#this dream was so fucking on point my nose should start bleeding lmao

[white-knight]

Just woke up from a nightmare and thought it resembled a dream you'd see in a movie. Asked a dreambot just for fun and

GIRL WHAT

[itsclydebitches]

Until proven otherwise, my headcanon is that both Ironwood and Watts survived and are going to team up again out of necessity lmao.

HI, ANON. So let me tell you about how this simple, silly sentence sent me down a 4k writing rabbit hole. “Lol I’m going to write a little parody about that” I thought to myself and then somehow? It got serious?? I honestly don’t know what this fic is, but I’m chucking it at everyone anyway. 

Also, I changed the whole “Atlas and Mantle are immediately submerged in water” plot point because it’s my coping mechanism and I get to choose the canon we ignore. 

***

Once upon a time there were two villains having a Very Bad Day.

The first, Arthur Watts, had survived an explosion, being buried under rubble, and the threat of a ten-story drop only to find himself suffocating amidst a magically produced fire. A horrible way to go, all things considered. Painful, of course, but more importantly, no self-respecting man should die with soot on his clothes.

Or leave behind a charred corpse. 

In fact, Watts had just begun to acknowledge the full indignity of his death when the momentum he'd felt — just there on the periphery of his awareness — suddenly ceased, Atlas crashing into Mantle and throwing him with a squawk in the process. His head took a nasty hit against one of the desks, the smoky gray of the room growing darker, and by the time Watts had come to, the fire had been replaced by water.

Ice-cold water, lapping up to his knees.

"Well," he said, lifting a sodden boot. "I suppose this is an improvement."

***

Elsewhere, James Ironwood — former General of the now sinking Kingdom of Atlas — was lying facedown on the stone of the outer vault, contemplating his choices. Upon reflection, no, he didn't regret what he'd done, but it would have been nice if things had turned out...any way other than this.

"Fuck," he said to the empty hall, enjoying the reverberation. He deserved that much at least.

In time, Ironwood was able to pick himself up off the floor, supported as much by the fact that he'd been knocked out by his own blast as his shaky, barely-there aura. Up the elevator running on emergency dust reserves, through the corridors that groaned ominously under damaged supports. Ironwood headed towards the military headquarters purely out of habit and as he did the sound of water grew stronger, almost like waves, until there was an inch of it across the floor, more trickling in from the staircase. Ironwood had been watching his boots splash with each step, almost mesmerized, and didn't look up until another pair unexpectedly entered his view.

Watts froze in the act of wringing out his pantleg, eyes wide. His expression, the water, how the hallway tilted downward at a slight angle... it all felt like something out of a dream. Ironwood just watched as Watts watched him, until his eyes traveled to the gun clipped on his belt. Ironwood hadn't even realized he'd picked it up.

"Here to kill me, James?" Watts said.

"No." He knew it was true as soon as he'd said it. The mere thought of starting another fight right now was... exhausting. "Do you intend to kill me?"

"Oh really. Does it look as if I'm in a position to fight you? Do use your head for once. I have no weapon, no aura — damn fire ate it all up — I feel as if I've swallowed a hot coal, I am wet — "

Ironwood turned partway through the ramble, meandering back up the way he'd come. He'd passed through two checkpoints before realizing that Watts was not only still talking, but following him.

"What do you want?" he asked, more to shut the man up than out of real curiosity. If Watts was capable of reading the difference between the two, he didn't show it.

"Cinder."

"Cinder?"

"I don't make a habit of allowing people to try and murder me without consequence, James!"

"She's gone."

"Yes, thank you for that stunning bit of info! There's no possible way I could have realized that for myself. What's gotten into you? They left us, fool. Salem, Cinder, Neo, Emerald, even your so-called allies... they all deserve the worst that we can grant them. Though right now, I'd settle for wringing that idiot Pietro's neck. Ten years I gave to that research and he rendered it obsolete with a single report, all because he wanted to play father to some stupid hunk of metal. I never would have gone to Salem if — " Watts cut off, hands balled into fists.

Ironwood just blinked dazedly, coming to a halt. He searched his uniform, the scroll he'd stashed there miraculously whole. Dimly, he registered that he should be feeling some sort of emotion right now.

"I can do that," he murmured.

"What?"

But Ironwood was already keying in the code, the desire to complete a task, any task, taking hold. Watts looked on, mouth twisted in a deprecating sneer.

"I already took out communications, in case you failed to notice."

"But not the trackers I had installed in my top scientists." Ironwood held up the screen where a small, red dot was blinking. "Pietro's still here. Looks like he's out near the mine with a second aura signature. If you want to...?" He wasn't going to finish that sentence.

"I see," Watts said in a tone that heavily implied he didn't. "And you'd just give me this information out of the evilness of your heart?"

