are running; charging into the fullness of the forest.

Tree branches whip and rip at your skin, causing it to redden and sting. You wince but you continue soldiering on, your shoulders barge through sticks and nettles and thorns.

Your mind had convinced you that this was real. That you were being chased by a psycho.

“Hey— hey, stop!! It’s okay! Wait—“ Eddie is close behind you, crunching twigs beneath his boots but you are quicker than he is; more frightened and resilient to get as far from him as possible. For your own safety.

“Sweetheart! Stop!” You can hear him getting frustrated as he trudges through the cluttered landscape but you can see lights shining in front of you, just up ahead, and it causes you to force your legs to quicken. Desperate to reach there.

But just before you explode onto the funfair grounds your legs give way beneath you and you crash to the ground. The palms of your hands scrape against the jagged forest floor and your dress rips against a spiked log. You thought this shit only happened in the movies— but tonight you were proven wrong.

You look behind you and your eyes well up with tears of both pure adrenaline and fear at Eddie propelling himself toward you.

You bring up your hands around your head to protect yourself as you shrink back onto the floor, over the fact that your hair is full of pine needles and your knees are scraped and bleeding.

Eddie crouches by your side, a deep frown on his face and worry in his eyes.

“Hey, sweet girl, you’re okay…” Eddie bites off his leather gloves and throws them to the soft earth. He is gentle to pry your cold hands away from your muddied face and he hisses quietly at the temperature of your skin compared to his. He examines the palms of your hands tenderly, “Ouch… this must hurt. What were you thinking?”

Your foolishness almost causes Eddie to laugh, but after witnessing the genuine anxiety plaguing your features he decides not to.

“It was too real.” You blubber, letting out a dampened sob and Eddie’s heart pangs with guilt and sorrow, “I couldn’t find anyone and… and I saw you and I just couldn’t think of anything else…”

“I’m sorry, love. C’mere, let me help you up.” Eddie is crouched down, his knees bent as he braces himself in front of your shaking frame. He outstretches his hands toward you and you take them hesitantly.

Thanks to Eddie’s strength he pulls your weak body up to meet his with ease and he hold you against his chest. Breathing softly as he tries to calm your laboured and nervous breaths.

“I really am sorry… it’s just me, ‘Kay? I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise.” He peppers comforting pecks into your hair and your nails claw at the back of his shirt, “It must’ve been pretty scary; being out there all alone with me.”

You nod, your mind finally calming at the sound of his lulling and gentle voice.

“I do like the makeup.” Your confession is meek and muffled against his chest, “I think there must be something wrong with me.” You laugh, managing to pull away his chest and look at him much more confidently now.

“Not at all,” Eddie grins, “I think it’s quite the opposite, actually. Very normal— it might even be considered vanilla to some people out there.” Although you have removed yourself from the skull painted man’s chest, the closeness between the both of you remains the same.

The truth was; Eddie had always admired you. Your intelligence and your cunning. You were beautiful, which was the cherry on top of your infectiously bright personality. He had noticed you at the beginning of the academic year and he was too chicken to talk to you. You both were connected through Steve but Steve never really paid attention to Eddie’s longing and begging looks toward you.

But Steve didn’t have to say anything. Not anymore. Because you could see it for yourself. You could see beneath the intricate paint on his face that Eddie felt something for you. You weren’t sure what it was; lust, a crush or plain friendship but you could see it. Feel it.

“You must think I’m a total freak.”

“You have no idea who you’re talking to, sweetheart. I am the biggest freak to have ever lived.” Eddie lets out a giddy chuckle and his hands continue to rest lightly around your body. You welcome his lingering touch and his nearness. It felt familiar. Nice.

“We both look like weirdos standing out here in the dark.” Your eyes scan around the auburn horizon of tall trees and a soft smile rests on your smudged lipstick covered lips, “People are going to think we’ve been up to no good.”

Eddie smiles, his hand coming to stroke your cheek gently and tuck some of your rouge hair behind your ear, “With how windswept your hair is, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

You both stand there, the air is clouded with electrifying tension and you can’t think of anything else other than how badly you want him to kiss you.

“I wanna take you out… on a date.” His hands cup your face, “When I’m not this caricature. I’ll just be me and you will be you. You won’t have to run from me…” His cold nose brushes the tip of yours, “I won’t have to chase you.” You can smell mint and nicotine on his breath and you have never been more intoxicated by anything in your entire life.

“What’d ya say, sweet girl? Let me take you somewhere nice so I can kiss you properly at the end of the night?” There is a slight desperation to his voice and you bite your lip to suppress a wide smile.

“I’d like you to chase me, Eddie. Chase me with daisies and a boombox and your guitar. You won’t have to run after me for long…” You are dangerously close to him now, your breath quickening as you press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. It takes every ounce of self control not to eat his entire mouth with yours, “Take me anywhere. As long as it’s with you.”

“I will.” He promises.

“And kiss me at the end of the night?” You are desperate yourself now, your eyes sparkling with moonlight as you look up into his shadowy hues.

“I will.” He strokes your hair so delicately; like you are the most precious thing he has ever handled, “I promise.”

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littlestpersimmon · 1 year

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Guy with cataracts and scarred from an explosion has a fail toymaking shop in front of a rundown temple and he has a crush on a disfigured lowly priestess whom he suspects is a stealth trans guy because she always picks the boy option when they play board games (he’s right btw)

He's from Kalantiaw, but his mom is diaspora, and I thought her to be half "Japanese" (coded) - still trying to figure out how japanese ethnicities come to play.

She was a sailor turned pirate. She didn't know the language spoken in Kalantiaw (more akin to Khmer), and she spoke a different language (more austronesian), and she named him Kahilingan, which means "wish". But in Kalantiaw, where she settled, his name means "curse" or "bad omen" 💀 it doesn't help that her life ended with the beginning of his. So.

Kahi spends much of his life chasing the image of his mom and trying to.... live up to her- because sailing is the most esteemed occupation in their world. Only very very very very very few people have managed to work on "dragonships".

Basically, their world is physically broken (like living on an asteroid belt) and they sail to and fro each sundering / country on specialized stone ships called "dragonships" / "bakunawa"- and the ships themselves are semi-alive? They're like.. Stone ships laminated with the spirits of devas and dragons and other great beings who have all died because of (redacted).

Anyway, his mom, Maaya, was a renowned sailor- she tamed a dragonship that was imbued with an infamously wild dragon called Duksa- Dragonships are Sponsored, but those who sponsor the ships are almost never in command, and they also easily lose ownership to their hired captains- because the ships themselves are sentient, and they never obey anyone who they deem are incapable of commanding them. Only Maaya could control Duksa hehe. So she became known throughout all their world as this wild woman who loved fast boats and only accepted voyage commissions "if they are very fun". Anyways blah blah blah she fell in love w Kahi's other parent (who is nonbinary) and she got pregnet with him. And they eventually settled in Kalantiaw, in it's countryside near the subterranean capital (Kamharik).

Kahi always annoyed his other parent abt his mom because he too wanted to meet Duksa, but his parent kept warning him not to go near the ship because after Maaya died, it went even more mad with grief. Kahi more of an engineer than a captain like his mom, but his goal was simply to acquaintance with Duksa rather than actually captain her. But Duksa did not accept anyone, not even anyone who was part of Maaya's original crew.. Kahi went to an apprenticeship on shipbuilding-

he became somewhat popular for being clever with his hands, and all around Kalantiaw, everyone thought of him as reliable and very creative when it came to problem solving. So he went from normal ships to fixing dragonships.. ..

The Greatest dragonships are ones that are imbued with the spirits of actual ancient dragons and qilin, bc some are imbued with "lesser" dragons or false dragons, and some are with non-dragon albeit great spirits- like minor gods, wind spirits, phoenix,naga, etc etc..

Duksa was a true and great dragon, and Kahi knew that she was suffering from severe neglect, so all he wanted was to patch her up-

Everyone, every single one of Kahi's peers discouraged him, bc it is known that anyone who even approaches her is immediately kilIed by her; but Kahi, he is different. When he approaches Duksa, she was a shadow of herself, a ghost ship- She senses Maaya, and she even thought that Kahi was her at first- so she lets Kahi patch her big crabclaw sails, fixed her boilers and really tried to replicate how she used to look when Maaya lived.. and Duksa didn't know it wasn't her, because her eyes were covered in barnacles.. The "eyes" of a dragonship is its lodestar, and Kahi was purposefully saving it for last because he is frightened of what Duksa could do to him;;

But before that, Duksa spoke to him, joked like "ah beauty, what happened to you?! Your voice sounds like you swallowed a frog.. are you ill? Why did you abandon me?" Fhjsjs

"Why are your hands so gentle now? I want you to be rough!! Stop this at once! I am not old!"

But when Kahi started scraping finally at the lodestar, and he opened Duksa's eyes to the world once more, she cried in great anger because who tf was this intruder! And why did he carry Maaya's spirit with him !!!

Her entire deck creaked so hard the floorboards broke again, and she swayed her whole body so Kahi nearly fell from the lodestar;; he tried to reason with her, and it sort of mirrors how his mom tamed Duksa. She barrelled in head on and confidently, but Kahi was meek and gentle.

Eitherway.. an angry dragonship is like highly radioactive, its like being in a storm in a contained environment, and she started puffing steam- it's like microdosing being in fukushima; And she called Kahi a fool, he'll never measure up to Maaya, he will never be her- aaaah, but she didn't kiIl him. Maybe because she knew he was Maaya's boy. She warned him never to return, and tossed him into the open shallows. So, he was absolutely brokenhearted. He was 19.

~intense lonely lovestory between him and a closeted trans guy raised by mean transphobic priestesses in a cult the antithesis of a loving and wise lesbian death goddess occurs.~

There she is.. her name is Viharana Magayarin

Names-

Maaya's name is spelled a certain way in kanji, I want it to mean "True"

Duksa's name is Tagalog, it means "grief"

Kahilingan's name is tagalog- and it means "wish". Inspired from.. in tagalog, "curse" is a contronym of sorts- "curse" and "promise" is the same word ("sumpa")

Kahi's trans boyfriend's name is Tala, and it means "star" 😌

#dalayangan

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in-class-daydreams · 9 days

Note

What was that thing about the reader’s burn mark in the ex husband Gojo au?

This was one of my first ever Sen AU asks and it took me this long to answer it because actually didn't have a concrete answer until now lol I didn't expect this AU to get popular or for anyone to notice that detail. But I wanted to do a good job as a token of appreciation of one of Sen's first fans. Sorry for the wait!

cw. kidnapping, violence, boldily injury, descriptions of a burn wound, reader and Gojo are around 20 in this, proofreading is for suckas

Imagine how unafraid you are when you've been kidnapped because you know that husband Gojo will always come to save you.

"Come ooooon!" Satoru groans. "If you get away, my report doesn't have to be as long, so can't you just let her go and save us both some effort?"

The three of you were locked in a standoff in the boiler room of some supposedly abandoned building. It smelled of mold and garbage and you're convinced the building would be condemned if the proper authorities knew the state of the place.

Your captor - Well, one of them. The rest didn't make it this far - has you in a headlock. He has blood dripping down his temple and his crewmates lay lifeless all around him, brandishing you around like a human shield.

"Fat chance!" your captor shouts. You don't understand where he gets the confidence, but to his credit, he probably only survived this long because he's nowhere near as afraid of Satoru as the rest of his buddies were. "You wanna fight! Let's fight!"

He tosses you aside and your head violently bashes into the brick wall. You collide with a rusty metal pipe, breaking it apart and releasing hot steam to billow right up across your chest. You scream in pain as you smell your own burning flesh. Between the pain, exhaustion, and head trauma, you aren't able to endure much more before you lose consciousness.

Imagine husband Gojo demanding to know, "Why isn't she healing?!"

Instructor Yaga shakes his head. He didn't like the idea of one of you getting hurt, regardless of how strong you were. You may have graduated, but you'd always be one of his students.

"Our doctors are saying it's because of her cursed technique. Because she consumes cursed energy, her body processes it differently, but for some reason, she has dead spots. Parts of her body don't react to cursed energy at all. Including technique reversal," he explains.

Satoru grips your hand in his. You're asleep in an infirmary bed at the high school, looking peaceful.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. It's covered in pristine white bandage now, but when the doctor patched you up, an ugly, jagged wound with bright red, burnt skin and flesh covered much of your chest from just under your collarbone to slightly farther than your sternum.

"It's not your fault," Instructor Yaga assures him.

Satoru doesn't look up from where your wound would be. He stares on tiredly.

"You're wrong," he murmurs. "But thank you for saying so."

Your eyes flutter and you slowly come back to consciousness. Satoru calls for the doctor and they rush to your side. The pain in your chest is severe, but you can only think of one thing. In your delirium, you forget about the one detail you've been agonizing on how to tell your husband.

You ask, "Is the baby okay?"

Thank you so much for the ask!

Click [here] to keep up with ex-husband Gojo and his (now estranged) family | Ask stuff about Sen and the fam [here]

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo sentaro #jjk imagines

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rabbitblackx · 1 year

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May I have a head canon where an S/O accidentally walked in and saw their Slasher lovers topless/naked? The S/O would feel shame yet hot, since they find them attractive, but didn't want their Slasher boyfriend to be offended. I would love to know what their reaction would be.

Include: Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, Bubba Sawyer and Freddy Krueger if you please, and if you feel like it, you can add the other characters you liked ;)

Reader walks in on slashers naked

Includes: Bubba Sawyer, Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees and Freddy Krueger

Bubba Sawyer💖

Bubba was super embarrassed. As soon as you entered his bedroom, he was squealing like a girl and trying to cover up. Your cheeks darkened in a blush, unaware that his face too was rosy under his mask

“Whoops! Sorry, Bubba. Didn’t mean to barge in like that.” You chuckled bashfully

Bubba stammered out some gibberish in response, hiding himself behind the clothes he was just about to put on. You smiled at him sweetly, regaining your composure

“I like what I see anyway.” You purred

You gave him a wink before strutting out the door and shutting it behind you. You left Bubba a flustered mess, head in his hands as he tried to pull himself together. You drove him wild!

Michael Myers💖

You swung your bedroom door open, calling out to Michael to ask him something when you saw it. He was just about to put his black shirt on, his coveralls tied at his waist. His toned, perfectly scarred chest was on full display

You didn’t even try to hide that you were staring. You hand remained on the doorknob as you practically drooled over an unamused Michael

“Wow,” you finally blurted, eyes still glued to his chest. “You. Are. Hawt.”

Michael was so done with you. Instead of putting the shirt on he was still holding, he threw it at your face. It clung to your head momentarily, before you yanked it off

“Joke’s on you. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

You checked Michael out one more time, before waltzing out of your room with his shirt. You sure hoped he had fun being shirtless for the rest of the day!

Jason Voorhees💖

You hummed a tune as you walked into your room with a basket of Jason’s laundry. Your eyes immediately grew wide at the sight of said man standing naked by your bed

Jason was secretly mortified. In one inhumanly fast motion, he snatched the blanket off your bed and covered his junk with it. The pillows flung off along with it and hit the wall

“That’s not fair. I was enjoying that.” You grinned, choking down laughter. You set the laundry basket down on your now bare bed, turning to him with a playful glint in your eye. “Now, you can put these clothes on if you’d like.” You began

Jason stared at you from behind his mask, flustered yet keen to know what you were getting at

“But I’d much prefer if we had a little fun first.” You purred with a giggle

Freddy Krueger💖

After falling asleep one night, you found yourself in an old boiler room like usual. Though it never looked as intimidating for you as it did for others. You wandered for a bit, calling out to your boyfriend Freddy. As you turned a corner, you found him fully naked… waiting for you on a bed

“Oh, my days!” You threw your hands up in surprise and used them to shield your red face

Freddy purred your name, patting the sheets next to him. “I’ve been expecting you. Why don’t you come lay down next to me?” He offered with a smirk

You kept your face covered, too shy to show Freddy how flustered he got you. But as you slowly crept over to join him, something told you he already knew

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fanaticsnail · 7 months

Text

Shameless: 2/3

Masterlist Here, Part 1 Here

Word Count: 6,901

(Image Source)

Synopsis: Your shamelessness has gotten you in trouble with your captain, Trafalgar Law. When he sent you to your workshop, the last thing you expected was to welcome the foreign captain into your personal space. Bonding over tinkering, you learn more about a man who you reciprocates your shameless flirtations.

Notes: And just like that, part 2 is done! Sorry for the wait, but had to ensure language was perfect. First time writing for Kid split into two parts - 12,195 words (what is wrong with me).

Themes: NSFW language, flirtatious conversation, grinding against a wall, kissing, biting, licking, mentions of missing limbs, mentions of scars, shamelessness, Kid likes you, soft moments, mostly flirting, heart-pirate!reader x captain!kid, afab!reader but can be read as gn.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @cinnbar-bun

Song suggestion: What it is - Doechii

“Gah,” you scolded yourself, kicking the leg of your workbench, “I-... I am an idiot. Why am I like this?” you clapped your hands over your eyes, dragging your skin down beneath your fingertips to hide your embarrassment. You had finally found a man who was everything you were looking for, depicting your attraction to him by flirting hard with him in front of your crew. Perhaps you had come on too strong. Perhaps he found your words too vulgar, too provocative in nature to depict your incessant need for him.

You picked up your wrench and began tightening several bolts and screws attached to your latest project, ensuring everything was ready to be examined by your captain. The heat of the office became too much for you, prompting you to unzip your boiler suit and remove your arms from the sleeves, tying them around your waist to secure them in place. Grasping your heavy, woven gloves, you tightened the straps around your forearms and scoffed at your idiocy further.

“I can see why Law wanted to hide me away,” you uttered, picking up your arc welding torch and face shield, “I am an embarrassment to him and my crew.” You flicked on your speaker, melodies and harmonies roaring to life at high volume. You sighed, flicking down your mask and igniting the tip of your tool to begin welding metals together.

The music and sparking metal disguised the opening and closing of your workshop door, the looming figure of Eustass Kid’s shadowy approach ignited its silhouette and hid it from your masked view. You muttered beneath your mask as you whipped the tool away from your project, smothering the flame while twirling the wrench in your non-dominant hand.

As the melody swelled, you sang along to the lyrics and augmented your voice while tightening your newly molded bolt to ensure it was secured in place. You raised your mask over your head, plonking it down while gathering your augmented goggles to ensure your work was appropriately executed. Without turning your focus from your project, you reached behind you and began tapping your desk with splayed fingertips to search for your hammer and wire brush.

Kid watched as you expertly twirled the tools between your four covered fingers while throwing your brush in a juggling flourish to your non-dominant hand. He was left standing dumbstruck in awe at every flex of your bare back muscles, every expert touch, every hyper-focussed gaze and how your diaphragm belted the melody in perfect time and tonality. He had every intention of taking Law up on the offer of watching you work, while he used the time to taunt you with the fact he knew he could do your job better.

As he found himself watching the rhythm you set for yourself with your expertise and precision, he was left feeling a foreign swell within his chest once again. You had been shamelessly flirting with him earlier, in such a way that initially startled and enraged him. He couldn’t believe you would risk insulting him in front of your own captain, let alone the danger that came with his own pirate crew.

He continued to watch you work with your hands to create a masterpiece of mechanical art, both dangerous and violent in nature - his attention was captured completely. You were focussed, your hands tearing through metal and sifting through bolts with practiced precision. His eyes were truly held hostage, shamelessly raking over your body and unable to rip themselves away. You were perfect.

Would you look as focussed on him as he rammed his cock in your mouth? Or perhaps your brows would elevate and lips curl in bliss while he harshly snaps his hips against yours to chase your mutual ecstasy. Would your words only get more filthy the more he fucks you? Or would they turn into mewling gasps and keening groans as he demonstrated just how many settings his mechanical arm had. At that thought, he glanced down to his metallic limb, his index finger and thumb clenching together as he thought on it further.

Did you find his severed limb repulsive? You made no complaint while his prosthetic hand was circling your neck and caging you beneath it. In fact, you looked eager to receive such a violent touch from him. Your lust was depicted all over your face, never once breaking your eyes from seeking his own. You could have anyone you want, looking the way you do. Why him? Did you want him, or were you simply using him to satiate your own unbridled curiosity?

He was so caught up in his own unhinged and perverse thoughts, he never noticed you turning around and silently gasping in shock. You become immediately lost in the fact the man you were just fantasizing about was standing in your personal workshop, distracted by his metal arm by his side. You cautiously placed your tools down on your workbench, removing the heavy gloves from your hands, and leant your hips back against your desk. You hooked your ankles, crossing your arms over your chest and allowed yourself the luxury of examining him further.

The music continued to blast over the speakers, the song switching to the next with a slow fade and swell into its crescendoed beginning. Kid slowly drew his eyes away from his arm, startling himself by meeting with your eyes baring directly into his own. You flicked off the music with your index finger before relacing your arms within each other once again. You both fell into an awkward silence, neither of you truly knowing what to say to one another.

“Here to watch the show,” you broke the silence with the flirtatious hum of your voice, “Or to make good on your threat of a good time?”

Kid continued to be held in perplexed silence, allowing you to study his body a little further. ‘Captain Kid,’ you repeated in your mind. This man was a skilled captain, one your own captain deemed worthy enough to form an alliance with. You would love to get to know him further, but all thoughts swirling within your mind were as filthy as back bog water.

“They mutually exclusive?” his smirk quirked at the corner, his vibrant lip paint decorating his lips with a partially glossy sheen, “And what happened to you calling me ‘Sir’?”

“You’re in my space,” you shrugged, pouting your lips and elevating your brows, “If anything, you should be calling me ‘Sir’ in here.”

“Ooh,” he taunted with a harsh and low growl, “Cocky in your workshop, are you?” he taunted you, his tone dripping with feigned fear. His smile only grew further up his face at your agitation rising on your features, “Apologies, Sir. Didn’t mean to interrupt your concentration, Sir.”

You scoffed, unlacing your hands and allowing Kid to get a proper look at your exposed flesh. His breath hitched, catching completely within his throat as he allowed the swell within his chest to grow deeper. Your brow arched up, allowing yourself the same luxury of ogling his body with your eyes while gripping the counter behind you.

“Gonna stop spurting filth at me, then?” Kid whispered before he could stop the words from leaving his lip, “Or are you as provocative with every Nakama meeting with your crew?” You rolled his questions over your mind.

“I’ll grant you a partial ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to both questions,” you shrugged, hands still clutching the bench behind you for support, “I am known for my vulgarity, but I do have the ability to behave when asked nicely.” Kid hummed in response, choosing to not engage with the conversation further than that. His heavy boots wove past you, his focus now switching to your project behind you.

“Wanna tell me ‘bout this?” he tapped the larger, steel barrel of the base of your project. You rotated your neck, feeling a click relieve itself within the rotation.

“It’s Project Battle-Surge,” you hummed, turning and walking away from your workbench, “Been at it for a little while now, and I’ve almost got him ready.”

“Him?” he furrowed his brows, sparing a small glance your way, noticing your focus was on his metal harm hanging limply by his left side, “Alright, Sunshine. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” You snapped your eyes up to meet with his, watching as he bobbed his chin to shift your focus back onto his mechanical arm.

“You’ll tell me about how it was made? Show me how it works?” You asked him, your eyes widening and smile elevating to showcase your wonderment. He chuckled at your tone, his own eyes darting over to your own mechanical project longingly.

“Show you?” he scoffed, glancing over to the project behind you, “Baby, if that thing is what I think it is: I’ll take the damn thing off for you and let you have a turn.”

“There you go again; threatening me with a good time,” you cooed flirtatiously at him, testing his boundaries by brushing your fingertips along the flesh of his right arm from his elbow to his fingers. You removed your hand from his, placing it on your project, “I’m willing to talk to you about him. He’s forged for war: hopefully going to function as both a sentinel tool, and a suit of wearable armor. Just trying to come up with a name for him that’s not just ‘Total BS’.”

Kid’s roar of laughter ricocheted around the room, pumping your chest with the fluttering wings of butterflies and a flush to rise to swell your cheeks. After he stifled his cackle, he shook his head and cradled his head in the flesh of his palm.

“No, no. That’s perfect. ‘Total BS’,” he reached up to his shoulders, removing his weighty jacket and placing it on your workbench. His bare skin was exposed to you, the trail of scars running from his face down his neck, to his absent arm, down his chest and stomach holding you hostage, “I love it, truly. A perfect name for a perfect creation. Definitely deserves a little bit of knowledge about my arm.” He maneuvered his mechanical arm, flexing the wired muscles within and he began removing the straps holding it in place.

“Didn’t expect to be doin’ this today. Don’t normally enjoy takin’ the damn thing off and on again,” his brow focussed, teeth clenching as he sucked in a strained breath while removing the prosthetic limb from his stumped flesh, “But I think you’ll get a kick outta it.”

For each spurt of ‘Total BS’ from you, Kid would reflect knowledge about his mechanical arm. As you powered your mechanical man on, Kid showcased how to use his arm; how he tended to it and kept it in top condition.

As the minutes turned into hours, your buzzed rapport continued to get more and more excitable. You felt both on edge and at ease beside him, both as passionate about this particular interest as the other was. Your brilliant and enthusiastic smiles were reflected within one anothers, both allowing the giddiness to rise within you and prolong discussion about your mechanical wonders.

All of the questions were ‘the right ones’, all of the excitement was founded in ‘the right places’. You both felt drawn into each other, leaning into each other's warmth; your bare flesh brushing with his as if you’d known him for a lifetime. As you sat with Kid’s dismembered prosthetic in your lap, fawning over the intricate designs and pieces; he was just as enamored by the large suit of armor you had skillfully created.

He snuck a few hidden and weighted glances at you, heart swelling with longing. He craved how you’d feel beneath his hand, how you’d taste on his tongue beneath his painted lips. He felt his body draw itself closer to yours in each passing moment, as a magnet collided and stuck against a metallic force. He wanted you so desperately, he could barely contain his incessant need for you.

You stood, bending over to lift the heavy arm and place it down on your workbench - Kid’s eyes shamelessly following the plump curvature of your covered ass as you stooped. The material of your boiler suit dipped seductively with every step, Kid’s dangerous swelling growl beginning to click and crackle in his chest the longer he stared at you. You hummed thoughtfully, finally completely understanding the concept of his arm, picking up a polishing cloth and shining lacquer.

“It looks like you haven’t taken it apart and re-welded the underbolts for a little while,” you added with a frown while poking at the bolt with your prongs, “Did you want me to take them off, clean it up a little bit,” you waved the towel, flicking it out to ensure it was clean and sanitary, “I could solder it back together for you when I’m done, if you want.”

Kid was startled, his loud voice no longer gracing the air with its presence. Being met with his silence, you turned around to face him, cocking your head to the side as you studied his face. His expression was not easy for you to read, vacant with a small aura of violent aggression rising in his eyes. Reading it as cause for offense from one tinkerer to another, you quickly straightened your stance, holding your hands out and frantically waving them in front of you.

“No, no, no! I didn’t mean to offend you” you attempted to suck back in your words, desperately craving to build your rapport with this tinkerer-captain you had grown to admire, “I just figured, since you’re in my workshop, I’d offer my body to be put to good use for you.” At that comment, you mentally slapped yourself for your unintentional double-meaning.

He straightened his spine, swooping forwards and lumbering his hulking form over your smaller body, caging you beneath his powerful aura. You squeaked out a small, shocked peep when he grasped your left arm within his right palm, thumb, and large fingers. Stooping forward, he forced his forehead to forge against your own and pushed your body backwards until your bare flesh met with the cool of the metal wall.

“You want me to put your body to good use?” he hissed out a low growl through clenched teeth, “You got it, Sunshine.”

Without a further word, Kid surged his face forwards and claimed your parted lips with his own. There was no subtlety, no timidness, and absolutely no hesitation to be found against his lips. His body burned with violent passion and intensity, brows furrowing and sucking in a harsh inhale of sharpened breath through his pointed nose.

His teeth bit and bruised your bottom lip, tongue pushing past your lips and dominating yours without restraint. He raked his tongue sloppily against your own, sliding it throughout every inch of your parted lips you exposed to him. You responded to his unrestrained passion by hooking your arms around his thick neck, weaving your fingers in his red hair.

Stapling your hips with his own, you felt deliciously hopeless and caged between his body and the metallic surface of the Polar Tang’s steel walls. You tilted your head up, allowing him to claim all of you he wanted to with his lips, body, and desperately grasping hand. Angling his stumped arm against the wall, he dragged his fingers harshly down your bicep and halted at your hips. He aggressively circled his arm behind your waist and violently clamped his fingers and thumb over the bone of your hip and hoisted you effortlessly within the air.

You parted your legs and hooked them over his hips, your feet joining at the ankles to anchor your body against his. He growled against your lips, nipping harshly at the corner of your mouth and jaw; before leaving a fluttering trail of crimson lip-paint and pinching bruises down your neck to your rapidly beating pulse. You gasped as he clamped his lips, teeth and tongue over your flesh - whimpering as a particularly harsh bite found purchase against your neck, prompting your eyes to flutter shut.

Crying out your desperate longing for him had a rumbling chuckle vibrating against your neck. Every action he surged against you had your craving for more of his unwithheld brutality, both satisfied in receiving his touch and longing for more he could give to you. He rolled his hips against your own, feeling the growing hardness produced beneath his leathery pants.

Your thoughts became more filthy the longer you focussed on what more he was hiding away from you, prompting you to grind your covered body against his own in response. Kid groaned, rutting into your body further by pressing you into the wall to inhibit your ability to do anything other than take what he was giving to you. Opening your eyes, you glanced down at his face as he began to nip and suck at your collar bone.