Ironwood considered that. "I killed a man yesterday, tried to kill two others, and was ready to bomb all of Mantle to keep the rest of my Kingdom safe. I don't care what you do with the man who betrayed me."

"...fair enough."

Except after five steps Ironwood realized that Watts wasn't following him. He was looking down at his arms, still as a hunted hare.

"You put trackers in all your scientists?" he asked.

"A requirement I implemented after you went missing."

"Ah! Ingenious. Lead the way then."

***

The way led to the tundra, an environment that neither of them were prepared for. Watts was wet from the waist down and Ironwood had long ago learned that snow and metal didn't mix. Neither had the aura for the kind of storm that was raging either. Luckily, the panic of Salem's invasion had left plenty of vehicles to purloin and soon they were speeding East with the heat on, the faint beeping on Ironwood's scroll growing stronger.

He'd felt the impact of his city crashing down and the two of them had clamored out of Atlas' husk, dropping into rubble and cracking ice. Still, the true destruction wasn't evident until they were moving away from it. Through the rearview mirror, Ironwood could see pillars of smoke from fires that the water hadn't yet smothered, dark shadows that could only be grimm, and Atlas itself, plunged halfway into Mantle. It wasn't noticeable from this distance, but all of it was sinking.

"I was lucky," Ironwood said, his voice hollow. His eyes flicked back to the expanse of snow ahead of them. "If Atlas had tipped the other way, the vault would have flooded. I'd have drowned."

Watts snorted. "I'm lucky. That damned water put out Cinder's fire. I'd have burned."

Neither felt particularly lucky and for fifteen more minutes, neither was keen to discuss it.

***

Once upon a time, two heroes were having a Very Bad Day.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Maria paused in the act of bandaging Pietro's leg, mechanical eyes narrowing at the two figures that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Watts sucked in a breath at the duo. Ironwood gave a small, awkward wave.

Then he nodded his head at the scene: one old, exhausted woman and a paraplegic currently bleeding into his chair. "So... going to kill him?"

Watts ground his teeth. "Well now that just feels like a fool's errand. Look at him. He's pathetic!"

Pietro was slumped at an uncomfortable angle, sporting a gash in his leg and an impressive display of bruises across his face. Maria, in contrast, seemed to have only lost her hair tie.

"Pathetic?" she spat. "Your lackey did this!"

"Who?"

"Angry girl with the creepy arm."

"Ah, it all comes back to Cinder." Watts pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, thank you for recognizing that I was her superior, but no, I didn't send her to kill the likes of you. Must have done it on her own, the little idiot. Don't believe me? I was in jail at the time, if I recall correctly. Isn't that right, James?"

"You were helping me hack Penny."

Maria let out a skin-crawling cackle. "Why do you think the girl was here? She blew a hole in the bottom of Amity! Penny tried to hold us up, but..." she swallowed, still pressing against Pietro's leg, but turned warily towards them. "You hacked her? You did that? What precisely do you think happens when a man who never learned to apply aura as a shield crash-lands in this hunk of junk!"

"I expect most men in that position perish," Watts said smoothly. "The fool is lucky to be alive, but he won't be for much longer if you keep trying to staunch the wound with your soiled gloves. Move aside."

"Get away from me!"

"Oh, put your stick down, you old bat. I'm trying to help."

"Why?" Ironwood hadn't realized he'd spoken until Watts was glaring daggers his way.

"So I can kill him later myself!"

Still surreal. Still dream-like in its absurdity. Ironwood listened to the bickering between Watts and... Mary? Maria? He wasn't even sure. He wandered away, content to gaze out through one of the windows at his Kingdom. Or what was left of it. He idly massaged his left arm, trying to rid himself of a pain that wasn't there, and when the howl of a grimm reached them across the snow, he shivered.

His unlikely companions screamed at each other loud enough to reverberate through the whole building. There were the sounds of two bodies trading blows, but only for a moment. Pietro, voice groggy and high-pitched with terror, demanded to know where his daughter was. 

"She's dead," Ironwood said. He didn't turn to see their expressions, didn't need to. "Winter she... she defeated me as the Winter Maiden. That can only mean one thing."

"One thing to you, perhaps." Ironwood did turn then, watching stoically as Pietro tried to right himself in his chair, Watts cursing as the leg continued to bleed. "Where is she? I want to see my little girl. I can heal her, fix her — " he broke off, doubling over with a cough that splattered more blood into his hands.

"Maybe you could have," Watts said, a cruel satisfaction in his voice. "If her little friends hadn't made her human."