The scars reflected silver within the darkening hum of false, electrical light. His eyes were closed and brow deep in concentration as he focussed on marking you with his mouth. You followed the trail of his scar down his neck to his shoulder, mapping your way down to his absent left arm. Every part of him was beautiful to you, the lightning marks of heavy violence depicted on his flesh showcasing how much he endured in his past - and how strong he was to overcome it.

Sensing your shift in focus, Kid halted his marking and looked up into your eyes, noticing their fixation being solely on his missing limb. He sucked in a deep, angry breath through his grimacing teeth and his brow slunk lower in agitation.

“You that bothered by a missin’ arm, Sunshine?” he growled through clenched teeth, your eyes immediately snapping over to meet with his own, “And here I thought you liked me.” Your pupils were blown with lust, lips parted and panting and cheeks flushed with a rising warm heat.

Without hesitation, you slowly revealed your tongue to him and used the pointed tip to lick a long stripe up his scarred flesh. Refusing to tear your eyes away from his, you swirl your tongue against his skin and map the scar with your mouth in open and passionate kisses. Once making your way up his bicep and neck, you pressed a chaste and playful kiss against his scarred cheek quickly with a smile.

“Not at all disturbed,” you chirped happily with a flutter of your half-hooded eyelashes, “I like you,” you angled your head, brushing the tip of your nose with his own, “And I am prepared to show you how much I admire every inch of you you’re willing to share with me.” Eustass Kid gulped a dry swallow of air in an attempt to return the saliva to his mouth.

“F-Fuck,” Kid gasped, awestruck by your promiscuity and provocation alongside your cheerful disposition. You giggled at him, pressing another hasty kiss against his scarred cheek, trailing a flutter of your lips over his injured eye and back down his face again to the corner of his lips.

“If we start this,” he began, gaining your attention back on him, “You’ll tell me to stop if you can’t handle it, won’t ya?” he whispered against your lips, anchoring his hips against yours to pin you in place while retracting his hand from your waist to caress your cheek. He bore his intense auburn eyes into yours, angrily growling, “Answer me.”

Your eyes widened, lips falling apart in shock. Pulling your face away from his, you unwove your fingers from his hair and secured them against his shoulders, leaning your face and nuzzling it into his calloused palm.

“Yes, Sir,” you whispered against his palm, pressing a gentle kiss against the warm center of his hand, “But understand this,” you cautioned him, eyes turning serious as you met with his own, “There’s a lot I can take before I’d ever dream of telling you to stop.”

Eustass Kid groaned at your words, hunching forward to sink his teeth once more against your clavicle. He knit his fingers against the base of your hair, tugging it back to expose more of your flesh while rutting his hips against yours. You mewled for him, taking each violent act of unbridled passion as it came from the hulking figure between your thighs. Each cruel bite, lick, suck and kiss burnt heavenly against your skin; pumping your blood to elevate your pulse with every ministration from Kid.

As he licked a dangerous and intentional stripe along the crevice of your cleavage, tracing the curvature of your breasts with the tip of his tongue; the speakers roared to life with Trafalgar Law’s bored voice depicting orders through the powered system.

“All crews and captains return to the top deck. We’ve docked, mealtime set and are waiting. Come and get it.”

Both you and Kid groaned in frustrated unison, feeling as pent up in lust as one another. You hooked your arms over his shoulders, pulling him desperately closer to your body while pressing heated kisses against his temple and hairline. He panted, enjoying each moment he spent within your arms and between your legs.

Whether he was ready to admit it or not, Eustass Kid had not experienced such a willing and enthusiastic lover to welcome him between their parted thighs in such a long time. The way your chest heaved with panted breath, your lips hungrily seeking out more of his skin, while your fingernails raked down his exposed flesh had his breath hitching and blood rushing to every crevice of his body. He was reveling in each moment you granted him - every worshipful touch, and every kiss you peppered him with.

He could not comprehend how someone so intelligent, someone so skilled with their craft, clung to him with such lustful passion. If given enough time, he could truly see himself partnered with such a person as you. A fellow tinkerer; a person as nasty as he was with vulgar language and promiscuous expression.

“We gotta stop, Sunshine,” Kid growled into your jawline, pressing his lips to vibrate against your jugular, “C’mon, your captain’s given’ ya orders.”

“And here you were offering me an out, Sir,” you gasped, tracing his cheek with your parted lips and playfully nipping at his cheek with your teeth, “Do you want to stop?”

He groaned again in frustration at your words, eyes rolling back in his skull while he attempted to harbor his restraint. He pressed a dangerous roll of his hips against your own, testing both his and your willingness to part from one another. As you mewled a cry of his name, he truly realized he was the one that needed to break off this encounter with you, in favor of maintaining his Nakama with the two crews.

“Are you that shameless you’ll make me be the one to call off this little tryst to bring you to dinner?” He growled, tugging on your hair to withdraw your lips from their lustful attack on his painted skin.

“Yes,” you gasped out, grinding your hips down onto his hardening cock beneath his tight pants. He groaned both in frustration at your admission, alongside the fact he truly did not want to part from his place between your legs to attend something as boring as a formal dinner.

“Fucking hell, Sunshine,” he cursed at you, biting at the flesh of your neck while grinding his hips up into yours, “At this rate, I’d take you to dinner just to fuck you on the dining table in front of everyone.”

“Please,” your begging tone cried for him. His eyes widened in shock, tearing his face away from your skin to glare at you. He was perplexed, unsure if you were truly begging for him here and now, or if you wanted him to claim you in front of the three crews engaging together.

“Are you that shameless? You’d let me claim you in public like that?” he groaned into you, his grimace splitting his face in a puzzled expression.

“Honey,” you spoke, your voice cutting through the air like a guillotine with its precise clarity, “I’d likely tell Bepo to run first, but my crew already knows how much of a freak I am,” you surged forward, a playful nip pressed against the tip of his nose, “It’s your crew I’d worry about. Also, the Straw-Hats,” you confessed, pressing a trail of kisses against his temple, cheek and corner of his lips, “But I have demonstrated my incessant shamelessness to them in the past.”

Eustass Kid saw red. He, immediately, felt a surge of need to understand exactly what you had showcased to the Straw-Hat crew prior. If it was the flirty chef, that was fine by him - that blond flirts with everything that moves. He had even witnessed him flirt with a feminine-shaped tree in encounters past. If it was the green-haired swordsman who felt your touch, experienced your lips against his own - that was something else entirely.

“Who,” his gruff growl through clenched teeth hissed at you. You took your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling the ignition in dangerous passion within the taut flex of his muscular shoulders. After taking a moment to collect your swirling thoughts, too wrapped in the feeling of Kid’s scorched flesh pressing against your own, you uttered your answer to him.

“Roronoa Zoro,” you gasped, soothing your fingertips against his shoulders and holding him firmly against yourself. You felt the swell of jealousy form within Kid’s biceps, trapping you beneath them by caging you further against the wall. He thrust his body forwards, his lips colliding with the sensitive flesh of your shoulder and clamping his teeth down in a punishing brutality.

“It was only one time,” You cried out, pain melding into pleasure at his rough bite.

“And I’ll make you forget all about the one time when it’s my cock splitting you open,” he growled against your neck, his tongue darting out to soothe over the vicious mark he claimed against your skin, “You’ll likely forget how to walk, too. Gonna need to be carried everywhere.”

“You offering?” you managed to gasp, feeling Kid’s lips travel higher up your neck to trace the trail of lip paint and bruises back up to meet with your lips. As he continued to bruise you with his passionate and violent kisses, the powered system roared to life with another dictation from your captain.

“Once again: All crew and captains are required above deck for meal time. Final warning.”

Kid’s rumbled growl vibrated your skin beneath his lips, his hips pinning you completely against the wall once more as he argued with himself whether he truly desired tearing himself away from you in this moment, or claim you completely within his arms. Should he not conclude the pleasantries with the two crews, would it truly mean the end of an alliance between the three ships?

“Dinner first,” his voice reverberated its rumble against your flesh, “fucking after.” You whined at his promising confession, squeezing his hips between the firm grip of your thighs.

“Promises, promises,” you gasped your irritation, as you allowed him to shepherd your feet to the ground with his right arm. He groaned his own annoyance into your cheek, kneading the flesh of your waist once more within his palms.

He looked down at your body. He admired the art he had created on your flesh: marks of his trailing lip paint emphasizing every bite and kiss he had bruised against your skin. As his eyes met with yours once more, he witnessed the depiction of his future within their rotund irises. He found you incredibly beautiful, every aspect of you flawless in make.

“By my side for dinner?” his brow cocked up at his request, his fingertips locating his heavy coat alongside his prosthetic limb. As he equipped himself with both objects, you adjusted your uniform over your shoulders and zipped up your boiler uniform.

“Your side?” you asked him, turning to face him. Your fingertips found his collar, adjusting the fabric against his throat, “You think you could pry me off your lap to simply sit beside you?”

Although remaining stoic externally, Eustass Kid was enthusiastically screaming internally. He couldn’t believe your willingness to be by his side: A Heart-Pirate crewman showcasing their lust for a foreign pirate captain they had only just met. Although only spending a few hours together, Kid never wanted to part from you. He was already formulating bribes he could pay Law with to buy your loyalty away from him.

As your eyes once again met with his, he realized there was truly nothing he could find, buy, or create to pry you from your crew. You were theirs, but he wanted you so desperately to be his.

You drew your thumb up to his lips, soothing over the smeared paint in an attempt to fix its smudge to rejoin his lips instead of spilling over his lips. You bit your lip and furrowed your brow in concentration while joining your other hand on his face to fix his skin and hair. He chuckled at your fruitless attempt, raising his right hand to brush over your cheek in an almost loving gesture - pulling you from your concentration.

“Don’t fuss so much,” he purred down at you, raking his index finger from your high cheek bone to the corner of your lips, “Let ‘em know.” As you were about to reciprocate your desire for him back into his face, Law’s frustrated growl cut over the speakers once more to alert you of further instruction.

“Can the tinkerer of the Heart-Pirates and the captain of the Kid-Pirates return above deck for the evening meal now.”

Both you and Kid laughed while hastily adjusting your uniform back over your shoulders, his clothes and his mechanical arm to fix once more on his own bodies. As you approached the door, you were momentarily held in perplexed shock at the extension of Kid’s right hand reaching out to collect your left within. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, desperately seeking out one more moment of your touch against his flesh.

You smiled down at the floor, bashfully smoothing the fingers of your left hand within Kid’s right and allowing him to lead you above deck. You both hoped this meal would be as brief as it could for you to find yourselves clutching at each other’s flesh once more.

As you approached the upper deck, you witnessed the amount of effort thrust into the air at the rambunctious dining experience provided for you. Rows of collaborative seats and dining settings were ornately decorated, shined silverware Law hid away for special occasions were set perfectly in front of each of the crewmen awaiting your presence. You sheepishly met your eyes with your captain’s, the swell of disappointed disdain present within the yellowed irises.

Apprehensively, Kid released your hand from his, he marched over to find his place amongst his own crew and the two other captains, leaving you to to fall in line with your own crewmen. Although words of spoken intentions requesting you by his side for dinner, as soon as your eyes met with the amber hue of Trafalgar Law’s abrasive agitation, you decided immediately against it.

Sitting between Shachi and Ikkaku, opposite from Bepo and Penguin, you felt their eyes burning into your marked flesh. You chose not to speak, keeping your eyes fixed on your captain as he elevated his tankard - relaying a long winded toast to the three crews meeting. You elected to not engage with the gestures attempting to wave you away from your concentration from Ikkaku, Shachi and Penguin. You were the picture of innocence and obedience, refusing to tear your eyes away from your captain as he continued on with his speech.

Law’s eyes met with yours, briefly trailing down your face, neck and torso to follow the bites and lip-paint from the foreign captain plastered vibrantly against your skin. You smiled up at him, the picture of angelic and sinless appearance as he stuttered over his final words of the speech.

“May our three crews find balance and harmony over these upcoming weeks,” he concluded, elevating his tankard and prompting the crews to do the same, “Now let’s eat.”

“Yes to food!” Luffy cried in glee, enthusiastically piling an assortment of meat onto his tray at the final utterance of Law’s speech. You refused to meet your crewman’s eyes, turning to Bepo and asking him to pass you the pressed, buttery, herbed potatoes; as if it was the most natural and normal thing in the world.

After you all began gathering elements of your meal on the plate in front of you, you felt multiple eyes fixed on your body from all sides: your crewmates with their questions pushing against the walls of their lips threatening to break through like water through a dam wall. Zoro, with a wide smirk showcased on his lips and eyes narrowed in on the marks, also held unspoken commentary he desired to tease you with. Your Captain’s brimming intensity fuelling the ignition of rage beneath his features prompted your silence to remain exactly that. Silence.

Whereas Eustass Kid, sitting beside his loyal first-mate and the other two captains, sought out your eyes to ask unspoken questions he craved the answers for. The one at the forefront of his mind was: “Do you wish to continue?”

In lieu of providing an exchange of words or gestures to those around you, you coyly flicked at your plate with the silvery fork; humming along to the melody formerly blaring from your workshop speakers. Seeking out a slice of the pressed potato in your fork, you slid it onto your fork before wrapping your lips over the crisped edges.

You continued to hum while eating your meal, shoulders dancing in a subtle shake in approval while you chewed your food. Aside from your upbeat humming, you consumed your meal in silence while your closest friends attempted to seek out your attention with their eyes - pleading to be privy of the happenings occurring behind closed doors.

“You’re really not going to say anything? Not even a denial of ‘nothing happened’, or a small ‘It was good’ if something did?” Ikkaku whined at you, leaning forward on the heel of her palm and pouting her lips into her skin, “After all that, nothing?” You sighed, placing down your utensils on the table and seeking out your napkin to clean your face.

“Nothing happened,” you shrugged with your lips pursing. You took a moment's pause, allowing a delightful shudder of the memory of what occurred a few moments prior. You picked up your fork and placed your utensil within your lips before removing it with a quick ‘pop’, uttering, “ And it was good,” you sarcastically reflected back to Ikkaku. She scoffed, toying with her own plate of food with her lips curling up at the corner.

“You climb him like a tree?” Shachi grunted out, mid-bite of a roasted carrot. You giggled out a string of quiet laughter while shaking your head.

“Didn’t get the chance to,” you shrugged after finishing with your laughter, “Can you pass the meat?” Penguin elevated the tray of meat, your fingers brushing against one another as he passed the tray to you.

“Gagged, choked, and flogged?” Penguin attempted to disguise his question with a gruff cough, hiding his blush from view with the shadow of his cap. Your lips cracked into a large grin, again shaking your head at the question.

“Thank you, Penguin,” you uttered, taking the tray and placing a few pieces of meat on your plate, “And I wish.” You passed the tray on to Bepo, who hungrily piled several pieces onto his plate before passing the empty plate onto the bench behind him.

“Then what did you do?” Ikkaku asked, her elevated voice woven with exasperation. Zoro’s attention never left your body, only pausing to raise his sake bottle to his lips as he read your lips of every confession.

“We talked shop,” you shrugged, your fingers grasping the tongs within the plate of fried broccolini, fishing out several pieces of the wilted vegetable and placed it on your plate, “He’s an incredibly skilled craftsman, and it was a delight to hear him speak about his passions while sharing mine.”

“Bet that’s not all he shared of yours,” Ikkaku muttered under her breath, raising her fork to her lips with a knowing smirk, “Your neck looks like an animals been at it.”

“Yeah,” you sighed with a whimsical longing falling from your lips, swooning at the amount of marks Eustass Kid had littered your body with his passionately violent embrace. Your crewmen burst into an uproar of contagious laughter, prompting Zoro and Nami to follow suit once your hushed conversation was relayed to one another.

After you all conclude with your meals, the conversations float to the next time you all get to sing, dance and drink with one another, before you witness Eustass Kid rising to his feet. The chef of the Straw-Hat crew had only just begun serving dessert for the three Nakama crews, but this did little to halt the departure of the captain of the Punk-Rock from his place at the table.

Without meeting your eyes with his, you rose to your feet and placed your silverware atop your emptied dining plate and dusted off your thighs while straightening your uniform. You turned to where Trafalgar Law was sitting on the table, giving him a low bow: wordlessly questioning whether it would be permitted to be excused. Elevating your eyes while rising from your stoop, Law’s blushing cheeks and gritted teeth shook alongside his head with a curt, and swift, nod in affirmation. You took a moment to stifle the rising squeal of joy in your chest, before turning to address your ‘brothers in arms.’

“Goodnight, crew,” you turned to wink at Ikkaku before adding, “Talk to you in the morning, if I manage to find a leg to stand on.”

As you walked over to the archway of the Polar Tang, you halted and waited for the heavy bootsteps falling behind your own. At the jangle of metal belt-chains, the weighted thump of shoes and the subtle purred growl of the captain of the Victoria Punk stalking behind you, your shoulders shuddered in anticipation. You felt the subtle pull from his metallic left arm caging your waist within its iron grip, pulling you to face him against his torso, while simultaneously leading you back to your workshop below decks.

Both of you were buzzing with giddy lust simmering within your chests, swelling with the rise of passionate desperation for one another. You giggled, reaching down to touch the cool metal claiming your waist within its circular grasp.

“Are you that keen on me that you couldn’t finish your dessert, Sir?” you quirked your head to the side, noticing Eustass Kid’s predatory grin penetrating your flesh beneath its searing intensity.

“Why would I eat something artificially sweet when I can eat you?” he purred, his head waving to the side as he leant down into your ear, licking the outer shell, before uttering, “Gotta see how loud I can make you scream while I trap your pretty cunt against my face.” He lovingly reached his right hand down to claim your left, elevating it to his lips and gently brushing his painted lips over your knuckles, “You think your neck is the only place I’d be keen on licking, biting and kissing?”

Where Kid expected to be greeted with a squeak at his vulgarity, he was met with a similar amount of crass speech. Your eyes innocently triangulated between his own, fluttering down to meet with his lips before focussing back on his auburn irises.

“You think I’d happily sit still on your face?” you sung your intentions to him with a musical tone, “Not while I’ve got a whole throbbing and hard cock in need of my attention below your pants,” you fluttered your eyes down to his belt before slowly raking your eyes up his chest to find residency on his face.

Gauging his reaction, you continued uttering your vulgarity sweetly up at him, brushing your fingers over his jawline and trailing them down his exposed chest. Your eyes followed your fingers, gleefully swooning at the elevation of puckered flesh shuddering to life beneath your gentle touch.

“The real question is: should I take your belt off with my fingers, or would you prefer I use my teeth, Sir?” you halted your touch, your eyes snapping back up to gaze longingly into Eustass Kid’s auburn eyes.

“T-The fuck did you just say?” Kid breathily gasped into your ear, truly being perplexed with his ill-preparation for reciprocal vulgarity.

“You heard, Sir,” you teased him in return, lips pulled into a sultry smirk while reaching your index finger up to trace his angular jawline, “Fingers or teeth?” After taking a moment to straighten himself, Kid leant down to your face, gazing at you through half-hooded eyes and growling his response.

“Teeth.”

#one piece #x reader #op eustass kid x reader #eustass kid #op eustass kid #heart pirates #kid pirates #straw hat pirates #zoro #nami #eustass kid x reader #shachi and penguin #trafalgar law

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usedtobecooler · 11 months

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steve takes on a shitty little side job for halloween, working as a scare actor at the pumpkin patches after dark strictly adult shows.

his character changes most nights, to keep things fresh but mostly so that eddie won’t come running in with his girl of the night — with the sole purpose of dragging steve to the ground to make himself look tough in front of her.

tonight he’s got a burlap sack over his face, dressed in a blue boiler suit that’s ripped at the chest from an overzealous customer a few days previous — and okay, maybe he should’ve worn a shirt under it, but, y’know, the chicks dig it.

he’s hiding behind a hay bale when he spots you with your group of friends — you’re an easy target, jumping at every little noise, flash of light and brush of fingers on your elbows. your friends are laughing so hard it draws attention, every actor in the place jumping out on you all and terrifying you further.

he almost feels bad about praying on you, knowing he’s gonna freak you out, but it was what you paid for, after all. and he was endeared by the fact that, no matter how nervous you seemed, you were laughing just as hard as your friends were and looked to be genuinely enjoying it.

as you get closer, excitement builds in steve’s chest, you’re slightly sideways, unaware of his presence, and he takes his opportunity — pushes his way out from behind the bales to a gaggle of ear piercing screams and laughter. you jump, trip over your own feet and basically fall onto him, a panicked little giggle pushing past your lips.

he crowds you back up against the hay bale stack, honey flecked eyes narrowed and hardened as you stare at him, a nervous laugh escaping you. you’re breathing heavily, he can feel your chest heaving against his own with how tightly pressed together you are. he forgets for a moment that he’s meant to be scaring you, instead leaning a toned arm out to bracket you in.

he only plans to do it for a moment, but then you actively push up into him, like you’re daring him to do more and, oh. steve leans in, so close in fact, that your noses brush through the thick, scratchy material of the sack covering his face.

you gasp, another nervous laugh being punched out of you, though your gaze finally leave his to rake down the vast expanse of exposed, tan, freckled skin. steve almost feels a little smug at how long it takes for you to rip your pretty eyes off of his toned body.

your friends have long gone, their laughter and screams to be heard just over steve’s shoulder. he’s almost glad that they left you both alone to have your moment, but his shackles go up at the idea of them leaving you.

he’s almost ready to break character to escort you back to them, when a high pitched trill of your name is echoed through the maze. you almost look sad as you acknowledge your friend, pouting exaggeratedly and nodding towards them.

he holds his hand up to his ear, fingers in the shape of a makeshift phone, “gimme your number?” he’s grinning, even though you can’t see, and he knows his voice sounds deeper than usual with the muffled affect of the burlap mask.

you fluster, covering your mouth with your hand to hide your laugh, “when do you finish up?” your voice is soft, sweet and steve kind of melts with it.

steve doesn’t speak again, just holds up all ten fingers to mimic that he gets off at 10pm. you look down at your watch on your wrist, just a slight glance but it’s enough for him to catch.

“meet me under the ferris wheel once you’re off?”

and hell, who was steve to pass on that opportunity?

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington brainrot #my fanfic #mine #x reader #drabble

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plusheat · 1 year

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penny-anna · 10 months

Text

met up w a joiner last night at my new place who turned out to be very chatty and (for obvious reasons) very knowledgeable about the various quirks tenement flats have.

anyway we're talking about how best to put a door on the boiler cupboard (doesn't have one currently) which in turn leads to talking about how tenement flat doors are taller than standard doors which in TURN somehow leads to him pointing out that the doors in the flat have at some point had a sheet of plywood or something added to cover up the original panelling. goes to the hall cupboard & correctly predicts that they won't have bothered to alter the inside of it and its like damn ur right!!

i'm just there like '...why would anyone do that' & he's like 'oh it was the seventies'

#i will be over there tonight will take pictures

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kaiijo · 10 months

Note

Hii!! I loved the idea of the spotify wrapped event and I also loved your one piece one shots! Can I request 41 x Law? If you dont write for him you can write for Zoro or whoever you think would be fitting :)

IVY — TRAFALGAR LAW

trafalgar law + Oh, I can’t stop you putting roots in my dreamland content: gn! reader, canon-typical descriptions of violence, references to law’s past notes: thanks so much for your kind words! hope you enjoy this drabble!

request a character and prompt for my spotify wrapped event here!

law is no stranger to nightmares. he’s accustomed to jolting awake, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, chest heaving with anxiety and fear. he tries to remember what his parents used to tell him to calm his racing heart: inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale in a count of eight.

in. hold. out.

law doesn’t sleep a lot anymore, always locked in his office late at night, poring over books about anatomy and medicine and illnesses. it’s mostly because he’s working, the insomnia, but he knows there’s a part of him that’s almost scared to sleep — that doesn’t want to see looped images of dead bodies, feel the heat of erupting flames, hear the sounds of gunshots.

law watches as you and penguin duck under a round of marine gunfire, diving for cover behind a building. civilians draw their shutters closed. the crew’s gotten what they need from the town, now it’s a matter of getting out.

you sprint out from your hiding place, penguin hot on your heels. there’s another rain of bullets and law’s stomach lurches when he sees red dribbling down your arm, skin grazed by the bullet. he needs to get you two out of there now.

law lifts a hand. “room. shambles.” he switches you and penguin out for an empty crate and just like that, the two of you are standing safe on the polar tang’s deck. you’re both breathing hard, penguin resting his hands on his knees. you grab at your arm and law can tell that whatever adrenaline has been pumping through your veins is starting to wear off; you wince at the cut on your arm, your palm stained with blood.

law gets the crew mobilized fast, everyone hustling to get the below deck so the polar tang can submerge. law swiftly and efficiently takes down the remaining marines, heading down below as the submarine sinks below the water.

he finds you heading for the washroom. he calls your name and you whirl around quickly. “captain,” you greet him.

“follow me.” law makes sure his tone leaves no room for argument and you shuffle behind him as he walks to the operating room.

you frown when you enter the room. “captain, i really don’t think my injury warrants an opera—”

he sighs heavily. “i’m not operating. just want to get somewhere more sterile. sit on the table.”

you obey easily and law opens up a cabinet, grabbing hydrogen peroxide, a roll of bandages, and antibiotic cream. he also picks up a sterilized pair of tweezers. when he turns around, you’re already shrugging out of your boiler suit, twitching as the fabric rubs against your wound.

law approaches, doing is best to keep his eyes on the wound and not on the exposed skin you revealed. when you joined the crew, law had never been more thankful to himself for making the boiler suits uniform. he doesn’t know if he could focus otherwise.

he examines the wound, looking closely to see if there are any bits of debris or fabric stuck in it. when he doesn’t see anything, law soaks a sterile pad in hydrogen peroxide and presses it against your graze. you make a high-pitched, wounded sound that cuts right through law’s heart and he tries his best to tenderly but thoroughly clean the wound. you flinch, gritting your teeth and hissing, “you really must hate me, captain.”

you let out a pained laugh that lets law know you were joking but your statement still makes him frown. if only you knew just how much the opposite was true.

law sighs again, wrapping the bandage roll around your arm and snapping off a piece, securing it. you test the motion of your arm and law asks, “too tight?”

“no, it’s good.” you hop off the table. “thanks, doc.”

“i’ll need to check that every few days,” he tells you, “to watch for infection.”

“sounds good! guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” you shoot him a cheeky smile and thank him again as you slip out of the room. law is rooted to his spot, feeling heat climb up his neck. you faint scent lingers — cinnamon shampoo and apple soap.

law’s heart skips a beat.

late into the night, law sits at his desk in his office, doing is best trying to focus on the medical text in front of him. he thinks about the smoothness of your skin and the way your eyes curve into half-moons when you smile. he drags a hand down his face.

he needs to focus. he needs to not think about you. he needs to think about bones and hairline fractures and how fast the human heart can go before it—

law hears footsteps and he knows it’s you, beckoning you in even before you can announce your arrival and knock on the door. you swing it open, smiling brightly at him. gods, he swears you hold moonbeams in your grin.

“right as always,” you say as you close the door behind yourself.

“do you need something? is it your arm?”

you shake your head. “no, just thought i’d check up on you. knew you’d still be up.”

law offers a wry smile. “no rest of the wicked.”

“i’d agree with you, but you’re not wicked, captain.”

law raises an eyebrow in surprise. he is wicked — it’s a known fact. everything he touches is destroyed eventually. when he doesn’t reply, you continue, “you look out for everyone, you’re a doctor for gods’ sakes.”

“so? bad people can do good things.”

your moonbeam smile falls and your expression turns stern. “you care for us, captain, all of us in a way that no one truly wicked ever would. don’t talk about yourself that way. ”

his heart’s in his throat and he’s desperately trying to swallow it down. “okay.”

you nod firmly and then bring your hand up to hide your yawning mouth. law tells you, “you should get some rest.”

“i came here to get you to go to sleep.”

“don’t worry about me.”

you cross your arms. “i’m not going to sleep until you do.”

law levels you with a stare and you gaze right back, unwavering in your conviction. you two stare for a good few seconds. he can see the way your eyes shimmer. it doesn’t seem that you’re backing down. law breaks the connection and sighs, “fine. let’s go.”

he puts away his books and papers and the two of you head down the hallway. he tries to guide you to your room first but you say, “nope. i want to make sure you actually go to sleep.” so you head for his quarters first.

you come to his door and you say, “you better get some sleep. a healthy, well-rested captain is vital for an efficient and successful crew.”

“i know.”

he basks in the comfortable silence that falls over the pair of you. then, you yawn again and he orders you off to bed yourself. you smile sleepily at him, your eyes form crescents again as you do so. “alright, i’m off then.” you turn and begin to walk away. over your shoulder, you call softly, “good night, law.”

he bids you good night and steps inside his room, door shutting behind him. it’s in there, as he’s changing into pajamas, that he realizes.

it’s the first time you said ‘law,’ not ‘captain.’

your voice repeats like a record in his head. law. law. law. his heart thunders in his chest.

for the first time in a long time, law isn’t afraid to fall asleep. instead of the screaming nightmares he usually faces, he’s met with a different image as he drifts off.

in a tender, hazy light, law dreams of you.

#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ kaiijo writes #kaiijo's spotify wrapped event #one piece x reader #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar d water law x reader #op x reader #law x reader #law x you #trafalgar law x you #one piece x you #trafalgar d water law x you #op law #trafalgar law imagine #trafalgar law fic #trafalgar law scenario #law fic #one piece scenario #one piece imagines

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cokou · 3 months

Note

First of all: I absolutely adore your writing style. Can i request something for my favorite penguin boy? He needs way more love. Something like your reaction, seeing him without his hat for the first time or some enemy to lover trope. I guess we all know that he is just a sweet and caring guy but i cant help but think how he would react in this case. Like being attractive to reader but at the same time disliking reader (maybe due some sort of misunderstanding?)