Some of the pieces fell into place then. His Lamp, long missing, had apparently wound up in Neo's hands, then Salem's, before it was finally used by Cinder. Watts described — with immense pleasure — the plan the group had concocted and the wish they'd asked of Ambrosius. He'd been a bit preoccupied with bomb duty to learn the details, but he knew that Cinder lived and Ironwood, it seemed, knew that Penny had perished. What a tragedy. Do you know how to bring back the non-mechanical, Doctor?

Ironwood honestly thought the old woman was about to kill him, murderous intent put on hold only because Pietro collapsed then, curling in on himself as sobs wracked his frame. The only words that escaped the mess of tears were "Penny" and then "Maria," one hand reaching out blindly for comfort. Pietro found it, the two holding onto each other as Watts sat at their feet, grinning up at the display.

Ironwood thought only, So that is her name.

The other, crucial bit of info was that everyone was gone. Dead or evacuated, it didn't matter. As far as any of them knew, they were the last four in Atlas, with Salem on her way to destroy whatever kingdom next took her fancy. It was over. They'd lost. And despite the horror of it, the realization was oddly freeing too.

When Maria asked in a tone edging on hysteria what precisely they were going to do — because it seemed this was a "we" situation now — Ironwood suspected she meant in the short term. What were they going to do about their wounds? The grimm? Finding and reaching the others? But those were foolish concerns, the thinking of someone who'd never had a kingdom's life in their hands. Ironwood knew there was only one answer here, the same one he'd had from the start.

"You can do whatever you like," he said. The metal of Amity sparkled against the rising sun, leaving splotches of color behind his eyes. "I will defend Atlas."

Maria's mouth dropped open and Watts stared. Even Pietro ceased his crying long enough to suck in a breath.

"Defend it from what?" he asked.

Ironwood shrugged. "The grimm. Salem. I don't know. I don't care. To quote a former friend, I have never wavered in defending the Kingdom of Atlas against its enemies and I don't intend to start now. This is my city and I won't leave it."

"It's sinking!" Watts cried, overlapping with Maria's, "We need to help" and though so much softer, quieter, more innocent than the spittle Watts was scattering across the floor... that single word sank its teeth into Ironwood. The woman may as well have stabbed him.

"Help?" he said. "Help? I tried to help! Everything that I have done in the last two days — the last two years — my life! — has been to help not just Atlas, but everyone I feasible could. Don't talk to me about help when you and Ms. Rose did everything you could to stop me. I had planned to help the world and you all lied. You betrayed. You set your weapons against me and kept me from saving what parts of my Kingdom I could. Tell me again: what precisely did you do to help?"

He'd crossed the distance, one hand on his holstered gun and the other leaning against Pietro's chair, using it to leverage himself down into Maria's space. Ironwood didn't need to see her eyes to know the emotion they held.

"I," she spit, "didn't try to bomb a city."

And just like that the fight in him was gone. It had barely existed in the first place. Ironwood straightened, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet. "No. You didn't. So it's as I said, go help if you want. If you can." His gaze slid to Watts. "You were one of her men. That says it all." Pietro. "You helped them reveal Salem to the world. Will she have time to destroy the other kingdoms before the grimm do it first?" Maria. "And I don't know you, but you don't earn a prize like that without seeing combat." Ironwood lifted his metal finger, tapping it against Maria's goggles. She flinched away. "Can you honestly say you haven't made mistakes?"

"You and I are nothing alike!"

"I didn't say we were."

Ironwood turned and walked away, as steady as he could manage as the world grew a little darker, despite the sunrise. Behind him Watts' voice rang out like a shot.

"So that's it then? The captain goes down with his ship? You idiot!"

He paused. "Not quite. It turns out I'm not the only idiot around these parts. Ms. Rose left the vault open." One last turn to savor their shocked expressions. "That's where I'm going. There are still plenty of airships if you'd like to leave, but just remember: they abandoned you too."

Perhaps he should have been surprised that by the time his boots hit the snow, three more footsteps were sounding behind him. Frankly, in fourteen hours time Ironwood would barely remember their conversation, let alone everything that came after it. One of them drove back to the sinking city. Someone tested the ice before they cautiously crossed it. Someone else dispatched the stray grimm foolish enough to get in their way. Ironwood saw and heard none of it. He walked with the determination of a wind-up toy, wobbling now that he'd reached the end of his string. Cool blues, a shining gold, and then beautiful, miraculous grass. Ironwood ignored the murmurs of amazement behind him, dropping directly to his knees.

When his palms hit the ground, only one was capable of feeling how soft it was.

I need to update my arm, he thought, even as he curled into a ball and passed out.

***

When he woke they were already running out of time.

For the first two days Ironwood barely spoke to the others and thus he never quite figured out why they'd stayed. Had it been hopelessness? Spite? The all consuming thought that there was nowhere else to go? That Atlas, for all its rubble and slowly rising water, wasn't any different from what the rest of Remnant would look like soon?

Why not here then?

Especially when the vault, filled with wildflowers and an endless sun, made for such an enticing retreat.

"Soil's farmable," Maria said, running some of it through her fingers. It was a statement of fact, nothing more, and the three of them stubbornly ignored the implications of it.

"There's — " Pietro coughed, self-consciously clearing his throat. "There's plenty to salvage. Machinery to pull water from the humidity in here. First aid supplies. We could section off an area for our wa — "

Watts seethed. "If you finish that thought I will — "

"What?" Maria arched a brow. "Kill him? Like you've been saying for the last day?"

Day? Ironwood blinked. How long had he been out?

"I will!"

"Like you'd be able to. Just try it, beanpole."

They argued, and they threatened, but none raised their hands to one another again, and when they finally dispersed across the kingdom to collect what they could, none of the acknowledged what it was for.

Ironwood waded through the remnants of his home and didn't think about building another. Because the idea alone was absurd.

"Don't let the door slam shut," he'd said when they’d first left, nodding to the stone slab that had appeared after Penny had first arrived. Ironwood watched the three exchange glances, unsure if he was joking.

Fuck if he knew.

***

Those four days — or five, if Ironwood counted the one he'd lost — were conducted in a strange state of frenzy. None of them were in a position to be working on such a project, but when had the world ever cared for their needs? Pietro stayed behind in the vault, cataloguing what they'd found and making lists for what was still needed. His chair, while dynamic, wasn't meant for the sort of terrain Atlas had become and his wound was still healing.

He also seemed to appreciate the privacy, frequently mourning his daughter with an honesty that made them all uncomfortable. 

Maria went off to do the Gods only knew what, disappearing for hours at a time, then coming back wet, cold, and carrying little. Though she always had information. Which parts of the city were too grimm invested to traverse, which were now completely underwater, which were too unstable as Atlas tilted like a ship, disappearing beneath the waves. It gave them all focus and, surprisingly, something like hope. Whatever else she carried was usually small, such as the seeds filched from the bio laboratories.

"Couldn't take them all," she said, critically surveying the land, "what with so many of the labels getting lost in the crash. Don't want to eat something your lot has experimented on."

"You should. If we're lucky you'll mutate into someone bearable." Watts, taking stock of the clothing they'd gathered, didn't seem to realize that Maria was flipping him off.

He went on a deep dives (sometimes literally) for salvageable tech, most of it of a practical nature, but other pieces... not. Nothing had shifted Ironwood's world view quiet like day two, walking in on Watts looming over Pietro, assuming there was another fight brewing... only to overhear them exchanging theories, the conversation filled with as many insults as legitimate claims. Still, the seeds of camaraderie were there, and were perhaps easier to grow than originally thought. After all, Watts had once been one of them and Pietro, for all his heroics, had once entered Ironwood's office with a manic gleam in his eye, rambling about giving an aura to a machine. Defense technology at its finest!

 What was it Glynda had said? Ah yes, agreeing with young Ms. Nikos about how "wrong" it all was. But desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

They'd had that discussion, of course. Soon after Ironwood awoke, talk of Amity began again, this time about whether it was possible to send another message. With enough time and effort, not to mention luck... a short one, perhaps, and only sent to an individual scroll.  But what was the point? Who would they call? When no one could — or would — answer that question, the idea was dropped.

In the days since, Ironwood had fantasized about messaging Glynda. One of the few who'd ever been a true friend, perhaps the only one left alive who might care that he was still among the living... if Ms. Rose's message hadn't killed that too. Not that it mattered. Even if Amity wasn't a hunk of metal gathering ice, Ironwood hadn't a clue what he might say to her.

Dear Glynda,

Thank you. Sorry. Good luck.

Sincerely,

General James Ironwood

P.S. If things had ended differently, I would have asked for a second dance.

How ridiculous.

So he walked the broken streets of Mantle and climbed the streets of Atlas, more and more of it disappearing every day. Their hoard grew though, born of not just military property, but personal belongings as well. It wasn't as if anyone was coming to claim them. Unless more magic was at work, both cities would be miles beneath the ice before anyone crossed the border again. Still, Ironwood would always pause before packing away what he found in the hastily abandoned houses. Bedding. Utensils. The literal shirt off someone's back. He'd changed into jeans and a thick sweater the second day, taken from a collection of civilian clothes he'd placed into a locker years ago and promptly forgot about. The uniform felt... obsolete now, no matter that his goals remained the same.

He'd encountered Maria on one of those trips, admiring a basket of yarn in some nameless Atlesian's living room. Her shoulders had tensed at his approach, but she just snorted at the sight of him.

"You knit?" he asked, unsure of what else to say.

"No."

"Crochet?"

"No."