I hope this makes sense. Have a sweet day and I really hope you would feel comfortable writing for him. <3

Troublesome 面倒な

Penguin × F!Reader ペンギン×エフ！読者

event. 100 followers event! Requests all open till 17th of July 2024. ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sum. Accidentally revealing his face in front of you stirred up some misunderstanding. ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tw. SFW! No warnings tbh. ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ a/n. THANKYOUSOMUCH. Yes, yes, YES! I will definitely write this rn, I love this rq my fave one so far!! AND I KINDA PUT THIS UP MY EVENT ONG LOL <3 SORRY IF THIS WASN'T WHAT YOU EXPECTED D:// Do not translate or transfer my works, this is my only account. Will not be crossposted anywhere. // Masterlist♡

Another day inside the Polar Tang was definitely nothing different nor anything special from the other days spent with the Heart Pirates. The sounds of small bickering and some loud laughter could be heard once again from the room besides the corridor. The Polar Tang was docked on an Island, and now it was ready to venture into the seas again. The days went by so fast.

As you make your way into some random submarine window, you felt the slow motion of the submarine slowly backing up, making you lose your balance and almost falling into the floor. Although before you fell, someone had caught you just about time before you had hit the floor, giving you time to try and grab into the wall to stabilize yourself.

"Caught you! You really should prepare yourself ya'know! You've experienced this lotsa' timesss." Penguin teased you as he slowly placed you down onto the ground after catching you. "You owe me one." He sticks his tongue out.

"What the hell?! I didn't even need your help!" You rise back up immediately and almost losing balance again from the sudden motion of moving, you grabbed the wall pipe for dear life. You finally managed and dusting off your butt from the fall. "Look i don't owe you anything! I didn't even wanna get caught by you." You cross your arms and look at another direction.

Penguin snorts at your stubbornness and rolls his eyes at your comment. (Not that you saw him roll his eyes.)

"A simple thank you would've been enough." He didn't bother letting you say anything and immediately passed by you, scoffing. You mock him behind his back, copying his facial expression as his footsteps fade into the distance.

The submarine submerged into the ocean waters by now, hearing nothing but vibrations of the underwater tides and bubbles popping. You peek into the small rpunded windows that allowed you to see marine life animals once again. After dozing off for half an hour by the sub's window, you had realized that you still had duties to fulfill.

Sighing and dragging yourself onto the engine room, you hastily open up the door that it hit the wall connecting to it You enter the room stomping on the ground heavily. You suddenly shrieked as you see someone wearing a boiler suit but having no memory of them being on the submarine.

"H— Intrude—!" The man rushes his way close to you and covering your mouth way before you alarm everyone. You smell the faint scent of his cologne, being similar to the ones you had smelt from Penguin. You resist him and attacking his hands that were over your mouth. Biting his palm, making him jump and pulling your hair.

"H-Hey! It's me, Penguin!" Having him loosen his hands over your mouth, you stop resisting his movements and became calmer. The tone of his voice and a sound of what annoyed you was the indeed similar to Penguin, with no doubts you push him far enough to be able to give you two a comfortable space. Your eyebrows furrow in irritation.

"Peng?! Wh.. Where's your hat?!" You shrieked at him once again, your tone so loud it could be heard by the corridors. You take a moment to look at his face up and down and up, admiring his face that you've never seen before. You caught his eyes staring back at you with his mouth carving a look of nervousness and a frown.

"Ah...well, i kinda..spilt something on it, it's in the laundry room." He clarified your questions, his tone having a pint of nervousness on them. Fidgeting quietly with his fingers and giving you a slight smile.

"Your fault— but i never thought that I'd see your face this clear like before! I've only seen your mouth all the time."

" Could it be that....You find me handsome?! Awh you're so kind (Name)!" He laughs at his claim for you, making you look stupid and a blushing mess infront of him, making you much much more irritated than before. You felt veins pop on your forehead as you launch a kick on his knees as he drops into the floor laughing.

"No way!" You pinch the bridge of your nose as Penguin stopped laughing and stood up. Brushing his boiler suit dusts away, his playful and happy tone disappearing, being replaced with a much more serious one.

"Whateverrr....you suck (Name).." he claims. Crossing his arms as he felt disappointed with your answer, lowering his head and shooking them in distress.

"...Okay just a tiny bit handsome!" You grit your teeth at the guiltiness that you received with his unusual tone, changing your opinions to a much better one. You cross your arms just like him and stared at each other with furrowed eyebrows and a serious gaze. His eyes squinting, your teeth gritting hardly that you swore they were gonna break.

"Hah, thanks anyway..i never thought you'd actually give in." He lets his arms go and resting them besides his torso again, gaining a smile that always painted his facce on a usual day in Polar Tang. His gaze now softens and had a much more presenting look.

"Fuck off!...." Silence.

"Okay fine, I'm being quite serious!" You sigh at the honesty that you had revealed. Giving him the slightest smile you could ever give.

"You aren't that bad sometimes."

"I've never been bad! You just don't understand me is all!" Trying to clarify your defense, Penguin just laughs at your take for an excuse, causing you to punch him in the face a bit too hard. He drops to the floor hardly, making a loud tud.

Attracting the attention of the captain who passed by the corridors in hopes of room inspections. Instead he was met with you on your knees and saying sorry repeatedly to Penguin as he grabbed his face and curl into the floor in agony, having no work in progress. Law decides to never pair you two up ever again in duties. Making you gasp as you try to calm Penguin down by holding of his shoulders as he kick his feet into the air, covering his face with his hands.

Even the captain was shocked with finding Penguin without his usual hat. Making him wonder what rhe hell was happening in the Engine Room. After that incident, you ahd soften your side with Penguin as you two were never paired ever again for submarine duties. Law said it was for the best for you two. After all you two didn't have a progress that was started with.

©Cokou 2024, all works belong to me.

#one piece #cokou #op #one piece x reader #penguin x reader #one piece penguin #penguin one piece #heart pirates #I LOVE HIM SO MUCH #RAAA PENGUIN

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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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consultingskeletondetective · 1 month

Text

Virginal, chapter 2

Michael had left you alive, and you couldn't begin to fathom why. You know all you can do is try and forget it and move on with your life.

Except...Michael has followed you home.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, hair pulling, forced orgasms

The police hadn’t caught him yet.

It had been almost a week since your encounter with Michael Myers in the woods on your way home from work, and he’d been on the run ever since. You hadn’t reported what had happened to the authorities, even if you’d been on the verge of it many times. You’d spent the whole week waking up in cold sweats with a gooey and shameful mess between your legs at the memory of Michael’s large hand on your neck, or the sense-memory of his cock pressed heavy and dangerous against your core. The way he’d used you, fucked you, like his own little plaything haunted you.

No one could know what he’d done to you, no one could know how you felt about it, even if the guilt gnawed at you. Maybe if you’d told someone, they might have caught him by now, and people might still be alive. But there was a part of you, a part of you you wished you didn’t have, that reminded you that if Michael wanted someone dead, then there was nothing any earthly power could do to keep that person alive. Michael left no survivors.

Except for you.

It had been on the news religiously all week; police were baffled by his location and utterly at a loss for his motivations and patterns. Michael, it seemed, cared not a bit to cover his tracks. He even seemed to decorate his murder scenes artistically, propping bodies up and, blurred though they were on the television, reminding you of a sick and gruesome game of action figures. They were Michael’s bodies, to do with as he pleased. Twelve people he’d killed since he found you. Twelve. That the authorities were aware of, anyway. The thought chilled you to the very core.

You’d learnt from the heavy reporting that Michael Myers had been being held at the Westbrook Sanitarium for the criminally insane, not four miles from where you worked, and he’d escaped that night he’d taken you - thrust against your weak body until he came on your cunt like a wild animal.

You were the first person he’d come across, apparently, and after years of solitude, Michael had some frustrations to take out on you. You knew well who he was, you recognised that mask and that boiler suit the second you’d seen it. You’d grown up with stories of the boogeyman who’d murdered his sister the same as everyone else, thrust into the spotlight when he’d escaped from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium a few years ago and murdered a bunch of teenagers on a spree. You’d seen the youtube video essays and buzzfeed articles on the stoic killing machine who’d baffled psychologists and doctors up and down the country, maybe even the world. You’d walked past books in shops written about this monster, his silence, his rage, his gore and death and damnation were a part of your culture. It made it easy to forget that Michael Myers was real, and not just some fictitious product of a sick mind. He became very real to you that night, your own personal boogeyman.

You’d learnt that Michael Myers was no man, he was an evil spirit, a hell-sent silent demon, a ghost - one that was haunting you.

You turned the television off and went into the bathroom, shucking your clothes into a messy pile by the bath as you stepped under the cool spray of the shower.

It was a warm day, your skin over-hot, and you welcomed the clammy dribbles down your back. You washed quickly, fingers pressing too familiar over the lips of your pussy, you expected them still to be swollen, puffy from use where Michael had rutted his scorching and elephantine cock against you like a beast in heat, but it wasn’t. It was like it hadn’t happened. Except it had, of course, because you still wore him on your skin. His fingertips were in every bruise, his grip was the ache in your bones with every groan of your sore body. It was like he’d marked you, made your tiny body a part of his eclipsing form.

You shook your head frustratedly to yourself in the bathroom mirror before flicking the lightswitch off and making your way to your bedroom. You couldn’t think of him every moment for the rest of your life, you couldn’t live in fear of the boogeyman. He had left you alive, and you had to live with that. Michael was gone, and you’d never see him again.

You pulled a short nightdress on, the flimsy material to combat the hot and sticky night you anticipated, and you made your way to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle to take to bed.

The outside light was on.

It wasn’t yours, but your neighbours. It was motion-sensored, you knew that because it blinded you every time you stumbled back from a night shift.

You frowned before crossing to the door, to close the blinds over the glass so no one would be able to see into your home in the middle of the night. Your hand tangled in the string before it froze, along with the rest of your body. Like your blood had frozen to ice inside you and made you a dead weight to the floor.

Michael was standing under the light, 50 yards away from your door. He was staring sightlessly at you through the empty eyes of his mask, utterly emotionless. His hands rested unclenched by his sides, his back razor-straight as always. He was just watching. His form gave no indication of how long he’d been there. Maybe hours.

Fear shot through you and the string began to shake violently in your grip as you stared at him. He’d come to finish what he’d started, you realised in horror, he’d noticed his mistake in leaving you alive. Was it so you couldn’t tell the police? Was it just that you needed to die, he’d had you in his grasp and that was that, a rageful itch under his skin that wouldn’t be quenched until your blood was soaking his hands?

It didn’t make sense. He was stood in the street, bathed in your neighbours motion light like a bloody homing beacon. Surely they’d seen him. Surely someone had seen him and called the police? Why weren’t there any sirens? It was deathly quiet. Just you, him and the wind. Maybe it was a fever dream, a sleep paralysis nightmare and your demon had returned to you.

He began walking leisurely towards the door, his pace bone-tinglingly unhurried as ever, before he stopped at the glass and peered down at you. You shrank, paralysed with fear. You’d somehow forgotten just how big he was. He might have been two foot taller than you, and just as broad, taking up the whole of the door so he blacked out any light behind him. That was as good a metaphor as any to describe Michael. The darkness followed him.

You didn’t know why you weren’t moving, dazzled, you supposed somewhere in the back of your mind. A monster brought to life, in front of you, enough to convince yourself that you were dreaming.

His fist shattered through the glass, shards of glittering ice hitting the kitchen floor as his hand curled down to find the handle. You screamed, backing off so violently your back hit the fridge and tears wept down your cheeks until they were quite literally soaking the front of your nightie. This was no dream. It was a nightmare incarnate.

Even his violent outburst seemed calm somehow, shattering your backdoor into shards of glass like it was nothing. His large hand found the door handle and began to rattle it, and the noise caused your brain to snap back to where it needed to be.

You forced your eyes from him, pushed yourself away from the fridge and scurried into the living room. The front door was in your sights. You didn’t know precisely what you planned to do with yourself when you got outside, your brain hadn’t made it that far yet. All you knew was that you needed to survive, and you had no chance of that locked in the same cage as this rabid animal.

You grabbed for the front door handle with a hiss of accomplishment, throwing your gaze back over your shoulder to ascertain how much time you had. No time. Michael was already in the living room, walking towards you like he had all the time in the world. You shrieked in pure terror at his towering form as you flung the door wide open, the concrete of your front step was cool on your barefoot but the sensation barely lasted a second as fingers tangled roughly in your hair and yanked you roughly until you fell onto the carpet. The open-palm of Michael’s free hand slammed the front door shut, cutting off your exit, and the oak creaked under the force of it, the foundations of the house damn-near shaking.

You scrambled onto your knees, screeching, crying, grasping at his hand in your hair, wincing when every flex of his fingers yanked at your scalp, tearing individual hairs out by the roots. He had to bend his back to hold you to the floor, his emotionless mask looking down on you. His breathing was barely audible over your devastated screams. You couldn’t move.

“Please, please, please, Michael, please don’t kill me. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! I won’t! I don’t want to die, please let me go, please, please-”

You could barely beg, your throat hoarse, your words sobs. He didn’t respond except to drag you into the middle of the room by your hair, kicking the coffee table aside to make room for you both in the middle of the floor. One of the wooden legs of your poor table snapped under his boot before he tossed you down like a ragdoll. Your back hit the carpeted floor and it shook your whole frame. You instinctively planted your palms on the floor behind yourself, to crawl back, to spring up, you didn’t know.

Michael’s boot came to rest on your bare thigh, his weight utterly solid and you wailed as he pinned you to the floor. Your nightie had ridden up, not to the point of indecency, but enough that his boot kissed your flesh. You froze as fresh tears streamed down your face, remembering exactly what he’d done the last time he’d had you like this, as if just realising how acutely vulnerable you were in this position. Were you even wearing underwear? You didn’t think so. His boot was mere inches away from your exposed cunt, all he’d have to do was push your dress up and he’d see everything. See how fucking wet you were. You hated yourself.

“Please,” you tried again, voice barely a whisper as you looked up at him. Submissive, you realised, prey before a predator, begging for its life. “What do you want?”

He didn’t move, you could barely tell if he was breathing, just staring down at you as everything else in the world fell away. His hands were still loose by his sides, no knife, you noted, but a grim red-hued dirt on the rough palms of his hands you could identify without too much guesswork. Your stomach rolled.

His hand raised and you jolted, expecting pain, to be struck, stripped, killed.

How long had he been searching for you? Maybe he’d never left, maybe he’d been one step behind you all week, watching you sleep, watching you shower - were those twelve people dead because they lived close to you? Did you kill them?

His large hand came to rest over the front of his crotch and your mouth fell open. Not again. Why me? You were already shaking your head, breathy hitching sobs racking through you.