Ironwood didn't know any other crafts that involved yarn. "Then why are you taking it?"

Maria hummed. "Just a thought. That I might, someday, try to learn." She shook a book she’d pulled from the basket: Knitting For Beginners.

A stray thought indeed. The thing they still didn't talk about. The closest they got was on the fifth night when an explosion sounded outside, massive enough to unsteady them even deep within the vault. By the time all four of them had made it out and onto one of the roofs, the sky had turned a sickly yellow, followed by black tendrils that raced, turning, back and around on each other until everything went dark. The only light came from what little electricity they had running on generators and a red aura, pulsing from the West.

From Vacuo.

Realistically, it might have meant that they'd won. It wasn't as if Ironwood had any idea what the death of an immortal witch looked like. But the night wore on and they had no idea because that unnatural, starless black never receded. In time, Pietro wandered off and returned with two bottles he'd pilfered from somewhere, cracking the tops off on the side of his chair and passing them around.

They still didn't say it aloud, though the sky and the alcohol said enough already. Ironwood kept his eyes on the watch his mother gave him, hours ticking by until sunrise was long overdue. Atlas felt even colder now and that red, seeming to inch closer, sent a different kind of chill down his spine. The grimm that still prowled below had taken off hours ago, summoned by some unheard call.

Ironwood downed the dregs of his bottle and threw it into the city.

"Come on," he said. Ordered maybe, or asked. He wasn't sure he knew the difference anymore.

Blankets. Glasses. As many non-perishables as they could find. Generators. Tool kits. The building blocks of renewable energy. Clothing. Decorations. Wood to build small, individual dwellings.

Watts hoarded laptops and a small mountain of batteries, never showing them what he was working on, intensely protective.

Maria grew obsessed with entertainment, snagging every book, game, and video until there was a veritable library piled on the grass. She kept muttering about deserving a real retirement.

Pietro built a shrine to Penny, a simple stone monument to the left of the doorway. He tended to organize their supplies there, occasionally reaching out a hand to brush the code he'd inscribed with a laser. Whatever meaning it held, Ironwood couldn't read it within the ones and zeros.

And he... he found a cat. His last day, picking his way across dwindling islands until his eyes found the small, electrical fire just out of the water's reach. The cat had wedged herself into the rubble above it, trying desperately to keep warm.

She was as black as the sky above them and Ironwood was sure, when he reached out, that she'd run, terrified of his prosthetic hands. They certainly weren't any warmer, but she weakly crawled into them nonetheless. Ironwood held her securely against his left side, where his heart and flesh were, and thought with an absurd, internal laugh that he'd at least saved one.

There was so much left to do still, but their time was gone. That evening, eating what little they had the stomach for, water began to pour from the vault's elevator. First a trickle, then a deluge, until there was a sizable waterfall to admire. Ironwood sat on the steps with his unnamed cat on his shoulder, watching inevitability creep towards him.

He could still lie though.

"There's still time," he said, addressing the three behind him. "If you head up the elevator shaft and down the west hall, you can still break the surface. Find one of the remaining airships. Fly away."

Watts scowled, avoiding his gaze. He remained leaning against the doorway though. 

Maria and Pietro exchanged glances.

"I'd carry you," Ironwood offered to Pietro. They both knew it would be a death sentence with their combined deadweight, but he'd do it anyway.

"No," he said softly. "I did all I could already."

Maria. She was harder to read with those goggles, but it wasn't peace on her face. Guilt, more likely, but that had never stopped any of them before.

"It's damn cold out here," she muttered and marched back to the grass. Pietro followed her, Watts trailing not far behind. He turned back though.

"You coming?"

Ironwood didn't answer and eventually Watts left, heading into the meadow that stretched until you lost sight of where you'd been — and then reappeared there. A tiny pocket dimension, born of a magic now lost to this world. Ironwood figured that a bit of water and ice couldn't break it.

Probably.

He watched the flood cover the floor of the vault, then lap upwards, one stair at a time. There was a part of him, a part unimaginably tired, that thought he might just sit there. Keep rooted until the water was so high it was too late to do anything. That would be easy. Fitting, even. Shouldn't he go with his kingdom?

But then the cat — his cat — dug nails into his shoulder and Watts said something that made Maria screech. Ironwood sighed.

There were still things to protect, simple as that had become.

He turned his back on Remnant, now encased in an eternal night, and walked to the three who remained, cowering in an eternal day.

Ironwood allowed them one last choice and when they all nodded, he kicked the vault door shut.