“No, Michael, please -”

He toed your thigh with the steel-gap of his boot, shoving it to the side, affectively opening your legs and you wanted to close your eyes, the feeling of vulnerability and shame as he spread your legs for him hurt something deep inside of you, you felt dirty and shameful in every one of your nerves. Your slick was soaking the back of your nightie and probably your carpet too. What the fuck was wrong with you?

He fell to his knees in front of you, in a way that could only have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound as his large, gore-stained hands gripped your bare thighs and tugged until you were lying in front of him. You squeaked, your legs not quite touching his, more left hanging in the air as he scraped his calloused hands down your thighs in a way that definitely didn’t make your heart speed up, no more than it was already hammering, before his palms were flat on your inner thighs, pressing them apart and into the floor. You tried immediately and desperately to close them and his grip on you tightened to the point of extreme pain, your femurs tremoring dangerously like they might snap if you moved even an inch.

You stilled completely, you couldn’t tell where he was looking, but it seemed to be right at you, that emotionless masked expression, or lack of, giving you nothing, but you could feel the rage and the dangerous power wafting off of him, you could feel the coiled strength in his fingers, the strain of his bicep muscles in his boiler suit as he held you immobile and you swallowed, shivering in fear and pitiful acceptance as you stopped struggling. If you had any hope of getting out of this alive, and as uninjured as possible, you had to stop fighting.

His pathetic, mewling hole, your brain supplied almost bitterly.

Once apparently satisfied you’d stopped struggling, MIchael’s grip on your thighs lessened somewhat, leaving deep red bruises regardless, and he shifted forwards on his knees, taking up more space between your legs, as he rucked your nightie up to your belly, sitting back a little just to stare at your pussy, exposed and dripping and vulnerable, as if getting a good look at the wet little hole that had made him come so hard the last time.

Your cheeks burned boiling hot as he looked at you, your thighs twitching conspirately to close but you forced yourself to try and calm, utterly impossible, you trembled like a newborn foal.

He dipped his head between your legs and your back arched, startled, wondering what he possibly meant to do, particularly, your horrible brain chipped in, with a mask over his face. You could hear nothing but that breathing, before it was sucked in, the nose of his mask just nudging your folds and making you jolt.

Was he - was he smelling you?

He made no noise, his body shifted an inch. What was he doing? It was like he was searching for something. He kept his nose buried against your soaping heat for a few more moments before he apparently found it. Then he was sitting back up again. Your knees were nearly knocking together in terror when his hands, fuck, how were they so big? framed your cunt, pulling at the flesh of the tops of your thighs, spreading your folds, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh of your seam, your clit.

Oh fuck.

He prodded you with a long finger a few times, painful sharp jabs until he caught the rim of your opening and sunk in to the knuckle. It burned, it burned so hot, you clenched painfully around his finger. Fuck, it felt like the size of a cock all on its own. But the finger was withdrawn as quickly as it had breached you, like a fucking dip test, but no less rough on the way out and you grimaced. You had a pretty good idea about what was to follow, and the anticipation of the pain alone was enough to make you cry again.

“You don’t have to do this,” you tried again pathetically, wondering somewhere in your mind why you were trying to distract him from fucking you, when the alternative was his heavy hands shattering your collarbone until your heart was pierced by your own brittle dagger. Survival, you kept saying to yourself, one day you might believe it, you were trying to live. Nothing else. Nothing else.

He’d already unzipped his boiler suit, you could just glimpse a sliver of pale flesh beneath but he undressed himself no further, reaching down into his trousers and pulling his cock free.

Fucking hell.

It was a goddamn fucking monster. It sat snug in Michael’s large hand, long and thick, crown red with blood and dribbling precome, it curved up slightly, in a way that was designed to attack that spot inside of you, and when he dropped it, it dipped, bobbing against his boiler suit, so heavy under its own weight it could barely hold itself up, but it did, his cock stood proud and to attention, ready for action, as he shifted down a little, hands once more finding your thighs and hauling you practically into his lap. He threw your legs over his broad hips, stretching your thigh muscles, as his cock rested hot and heavy on your pelvic bone, like a leaden weight on you. Oh fuck, you were so fucked. It was near enough the size of your thigh, and you knew it was going to wreck you.

You jerked your hips uselessly, trying in vain to put some distance between you and Michael’s thick cock, you’d never had a partner that size before, you’d never even had a toy that size. It wasn’t going to fit, it was as simple as that. Except he didn’t care.

He pressed his hips up, taking you with him, lifting your back clean off of the floor so your spine was arched uncomfortably. He paid you no mind as he gripped the base of his erection and slipped himself down through your folds.

He was silent, calm and ferocious as he pressed forward against you with so much pressure that it hurt. You could feel his heaviness hard against your pelvic bone and you trembled in fearful anticipation of what was about to happen.

Finally, Michael found what he was looking for and his thick cockhead breached your hole barely a centimetre but still you gasped, already undone by being so violently penetrated by not even a goddamn inch of that fat unforgiving head.

Michael surged forward, in triumph perhaps, or just in a hurry to get his cock stuffed deep into you as quickly as possible, but your traitorous cunt was wet enough that he slipped straight back out again, whole cock fucking upwards and jamming through your folds, gliding gloriously against your clit. You let out a loud moan and he stilled entirely except for the throb of his cock against you. You clapped your hands to your mouth and forced your eyes to the ceiling. You hadn’t meant to do that. You didn’t want to give him the sick satisfaction. It was the last thing you could keep for yourself.

Michael was a fast learner, it seemed, because this time he inched a little more slowly inside you until a good inch of solid cock was spearing you open. You thought you might die, knees knocking against his hips helplessly as he forcibly stretched you obscenely around him. You will take me, I will make it fit.

Only when he was firm in you, and you were surely going to pass out from pressure alone, did he plunge his hips forward, his whole cock sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

The pain, fuck the pain was indescribable, burning, aching, stuffed full, stuffed beyond full - he didn’t care - he didn’t care that he’d probably just ripped you in half, stretched you so full you were more cock than you were yourself anymore. He didn’t care you were crying, shivering, he cared that you were an open, wet heat to warm his cock in.

Those blood-stained, murderous hands gripped your hips and an ache blossomed in your bones, your skin beneath his skin turned white to red to near-black with bloodied pressure-bruises as he gripped you hard enough you fully believed he intended to shatter bone. He could, you knew he could. It was enough to lose yourself to, you were going to pass out, you were going to die from the stress and agony forced upon your weak and small body. This was how he was going to kill you.

He moved, shifted his heavy length inside you, nudging spots of your flesh where a cock was not meant to be. He pulled out incrementally, shoved back in and oh - oh .

Your thighs shook again, trembled, as spiralling pleasure mixed with pain and your pussy clenched around his cock, contracting around it as he thrust in again, as if traitorously and deliriously pulling him in to you, to where that thick and hot pressure felt the best. He thrust in again, harder than before, faster than before, immediately picking up an athletic, robotic pace as if he were half-way through a marathon fuck, thrumming with energy. You had no time to adjust, no time to build-up - you were there immediately, clenching uncontrollably on Michael Myer’s mercilessly hard cock, your cunt fluttering and clenching on every brutal, animalistic intrusion, until you couldn’t take it anymore. There was no edge, there was just falling.

You yelped, back arching up even more than it already was, legs squeezing the small of Michael’s back as your poor cunt spasmed, coming hot and hard until you felt your own slick dribbling down the backs of your thighs. Michael didn’t stop for a second, he didn’t even slow, you nearly choked on your own spit.

He was utterly devoid of anything, breathing heavy and focused, no movement except the piston of his hips as he fucked you deep and unforgiving until you were sure his thick crown was kissing at your cervix.

Your head was hazy, eyes unfocused, you had absolutely no control over your overworked cunt anymore, whining pitifully as you came around him again, lathering his cock in your traitorous spend, praying every time that he’d slow, but he didn’t, and you felt that molten lava in your core building again until you were covered in a sheen of your own sweat, spent, exhausted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t done yet, he wanted more. He took it.

He angled his hips up, chasing a sensation, you weren’t prepared for it. He hammered into you until his hip bones were slamming against your inner thighs with enough force to shake your entire body. His cock against your sweet spot was like a punch to the gut and you screamed. Pain, pleasure, you didn’t know anymore as your hips convulsed and jerked, clamping down on him hard enough that if he were a normal man, he wouldn’t have been able to move.

But Michael was no normal man.

He held your hips down, taking your clenching orgasm for himself as he slammed into you. Being fucked into your leg-shaking release was like being volted off of this ethereal plane and into another, your eyes whitened, your brain slowed to juddering holt as dizzying, mind-numbing ohmyfuckinggodthisfeelssogood short-circuited your entire being.

Michael slammed into you one final time, unable to withstand the vice-like grip of your velvet walls any longer before he was stilling completely, his cock an erupting volcano inside of you that spurted hot white heat against your walls, filling you utterly.

Your mouth opened in shock, or exhaustion, as your whole body trembled, jerking uncontrollably in the aftershocks.

He didn’t linger. His hands left your hips first, the bruises behind ached immediately, black and devastating to your skin where even taking a breath in bothered them. Then he snapped his hips back, swollen cock slipping free of your drenched heat, sopping with white. He let it hang there, between his legs, a stark contrast against his boiler suit, and you trembled with undignified arousal. Your cunt felt wrecked, stretched wide, forced open to accommodate him, and yet your body still somehow ached for more. No, you were terrified, fighting for your life, this wasn’t real. None of it was.

He stood, using core strength alone, leaving your legs to fall heavily to the floor. They ached where the muscles had been stretched, kicking the pain in your back and your hips into eleventh gear. You’d been twisted like a pretzel for too long. You frowned. How long had he been fucking you? It felt like no time at all, it felt like days.

You pulled your nightie down as far as it would go, scrambling your legs together despite the way they twinged. You could feel him squelching between your thighs and your untouched clit twinged pitifully.

When you gathered the courage to look up at him, you saw that he’d tucked himself away and zipped himself back up. He stood tall and menacing over you, gargantuan in your living room, his head near-touching the ceiling. He was peering down at you, that devoid mask giving nothing. The utter silence was as terrifying and deafening as any death cry.

He cocked his head ever so slightly and you winced, fight or flight response, before he was turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen.

Terror rocked through you, vomit-inducing, head-spinning terror, and you were on your feet in a heartbeat. Your mauled insides and your ruined hips complained at you but you ignored it. They would mean nothing if you were dead. Which you were about to be. He was going for a knife, surely he was. He -

The creak of the kitchen door caught you by surprise, but it took a few long minutes for your heart to stop thudding loud enough for you to realise that he wasn’t coming back in. After a few breaths, your curiosity got the better of you and you crept into the kitchen. The back door was shut, except for the hole gaped in the glass by his fist, of course, and the kitchen was empty.

You were careful with your bare feet to avoid the shards of glass on the floor, not that it would make massive amounts of difference to your ruined body, before you shakily peered through what remained of your door.

The motion detector light was on, the street was empty.

Confusion and shame rocked through you with enough force to make you tumble and you had to grip the countertop to keep yourself upright.

How on earth were you still alive? For a second time? What did the most infamous serial killer in the country get from keeping you alive?

A hot, wet hole to come in.

You could feel the ache between your legs like Michael was still there, it was a glorious, horrible burn, trembling pleasure, irrefutable depravity - the best fuck of your life.

What did that make you?

Everything was eerily quiet. Your water bottle still sat on the side. If it weren’t for the broken door and the shards of glass, it would be easy to imagine that Michael hadn't been there at all.

Except for the warm come dribbling down your thighs where he’d marked his territory inside you. You swallowed. Whether you were his next victim or his fucktoy - you couldn’t escape that you were his. And you knew, even now, with terrifying certainty, that Michael Myers was not going to let you go.

link to chapter 3

#virginal #skeleton_detective #michael myers #halloween #michael myers x reader #fanfiction #multi chapter #pls read the tags #dark fic

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sparkarrestor · 6 months

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So we all know that Awdry originally had James as a GSWR Class 403 since it fit the description of an inside-cylinder mogul, but later changed James to be an English design. This post stems off the thought of "What If Awdry kept James Scottish?"

This whole thing was also brought on by @mean-scarlet-deceiver's Tales of the G&SW excerpts.

Beware, my writing of a Scottish accent is terrible, try not to cringe.

What If Scottish James

Written By: SparkArrester

1929

James was in a foul mood. Henry, like usual, failed. Now he was stuck with his coal train. That he had to arrange himself. Apparently the new shunter was busy with something that wasn’t shunting.

“Stupid Trucks, stupid coal, stupid everythingggg”, He moaned as he marshalled his train, “All that time being cleaned was a waste!”

The trucks, sensing an opportunity for mischief, made it their mission to give James the worst morning possible. They jammed their brakes, ran hot axles boxes, and some even derailed in the yard. The breaking point was when an old tippler’s front hatch flew open. Coal poured out onto the rails, and onto James, coating his front end. The trucks all burst out laughing, but they were soon cut off.

“Yee wretched little INGRATES!”, Burst out James in a perfect scottish dialect, “Ye all oor jus’ little devious muckle nuisances that are no fit ta scrape ta scale oof me boiler, ye little wee gobshites!”

This continued for some time, until James heard a familiar whistle, and immediately blanched. Percy rolled in looking gobsmacked.

“Err, uhh, hey James?”

“Wha arr ye -ahem- what are, uh, you doing here Percy?”

“Coming to take over the shunting.”

“Ah, right.”

“...”

“... Percy.”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t tell anyone…”

“James, I’m pretty sure everyone on this side of the island heard you.”

“... Dang it.”

1951

James sat there, covered in tar. His crew had already gone to the station to phone for help, and one of the old Suddery Tanks brought a crane to assist. He was hoping for an engine like Edward or Henry to take him to the works. In the meantime, quietly grumbling to himself was good enough. In fact, he was so absorbed with himself that he forgot his surroundings.

“Stupid wee muckle nuisances…”, he muttered, “Stupid Toby. If ‘e wasnae a huge prat my red coat wouldnae be in ruins. Honestly, those wee branchline engines are nothing but great big pieces ‘o-”

A ring of a bell broke him out of his thoughts. He jumped back as he realized Toby and Percy were right beside him. He prayed they hadn’t heard him. They did.

“Ark ay Percy!”, Chortled Toby in a terrible Scottish accent, “Whatever isnae that dirty object!”

“That isn’t even how you use isnae…”, muttered James, but of course they took no notice.

They continued speaking in terrible accents all the way to the sheds. James didn’t know if he should be angry at their teasing, or their complete butchering of his old dialect (one he had tried his hardest to shake), so he settled for both.

1959

The Fat Controller had brought a new goods engine to help out. James was glad at first, now someone else could work the pick-up goods while he got more passengers. He had heard that there was something up with the new engine when it had arrived, but he didn’t put much stock into it. Later in the day, he was backing down on what would hopefully be his last pick-up goods in a while when he heard a whistle. A deep-toned whistle that he had not heard in years. James grimaced as a Caledonian steam engine pulled up on the adjacent line, giving him the stink eye.

“Well Well Well…” The Caledonian spat, “A Sou’-West engine. And one of Pee-Wee Drummond’s oven-boxes! Ah hoped we saw the last ‘o ye back ‘ome!”

“The feeling is most certainly mutual!” He replied with vitriol that wasn’t really there. He hoped to leave everything pre-sodor behind. But of course it had found him. At least he still had a slight bad opinion towards the Caledonian, it did him good in this confrontation.

“Ark aye!”, Exclaimed the Caledonian, “Why do ye soond like tha?”

James was taken aback, “Like what?”

“There it is again! Aye Douggie!”

The question of who “Douggie” was got itself answered quickly, when an identical Caledonian engine pulled up besides the first.

“Aye Donnie. What’s up!”

“Wait wait, just let that Sou’-West engine speak!”

James defiantly shut his mouth, but then his crew chose that exact time to ask him something. He replied as quietly as possible. But not quiet enough.

“O Aye!” Exclaimed “Douggie”, “He soonds like a wee sassenach!”

James went red in the face, “Well! I-I-I-”

“Tha accent is ass!” Chortled “Donnie”, and soon “Dougie” joined in.

They continued until James left, his face matching his paintwork. He put a good few months practicing his accent, and it was hard. He now figured out what exactly was up with the new engine: there were two of them, and they both sucked.

#ttte #ttte james #ttte percy #ttte donald #ttte douglas #ttte toby #what if scottish James #General RWS Stuff

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pholla-jm · 1 year

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The Right Treatment

IMAGINE: THE RIGHT TREATMENT~ LAW X READER GENRE: FLUFF WARNINGS: MENTION OF BLOOD, MEDICAL USE, AND CURSING. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of your crew mate’s laughter rang in your ears as all of you walked back to the Polar Tang. “That was a close one!” You hear Penguin shout and the other agree with him. “Woo! I really thought that marine got you there for a second there (y/n)!” Shachi says while giving your back a harsh slap. The simple action caused you to stumble a little bit and you had to hold back the grimace.

Instead, you laughed right along with Shachi, “as if!

Your captain eyed you from the other side of the ship. He knew something was up. He had two reasons to assume something was wrong with you. The first reason was you were covered in a sheen layer of sweat, but you could brush that off as it is hot. The second reason is that you were that ‘ugly’ boiler suit the correct way. Usually, you would have the top half tied around your waist claiming that ‘I have to make something fashionable’.

But no, this time the suit was all the way zipped up. He knew you were hiding something. After a couple of more laughter and jokes about the ‘strong marines’ thrown around, you quickly dismissed yourself. Claiming that you wanted to clean yourself up before you smelt.

Technically you were going to clean yourself up. As soon as you enter your room, you let your composure loose. Letting out a soft sigh of pain, you made your way to the bathroom. You were happy that you got your own room. Slipping off the boiler suit, you threw it to the corner of the bathroom, making a mental note to clean it later. You then slipped off the black tank top only leaving you in your undergarments.

You clicked your tongue as the gash among your side was revealed. The extra movement causes a fresh trickle of blood to leak out of the wound. You quickly grab a washcloth to compress the wound. While you held it there, you grabbed all the tools you would need to fix yourself.

Once you gathered everything you needed, you removed the cloth. Happy that it stopped the bleeding. You grabbed another washcloth, making sure this one was damp. You cleaned up the area so you could see what you were working with.

“Ugh.” You mutter as you look at the semi-deep wound, “I think butterfly stitches will do.” You grab the disinfectant, unaware of what was going on the other side of your door.

Law had eyed you as soon as you left the small group. He knew something was up, but he decided to give you a few minutes so he could catch you in the act. With an annoyed sigh, he also dismisses himself from the group. To which the crew pay no mind, seeing that they were used to this. The walk to your room wasn’t long. When he reached the metal door, he leaned closer trying to see if he could hear anything. The only thing that could be heard was some slight movement here and there.

The sudden thought entered his mind. What if you were naked? He didn’t want to seem like a pervert. But he also wanted to see if his assumption was right. He decided to play it on the safe side and knock lightly on your door.

You didn’t respond. He took it as a sign for him to walk in anyway. When he opened the door, he took note that the light wasn’t on. The only source of light came from your bathroom, which was wide open. He walked towards the bathroom, eyes going wide at the sight in front of him.

There you were, only in undergarments as you strained to wrap your torso.

“What the hell are you doing?” Law’s voice cut through the silence.

The sudden voice caused you to jump slightly and turn to see your Captain. You blinked a couple times, trying to process the situation. When it finally clicked you let out a little shriek, trying to cover up by crossing your legs and arms. The sudden movement caused you to flinch in pain- hoping that the gash didn’t leak.

“What the fuck? Don’t you know how to knock?” “I did knock. You didn’t answer. I was worried something was wrong… and it looks like I was right.” He says while eyeing the gauze you wrapped around your stomach. You scoff at his words, “well. I took care of it. Problem solved.” “Last time I checked, you’re not a doctor.”

You didn’t even have time to get out your next words because Law had ‘Room and Shambles’ the both of you back to his medic bay. The cold air in the room, immediately made you tense, and you hug yourself tighter trying to savor any warmth.

“Lay down.”

From the tone of his voice, you could tell that he was annoyed. With a sigh, you lay on the medic bed. Hoping that it will provide some warmth. It did not.

You didn’t both looking over to see what Law was doing. But the next thing you knew, you felt a blanket drape over your lower half. “Thank you.” You softly mutter and just stare at the ceiling.

You hear snipping of scissors and your felt the gauze become loose around your torso. You heard a sigh from Law. “What’s wrong?” You ask. “Did you really think butterfly stitches were going hold this together?” He asks. You could tell in his tone that he was annoyed, and it started to feel worse about this situation. “You should’ve just come to me in the first place.” “I’m sorry… I didn’t want to be a burden” “If you didn’t want to be a burden, you should have gotten it treated right!”

The sudden snap caused you to shut your mouth. You didn’t want to argue with him. And honestly, you hated it when he yelled at you. So, you sat there with a small pout on your face as he continued to work on your gash. Law didn’t miss this. Seeing your expression tugged on his heart strings and he almost felt bad for making you feel this way. But in his defense, it was your fault. In his mind, if you went to him first then he wouldn’t have snapped at you.

“At least you disinfected it. You did something right.” He continues to talk, hoping that it would uplift your mood. “When a cut is at least a half inch deep, then you need stitches. This cut is almost an inch deep.”

“I don’t like needles.” Is all you say causing the man to roll his eyes. “You’re not scared of knifes and swords, but you’re scared of needles.” “Yes,” you answered like it made complete sense.

Another sigh came from Law making you think ‘Law sure sighs a lot’. “I’m going to numb the area.” He says and you hear him rummage around a bit.

You take a glance at the needle, immediately grimacing at the thought of that piercing your skin.

Law notices this and takes ahold of one of your hands. “It’ll be okay. You’re just gonna feel a slight pinch.”

You didn’t respond, just turned your head so you wouldn’t have to look at the needle. You felt Law squeeze your hand a little, followed by a slight pinch- just like he said. You let out a small whine, a shiver going up your spine at the feeling. You really hated needles…

“It’s okay, darling. The hard part is over.”

Law released your hand so that he could start working on your stitches.

You were glad he numbed the area because you were sure you would have cried at the feeling of needle piercing your skin over and over. You didn’t look over what he was doing because you knew you would’ve freaked out.

While Law was working on the stitches you started thinking about Law’s last sentence. He called you darling. And the way that he was holding your hand. If you weren’t in pain, you probably would have teased him for being so mushy with you. However, you liked it at this moment. It was a side of Law you have never seen, and you definitely wanted to see more of it.

“Okay, (y/n)-ya. All done.” You hear Law say and you finally look over. The wound was finally closed- held together by neat black stitches. Definitely a better job than what you did.

It was silent between you for a few moments, until Law spoke up again. You could tell he was feeling a bit awkward, but you didn’t mind.

“I just want to tell you that you’re never a burden (y/n)-ya. If there’s anything that you ever need, just come to me, okay? I promise you; you could never bother me.” “Thank you, Captain.” You whisper with a slight blush on your face. You never knew that Law could be so kind. You were too worried about your own blush that you didn’t notice the slight red tinge on Law’s ears. “When it’s just us, you can call me Law.” Your eyes widen at his words, “okay... Law.” His name felt weird coming out of your mouth. But it was something that you could get used to.

Law’s lips upturned a little. “Get some rest. I’ll grab you an extra pair of clothes.” He says as he walks out of the medical bay. You just nod your head at him and grabbed the blanket to cover yourself up properly.

As soon as the metal door closed, Law put his hand on his chest. Feeling his racing heart. “What a nuisance.” He mutters to himself.

He wondered to himself; just what was he going to do about these pesky feelings?

#one piece #oneshot #trafalgar law #law x reader #law x y/n #law x you

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dfortrafalgar · 4 months

Text

Envious

Law x OC

Law is caught red-handed being jealous over someone who isn't even his... yet.

A/N- i wrote this a few months ago specifically for my own OC! I attached a cringe reference pic of her at the bottom of this fic, and me being my own worst critic, i really need to redraw her better at some point LOL. crazy how much you can change after only a few months, but i digress. I'm sorry it's been taking me so long to work on requests, so in the meantime I'm going to go back to posting some things that have been sitting in my google docs not yet published to here. thank you all for your patience!!!

Law was a calm man. He was a level-headed man. He thought before he spoke, meticulously planning every moment of his life down to the most minute details. He was stone-faced, unmoving, unwavering.

And yet, he sat at the table in the Polar Tang’s galley, a coffee mug gripped so hard in his hands his knuckles were white, as his sharp, golden eyes stared across the room from him. His jaw was clenched as tight as a vice.

“Captain, what in the world is your problem?” Across the table with a newspaper in his hands, was Penguin, who had finally taken notice of Law’s threatening aura in front of him. Law didn’t respond to the question, instead continuing to stare daggers at whatever was in his direct line of sight. Penguin placed the paper down, turning his head over his shoulder to follow Law’s vision.

In the common area directly across from the galley sat Bepo on the floor, rolled onto his side, mouth wide open as snores exited his nostrils at a rhythmic pace. Nuzzled up impossibly close to the large polar bear was Ruža, boiler suit zipped down to her waist, sleeves tied around her hips as she instead used Bepo’s ample amount of fur as a space warmer. Her long hair was tied into a tight bun. She was sprawled out along Bepo’s belly, head resting under the bear’s chin, a content smile on her face as she dozed off within her crewmate’s comfortable heat.

Penguin turned back around to face Law, a devilish smirk crawling across his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous. And of Bepo out of everyone!”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Law quipped back, voice hushed, yet harsh.

His mate laughed at his captain’s behavior. “Never took you for the possessive type.”

“I’m not possessive,” Law grumbled, finally releasing the death grip he had on his mug and instead using his hand to pull the brim of his hat downward, covering his eyes.

A hard thump resounded next to him as the bench of the table rattled. “You sleep on Bepo all the time, and so does the rest of the crew. Why is it a problem when Ruža does it?” The new voice, Shachi, followed his statement by taking a generous bite out of the bread he had retrieved from the kitchen.

Penguin responded for Law. “He wants to be the one on top of Ru–”

Law’s motions were quicker than lightning, reaching across the table, grabbing the discarded newspaper in his fist, and whacking Penguin over the head with it to shut him up. The two men burst into a cacophony of laughter. They both knew better than anyone that Law meant absolutely no harm with his actions, he just had difficulty expressing his emotions. Extreme difficulty, at that. The laughter from Shachi and Penguin was enough to wake the mink across the room and the girl sleeping against his fluffy chest. Bepo yawned, forgetting about Ruža draped underneath him and sat up, causing her to startle awake.

“What’s all the noise for? I was having a good dream,” Bepo uttered, sleep still heavy on his tongue.

Beside him, Ruža sat up, stifling her own massive yawn. She awkwardly got to her feet, unwrapping her sleeves from around her hips and re-buttoning her boiler suit. She turned to face the three in the galley across the room from them, smiling at the sight of Shachi and Penguin covering their mouths in vain attempts to smother their laughter as Law sat hunched over, both hands now gripping his fluffy hat, pushing it so far down his face that the entire upper half was obscured, leaving just his clenched lips visible.

The woman turned to Bepo, helping the animal off the floor. “Thank you for the wonderful nap, Bepo!” She turned on her heel to exit the galley, refreshed and ready to continue her tasks for the day.

Bepo finally approached the table, plopping himself down next to Penguin who was wiping tears from his obscured eyes. “Seriously, why are you guys laughing?”

“Captain was jealous of you,” Shachi said, his mouth curled into a wide grin. “Because Ruža was napping with you.”

“Aw, Captain, you should just tell her you want to nap with her! I’m sure she’d say yes, she just likes to nap on me because I’m so fluffy and you’re so boney,” Bepo casually spurted, innocent beady eyes matching well with the wide, toothy smile on his muzzle. Penguin almost spit his coffee out at the backhanded comment.

Law groaned, his head dropping into his arms, hat being shoved off his head. “Thanks for the encouragement, Bepo.”

Shachi nonchalantly rubbed his captain’s back. “There, there, big guy, it’s alright.”

“Uhm…”

A new voice alerted the four friends toward the opposite doorway to the galley. The masked helmsman, Hakugan, awkwardly stood in the entranceway, using his upper body to hold the heavy steel door open. “Captain, you’re needed in the bridge for a quick maintenance check. Sorry if I’m… interrupting something.”

Law was on his feet, hat situated back on his head faster than the speed of light. His hand grabbed his sword that was left leaning against the wall, leaving his half-empty coffee mug completely abandoned as he followed Hakugan out of the galley.

His three friends watched him go, knowing smiles on their faces.

“He’s totally in love with her,” Penguin sighed, dreamily.

“Why won’t he say anything, though?” Bepo’s question was innocuous enough.

“You know how bad he is with feelings. He’d rather die than be vulnerable with anyone,” Shachi responded, dropping his chin into his hand.

The conversation quickly dissipated, and the three finished their drinks and food before scattering for their own afternoon work.

—

A few days had passed since Law got called possessive. Jealous.

The raven-haired man was staring at himself in the mirror of the crew washroom, hands clutching the sides of the metal sink as he gazed into his own face. He wasn’t jealous. How could he be jealous of his best friend? Everyone loved cuddling with Bepo, how couldn’t you? Law wasn’t jealous. He didn’t own Ruža, no one did, and he’d rather swallow hot coals than ever make her feel like she was stuck in that situation again. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t–

“Captain?”

Law jolted. In the mirror’s reflection, the person he wanted to see the least was behind him, leaning against the open door. Ruža’s eyebrows were furrowed with concern, blue eyes shooting daggers into his back.

“Ruža, sorry, I’ll get out of your way.” Law quickly grabbed his hat from the countertop beside him, turning around to attempt to get out of the room as quickly as he possibly could, sans using his devil fruit (he didn’t want to look that pathetic).