[bgyulix]

— just another edgy teen rom com

-> pairing: min yoongi x reader

-> genre: bad boy!au, high school!au, slightly inspired by the end of the f***ing world

-> tags/warnings: domestic abuse, child abuse, underage drinking, implications of drug use, also they smoke some weed but only a little, smut in future chapters, suicidal thoughts, despite all these its rather soft and yoongi is whipped

-> word count: 2,896

-> summary: min yoongi is typically someone you’d avoid, and definitely not someone you’d want to run away from home with. OR: having an existential crisis together on a bus stop bench in the middle of the night was not exactly the meet-cute you’d always dreamed of.

-> a/n: here it is!! i hope you guys like it, and if you want to be on the tag list just ask! im thinking there’ll be three parts, but there might end up being four, we’ll see lmao

-> chapter: 1 | 2 | 3

You’d been hit one too many times that night. It was inevitable that it would happen eventually; that a perfectly angled slap or shove against the wall would knock something loose, and you’d end up lying on a bus stop bench like a homeless person letting your wounds fester in traffic fumes.

The cold metal of the dirty bench bit into your thighs and the part of your shoulders where your jacket had ridden down. It registered somewhere in the back of your mind that you could just adjust your jacket and maybe shimmy your shorts down a bit, but you ignored it. You were perfectly happy lying here freezing to death.

Somebody had stuck some gum in the corner of the roof. Maybe you should take it and chew it and get a disease or something. That might be interesting.

Two buses came and went. The night grew longer, and colder. Less and less cars went past. Your shitty little neighbourhood had never been the busiest, and eventually the streets fell quiet and empty, with only the sounds of traffic in the distance and a moth buzzing around a streetlight to keep you company.

The pain of the cut on your lip and your black eye dulled down to a steady throb. It almost felt separate from you, the part of you that cared and the part of you that didn’t two different people arguing with each other while you listened in.

You heard footsteps, trudging up the street through sludgy puddles. They reached the bus stop and hesitated, like everybody else had when they saw your depressed beat up ass suntanning in the dinky fluorescent light. The part of you that didn’t care won out yet again and you didn’t even bother to look up.

They came and sat at the other end of the bench, by your head. You could see a tuft of shaggy bleach blonde hair in your peripheral vision. They shifted and grunted, their voice surprisingly deep. A sigh, and then they simply sat next to you in silence, and you absently wondered if they were waiting for a bus, or if they were going to mug you, or if they were having as bad of a day as you were.

“Rough night?”

You finally managed to move, arching your neck and looking at them upside down. It was a guy, maybe your age, with a nasty scrape on his cheekbone, in a camo jacket smirking around a split lip. He looked vaguely familiar, like you’d seen him around before.

Stranger danger! the little voice in your head that was still sane yelled at you. You ignored it.

“Yep,” you said.

“Yeah,” the guy muttered, “me too.”

He thumbed at his lip. It was bleeding a little.

“What happened to your face?” he asked.

“I got punched, I guess. What happened to yours?”

He snorted. “I got punched, I guess.”

“Welcome to the club, then.”

You settled back down, staring at the roof again. Your butt hurt.

“So, what brings you to my bus stop?” he said, his voice smug. You prickled at his tone.

“Your bus stop? This is my bus stop.”

“Nope, sorry. Definitely mine.”

“I was here first!”

“I’ve been having mental breakdowns here long before you have, sweetheart.”

You scoffed, sitting up to glare at him, your cold, tired bones groaning in protest. You noticed now the bruises on his knuckles, and the dirt stains - or what you hoped were dirt stains - on his shirt. His eyes were dark and catlike, watching you intently with something like amusement.

“I am not…” you grumbled, feeling suddenly pinned down by his gaze, “I am not having a mental breakdown.”

He quirked a brow.

“You’re lying in a bus stop in the middle of the night.”

“And you’re sitting in a bus stop in the middle of the night. You can’t talk.”

He chuckled, pointing at you. “Touché.”

A car went past. You sat side by side, hyper aware of his presence and the way his choppy blond bangs fell across his face and the way he was twisting the ring on his finger in his lap.

“You come here often then?” you said, casually.

“Occasionally,” he replied, casually. Just like you were talking about the weather. “Yourself?”

“Nah. I was just walking past, thought I might go somewhere.”

“But… you didn’t?”

“Don’t have the guts, I guess.”

“I get it,” he rasped, nodding sagely, “I always come here thinking I’ll get on the bus, and then I don’t.”

He pursed his lips, looking away from your face and to the road, glistening with dew and oil slick and hazy streetlights.

“Where would you go?” you murmured.

He shrugged.

“Haven’t really thought about it. Just…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the street. “Away.”

Away. The dream of away was a fantasy, had always been a fantasy. One you consistently came back to after every fight, every hit, every curse. You rub at your eye, wincing when it stung. You wonder who hit him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Away.”

He sniffed, scratched his nose. Suddenly he shifted, straightening his back and his shoulders and puffing out his chest a little, any hint of vulnerability gone and replaced with smug cockiness.