“Are you alright, Law?” Ruža gently grabbed at the sleeve of his coat as he passed her. “You look feverish.”

Law couldn’t bear to bring his eyes to meet her bright ones. His heart was hammering so wildly behind his ribcage that he was scared it might give out.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he muttered blankly, staring off into nothing. He bit down the disappointment that he felt as Ruža’s hand fell from its grip on his clothing.

“Okay…” she replied, though clearly unconvinced. “Let us know if you need any help with anything.” She finally entered the washroom after him, going straight to the medicine cabinet to grab her toothbrush.

With her back to him, Law silently turned his head toward her. His eyes landed on the tattoo still imprinted at the base of her neck, exposed by her tied-up hair, his saliva catching in his throat. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel trapped in this steel submarine she now called home, trapped with him. She needed to be free.

But the smell of her shampoo lingering in the air after she passed him was making it very difficult for him to come to his senses, as not only himself, but as a captain. Ducking his head, he finally took long strides away from the washroom.

—

“Ikkaku, have you noticed something wrong with Law lately?” Ruža was hanging up her boiler suit on a hook on the wall, shedding her clothes from the day for something much more comfortable.

Behind her, Ikkaku was changing into her own loungewear, tight, curly hair tied into two buns. The two being the only women on the crew meant that they had the privilege of their own bunkroom, away from the 20-something other men that they lived with. Ruža joining the crew made Ikkaku elated, excited to have not only a roommate, but a new girlfriend at that. And the two of them sharing the privacy of their own room meant their more personal discussions stayed far away from the prying eyes of their crass male crewmates.

“Now that you mention it, he’s seemed pretty uptight lately,” Ikkaku murmured, wiping her face down with a damp cloth.

“I feel like I did something to make him upset, earlier I saw him in the washroom and he wouldn’t even look at me.” Ruža’s voice was laced with discomfort, clearly sullen about the events from earlier in the day.

“What could you even have done?” Ikkaku asked, finally turning to face her friend. The curly-haired woman already knew about the deep crush Ruža had on their stone-faced captain, being her only confidant in her emotional turmoil. “You’ve never said or done anything bad to him before.”

“That’s what I’m wondering about!” Ruža responded with an exasperated huff. “He’s impossible to read, and he never tells anyone what he’s thinking, so if I did do something to upset him he won’t tell me no matter how hard I pry.”

Ikkaku flopped face first into her mattress, rolling onto her side and watching as Ruža pulled a baggy shirt over her head. “When did he start acting so off?”

“Uhm… a few days ago I think.” The redhead sat on her own bed, falling onto her back and gazing dimly at the metallic ceiling above her.

“Did anything happen then?”

It took the blue-eyed woman a few minutes to think about the previous day’s events. “I took a nap with Bepo in the common room a few days ago, and Shachi, Penguin, and Law were having a conversation that woke us up, and that’s when he started acting weird, I think.”

Ikkaku pondered intensely over her friend’s words. Shachi and Penguin having a laugh at Law’s expense was nothing short of common on the Polar Tang, the two of them being Law’s closest friends but also his greatest annoyance.

Ruža’s voice piped up again. “Maybe it was because I was napping during the day?”

“No, that can’t be it, Law naps on Bepo all the time so he’d be a hypocrite for getting mad at you over that,” Ikkaku responded.

“Maybe he wanted to nap with Bepo and I was in the way,” offered the red-head.

A light bulb suddenly flicked on within Ikkaku’s skull. She sat up on her bed with a start, making Ruža jump in surprise. Wide, brown eyes trained on startled blue ones.

“Maybe he was jealous that you were resting with Bepo and not him.”

It took Ruža a few moments to process her crewmate’s words. “No, that can’t be it.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t like me that way! I’m a crew member, a subordinate. I’m nowhere close to his rank, and even then that’d be pushing his duty as a captain.” Ruža was immediately on the defensive with a tight frown. “As much as I want that to be the case, there’s no way that can be it.”

Ikkaku grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. “Who says? Law’s not the kind of guy to keep himself above everyone, we’re all equal in this tin can. Penguin and Shachi make out in the supply closet all the time and no one bats an eye.”

“Penguin and Shachi have been making out in supply closets since they were teenagers. Their scenario is different.” Ruža sat herself up now, leaning back on her hands. After a few tense moments, she released a pent-up exhale. “I really want Law to like me the way I like him, but it’s wishful thinking. He’s not that kind of guy, and he definitely doesn’t seem like the kind of person to get jealous.”

Ikkaku hummed. “I don’t know, I have an inkling. But, I don’t know him as well as Bepo, Shachi, or Penguin do, so I feel like if you really want an answer, you’ll have to go through them. Even if it’s not some cute lovey-dovey romance situation, they might at least be able to help you figure out what you did wrong, if anything.”

Ruža glanced off to the side. “You’re right, probably.”

“Probably?!” Ikkaku gasped, feigning offense. “I’m always right!”

This got Ruža to finally crack a tired smile, a breathy laugh leaving her lungs. “Okay, yeah, you’re always right.”

Their conversations continued until the lights went out. Instead of sleeping, however, Ruža was laid on her back, staring blankly at the dark ceiling above her head. Her lips quivered nervously.

—

“Shachi,” a hushed whisper alerted the ginger man’s attention from his porthole washing. He turned his head left, then right, searching for the source of the noise. “Behind you, dummy,” the voice came again, from behind him. He finally turned around, spotting the nervous expression of Ruža peeking from around the corridor.

“Why are you acting like you’re spying? Just get over here!” Shachi beckoned her over, and she complied without a word, slowly ambling her way over to where her older crewmate was working. “Is everything alright? Your eye bags look like they’re about to go on a longhaul trip.”

“I wanted to ask you something,” she replied, voice small. She knew her eye bags were atrocious, she didn’t get a lick of sleep the night previous.

Shachi nodded, waiting for her to continue.

“Did I do something to upset Law?”

“Huh?”

Ruža paused, staring at the tinted shades that constantly covered the man’s eyes. “What do you mean ‘huh’? He hasn’t wanted to make eye contact with me in like a week now. I want to know what I did wrong and figured you might know… you or Penguin.”

Shachi pinched the bridge of his crooked nose in between his fingers. “Law is such an idiot, I swear.” He dropped his hand, planting it firmly on his crewmate’s stiff shoulder. “He’s not mad at you, I promise.”

“Then why is he acting like this?”

“Because he’s stupid and doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings. He was jealous that you were napping with Bepo last week.”

Shachi’s words made the neurons in Ruža’s brain brown out. Her jaw was slack, staring blankly at the man in front of her. Ikkaku was right on the money. She was always right.

“If you’re gonna get anything out of him, you have to corner him like a cat and force him to talk. How else do you think he managed that alliance with Straw Hat? That kid forced Law around against his will and in the end everything worked out.” Shachi smirked.

“I’m not gonna drag him around like a dog,” Ruža muttered, hiding her flushed face in her hands. “But… I want to try to talk to him. I got no sleep last night because of this. Clearly.”

Shachi patted the woman’s shoulder a few extra times before finally releasing his supporting grip on her. “Let me know if you need anything else, alright? You got this.” He flashed her a toothy grin.

Finally having a few answers, Ruža felt her shoulders relax, a relieved smile on her face. “Thank you, Shachi, you’re the best.”

—

The day dragged on slower than a ship on the Calm Belt, and no one had seen Law for the entire duration. Not at breakfast, snack time, or dinner. Someone claimed they saw the man make a mad dash from his office to the galley for food, but no one could back up that claim. He was like a cryptid among his own crew.

Regardless, that evening, Ruža stood face-to-face with the hand-painted plastic sign that he kept hung up on the heavy metal door to his office.

DO NOT ENTER. I AM WORKING.

‘Obviously,’ thought the woman with a frown.

With a trembling hand, she reached up and knocked three times on the door, cringing at the way the heavy sound screeched through the desolate hallway of the submarine. She waited a few moments in deafening silence. No answer. Her hand faltered, but she knocked again, louder this time.

“Read the sign,” yelled a clearly agitated voice from within the closed off room.

“I can read just fine, Captain,” Ruža responded, surprising herself with the sass on her tongue.

More uncomfortable silence followed, before the sound of a screeching chair could be heard. Slow footsteps approached the steel door, and Ruža backed up apprehensively, heart beating wildly as she anticipated the door opening. It did, a tiny crack, allowing the glaring light from the hallway to shine off of Law’s weary face. His eye bags were worse than her’s, and his hair clearly hadn’t been washed in some time.

He stared at the woman outside of his door for a few agonizing moments before simply saying, “Yeah?”

Ruža pursed her lips. “I wanted to talk to you. It’s imperative.” Law didn’t need to know that she had been practicing that last word in the mirror for the better part of 20 minutes. Instead, she kept her shoulders back, chin held high, attempting to assert herself in front of her brooding captain who she was madly, desperately, incredibly in love with. She was failing miserably.

Law looked past the way her lips quivered and her arms trembled at her sides, as well as her own sleepless appearance. He silently opened the door to his office a bit wider, inviting her inside. Her apprehensive steps followed him, and she closed the door behind her, standing against it as she watched her captain meander back to his desk, plopping himself in his chair before leaning forward to rest his head in his hands.

“I want to hear from you why you’ve been ignoring me.” Ruža tried to suppress the way her voice trembled on its journey into the air. “I have my suspicions, but I want to hear it from you.”

Law bowed his head, the shadow from his bangs concealing his eyes from her vision. “What are your suspicions?”

Ruža was very quickly growing impatient, not helped by her lack of proper sleep. “That you were jealous that I was napping with Bepo. Shachi told me, but if that’s the case, I want to hear the truth from you, no one else.”

Law was worried that the sound of his hammering heart beat would be audible from across his office. His own fingers were trembling with nerves, he never in a million years thought he would ever be in a situation like this one. He did everything possible in his attempts to close himself out from intimate, personal connections, losing one too many people for his liking. And yet, a woman stood before him (well, behind him), who held his weary heart in a grip so warm and caring that he almost didn’t want it back.

The red-haired woman waited patiently for her captain to respond.

“Yeah,” was all he was able to breathlessly mutter.

Ruža waited for him to continue.

“I was jealous. But I shouldn’t have been.”

“And why were you jealous?” she demanded. “The entire crew loves napping with Bepo. Tell me why it’s different when I do it.”

Now it was Law’s turn to grow progressively more agitated. His teeth clenched within his closed mouth. “Do I really have to say it?”

“If it’s really this hard for you, then you don’t have to bother. I’m just tired of you acting like I don’t even exist. We’re in a damn submarine, it’s a bit hard not to feel ignored.” Ruža’s voice had softened only slightly. She was aware of her captain’s emotional issues, she knew bits and pieces of why he held everyone at three arms lengths away from him. She knew that the tattoo she had forcibly inked on the back of her neck was a disturbing sight for him, just as it was a painful scar for her.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Law finally leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, tossing his head back, breathing shallowly through his nose. “I know it was immature of me to treat you like that, Ruža, I’m sorry.” He rotated his head only slightly to glance towards the woman at his door, gazing at her with golden eyes that were filled with an unspoken agony.

“It’s okay,” was all she said back.

An idea popped into Law’s anxiety-ridden mind. He slowly pulled open one of the messy drawers of his desk, procuring a wrinkled blank piece of paper. Pulling a pen from a cup on his desk, he pulled the cap off and started scribbling frantically onto the paper. In his head, the vision of Corazon writing on slips of paper to communicate while he was pretending to be mute flashed through his vision. If Law couldn’t muster up the courage to vocalize the three little words bouncing aimlessly through his skull, then he’d just write them down.

The scratching of pen against paper finally ceased, and Law stood, keeping his head low as he passed the paper underside-up toward Ruža, who carefully took it from his hand. Flipping it around, she began to scan the words sloppily written on the front.

Ruža clenched the paper within her shaky fingers. The words she herself had been afraid to say were written at the top. I love you.

The silence was palpable, so thick you couldn’t even slice a sword through it. Shockingly, however, a light, airly laugh infiltrated the space. Ruža’s face was flushed a bright, rosy red, and her mouth was twisted into a nervous, childlike grin as she tried with all her might to keep down the nervous laughs that were forming in her chest. She couldn’t help it, small giggles escaping her lips as her shoulders shuddered with the effort of keeping them in. Law picked his head up, staring with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. He poured his heart out onto a piece of paper, and she was laughing at him.

“I’m not laughing at you, Law,” she finally managed to say. “I love you.”

The formidable captain of the Heart Pirates, one of the most wanted men in the world, nervously swallowed the glob of spit that had formed in the back of his throat. “You… you do?”

“Yeah.” Her response mirrored his curt words from the short minutes prior. “I was so scared that I did something to upset you.”

“God, no, you could never,” Law replied, breathlessly. He felt 100 pounds lighter, like he could float away on the slightest breeze. The three words that had cursed him for almost 20 years of his life now held a new weight to them. A new, liberated weight.

The woman in front of him, with a nervous, giddy smile dancing across her lips, eyes closed tightly with the force of her infectious smile, held his heart so tightly in her grasp and she didn’t even know it. Not yet, at least. That would come with time.

Ruža broke the silence. “Can I please hug you?”

Law felt the corners of his own mouth twitch upwards. “Of course.”

The red-head closed the distance within a few short steps, hiding her face within Law’s chest, still giggling like a child over the sudden revelation. She kept the paper held firmly in her hand as she wrapped her arms around his torso. Law’s scruffy chin found its perch on the crown of her head, the scent of her shampoo filling his nostrils and clouding his mind with a bliss he had never experienced before. He couldn’t fight his smile any more, letting it consume him, the same way he accepted the way his heart beat uncontrollably within Ruža’s presence.

“I’m sorry I’m laughing, I can’t help it,” she mumbled, the sound muffled by her face squished in the fabric of his sweatshirt.

His hands found their place around her shoulders, his left hand involuntarily coming up to rest on the back of her neck, covering her tattoo with his own inked hand. “It’s okay,” he responded, his words quiet and soft. “This is all new to me.”

“It’s new to me, too.”

The two stood in the same position for what felt like hours before Ruža finally (though regrettably) backed away slightly. Law’s hands slipped off her shoulders, but his fingers gingerly brushed along her tattoo.

“We don’t have to do anything about this if you don’t want to. I know with you being the captain and everything makes this kind of weird.” Ruža’s eyebrows angled in a way that made her appear almost sad at a reality that hadn’t even happened yet.

It took Law a few moments to really form his response. “No, I… I think I want to try. I don’t know what to do, though.”

“Me neither.”

Now it was Law’s turn to laugh. “We’re fucking hopeless.”

“Tell me about it.”

Ruža gazed longingly at the paper she still held in her hands, eyes repeatedly glossing over the three words at the top. Law could get used to the way her bright eyes softened, as if not believing that what she was reading was the truth. In the back of her mind, the reason she had even shown up to his office in the first place pushed itself back to the forefront.

“So about you being jealous…”

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