“So you gonna tell me your name?” he smirked. You rolled your eyes at his obvious display.

“___,” you told him.

“Yoongi.”

Your eyes widened. So that’s how you recognised him. “Like Min Yoongi? The drug dealer?”

He scoffed. “I am not a drug dealer.”

You raised your brow the same way he had at you.

“I am not a drug dealer… during school hours,” he clarified. You snorted.

“Anyway, how would you know unless you’ve bought off me, huh?”

“We go to the same school. You’re a consistent source of locker room gossip. Everyone's scared of you.”

Min Yoongi rode a motorcycle and smoked under the bleachers and once told a teacher to fuck off. Min Yoongi could set you up with anything if you were willing to pay. Min Yoongi ran with gangs. Min Yoongi had fucked his way through practically the entire school. You either hated him, wanted him, or were scared of him. The rumours and chatter surrounding him was endless, and he did nothing to discourage it, getting into fights and into detention, showing up to every house party with arms full of weed and leaving one too many hickies on a girl’s neck.

And here he was in front of you, staring at his boots and shaking his head almost bashfully, you dare say.

“You don’t look so scared,” he huffed. You shrugged.

“I’m having a bad day.”

“Yeah, no shit. You look terrible.”

“Hey!” you cried indignantly, “speak for yourself, asshole!”

He laughed then, a deep, carefree rumble from deep in his chest. Your lips rose on their own accord, and you had to fight to keep the smile down.

He didn’t seem so scary. Apart from the blood, of course.

“You wanna get a milkshake?” he asked abruptly.

“A milkshake?”

“Yeah. I know a place that stays open late, not far from here.”

“Oh. Uh… yeah, okay. Yeah, that sounds nice.”

The place he led you to was a small, rundown building next to a service station, trash littering the footpath out in front, with a guy leaning against the wall puking on his shoes.

JO’S DINER, screamed the flickering neon sign. OPEN LATE!

You screwed up your nose and hesitated, eyeing the guy warily.

“That’s just Heegun,” Yoongi said, nudging you, “‘sup, Heegun!”

Heegun raised a hand, before he doubled over and continued to hack his guts up.

Yoongi barrelled through the door, gesturing for you to follow. You hurried in after him, giving Heegun a wide berth.

The inside of the diner was vintage 50’s style, with a checkered floor and red vinyl chairs, and records and pictures of old cars hanging on the walls. It smelt of motor oil and fries, and scratchy music was playing through the speakers. One of the lightbulbs above the counter was out, leaving a weird dark spot, and there was a puddle of… something collecting in a spot where the floor dipped. The waitress at the counter was chewing gum and scrolling through her phone, her classic white apron covered in grease stains.

“Jisoo,” Yoongi drawled, sidling up to the counter. Jisoo, an older woman with extremely thin, overdrawn eyebrows, sighed heavily.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. She had lipstick on her teeth.

“It’s me! How’s it going?”

Jisoo raised one of her fake eyebrows, very, very slowly.

“You two look like shit.”

“Yes, we know. Thank you. Could we get two milkshakes, if you please? ___, what flavour you want?”

You started. “Oh, uh, just chocolate.”

“Two chocolate milkshakes. And a large curly fries, I’m fucking hungry.”

Jisoo marked it down on a little notepad, and somehow even made that sarcastic.

“Sir, yes sir,” she grumbled, and pulled out her gum and stuck it behind her ear, “take a seat.”

Yoongi sat you down in a little booth by the window and slid in opposite you. The table was covered in crumbs and the vinyl stuck to your bare legs.

“You‘re a regular?” you asked.

“Well, they know me by name,” Yoongi replied. He leant back and rested his arm up on the top of his seat, a dark blot against the garishly bright diner, somehow more intimidating in decent lighting than he had been in the dark. It finally hit you; you were in a shitty restaurant with Min Yoongi. You were having milkshakes and curly fries with Min Yoongi.

Why not, you supposed, it’s not like your life wasn’t already a disaster. You put your elbows on the table, the crumbs digging into your skin. You didn’t have the energy to be disgusted.

“So…” you began, and then came up blank.

“So…?” Yoongi urged.

“Uh… how much were the milkshakes? Because I have like…” you fished around in your pocket, “two dollars. And five cents.”

He chuckled again, rich and gruff, and you swear you felt it in your bones.

“Relax, it’s on me. Like you said, you’re having a bad day.”

“And you’re not?”

He shrugged. “Eh. I’m used to it.”

“That’s not a good thing,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. He smirked.

“That’s life, doll.”

Life, indeed.

“So…” you said again.

“So…?” Yoongi urged, again.

“Is this what you do for fun? Come to…” you lowered your voice, just so Jisoo wouldn’t hear, “come to shitty diners in the middle of the night?”

He seemed amused, his smirk growing a little wider and his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yeah. This is all I do. Just this, nothing else,” he teased.

“Well, what do you do then? Other than this. And drugs.”

He leaned forwards conspiratorially and cupped his hand around his mouth, like he was about to deliver a secret, and you found yourself leaning into him.

He opened his mouth and whispered, “sell drugs.”

You scoffed and sat back, brushing the crumbs off your elbow.

“Right, of course. Typical.”

Jisoo appeared, a cigarette hanging from her lips, balancing a tray with two milkshakes and a basket of curly fries on her hip. She brought it down on the table hard enough to make both milkshakes spill over the sides of the glass.

“There, you little shits,” she grated, her voice like sandpaper.

“Thanks, Jisoo,” said Yoongi, going straight for the fries. “Heegun’s throwing up out the front again, by the way.”

“WHAT?” Jisoo roared. You flinched. She stormed across the diner, her thunderous footsteps making the table rattle, and swung the door open with so much force it was a miracle it didn’t come flying off its hinges. “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, HEEGUN, YOU DICK, THIS IS THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK!”

Yoongi chuckled at your shell shocked expression. “She’s a real piece of work, huh?”

You nodded mutely, and hid the way your hands shook by grasping your milkshake and bringing the straw to your lips. It was pretty good, all things considered.

The second the food hit your stomach, it rumbled audibly, and your head went light and frantic. You reached for the curly fries and shovelled the greasy things into your mouth like a starved man.

“When was the last time you ate?” Yoongi asked, eyeing you cautiously. You shrugged, which was a lie. You knew exactly when the last time you ate was; last night at 10:24 pm, sitting across from your father, listening to him rant about how much he hated his job. People yelling at mealtimes seemed to be a trend.

You both ate in silence for a moment, the sounds of Jisoo shooing Heegun away and an overhyped pop song in the background.

“We go to the same school, then?” Yoongi said, with a mouthful of food. You wrinkled your nose at him.

“We do. Don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s gross.”

He snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elected to ignore him. “We have literature together.”

“Literature, huh? I’ve never noticed you before.”

“I try not to be noticed.”

“You some kind of social recluse or something?” said Yoongi, raising a brow.

“No, I just don’t like making a scene, unlike some people,” you told him. “Beside, I sit up the back, and Mr. Ahn makes you sit up the front, so.”

“Huh,” he hummed, tapping his ring against his glass. Jisoo came back inside muttering under her breath, huffing cigarette smoke everywhere. “It seems like you know plenty about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“Not much to know. I’m not nearly as interesting as you.”

“Oh, you think I’m interesting?” he drawled, smirking.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re always up to something.”

“What are you up to?” he asked, jabbing a finger at you.

“Me? Not much.”

“Aw, c’mon. You got no friends, no hobbies? Nothing?”

He was watching you in that peculiar way again, like you’d just said something funny but he couldn’t quite understand the joke. He looked… interested.

“Why do you care?” you demanded, narrowing your eyes.

Yoongi put his hands up in mock surrender.

“Pardon me if I wanna know a bit more about the random chic I found at my bus stop,” he exclaimed indignantly, gazing dangerously at you from under his bangs. You faltered and your cheeks heated, and he gave an amused little huff.

“Um… well…” you stammered, and sipped your milkshake to compose yourself. “I, uh… I like music.”

“Music, huh? What kind?”

“Uh… any kind, if it’s good.”

“You’re really not giving me much to work with here.”

“I’m… I’m in a choir?” you offered.

“Oh, you’re a choir girl,” Yoongi said, “that’s cute.”

You scoffed. “Cute? Excuse me, that shit is hard. Do you know how to tone deaf 70-year-old people are? Extremely. Painfully. And they pinch your cheeks after they subject you to their dying cat noises! Choir takes a lot of effort, thank you!”

Yoongi laughed and grinned, so boyishly that for a moment he almost looked like a different person.

“I’m more into rap myself.”

“You rap?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you any good?”

“Well, that’s - that depends.”

You snorted.

“Huh. I didn’t know you rapped,” you said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Yoongi told you, and wiggled his eyebrows at you. You choked on a fry with laughter.

“Ooh, mysterious. Let me guess, let me guess - you’re addicted to anime. No, no! You cry at cat videos.”

“I do not,” Yoongi grumbled, “I have not once - not once - cried at a cat video.”

“Bullshit, you have too. I can see it in your eyes.”

Jisoo, from her place back at the counter, coughed loudly and pointedly in your direction, and you realised you’d been raising your voice. You lowered yourself back into your seat sheepishly.

Yoongi was still smiling, shaking his head in amusement. He was handsome, you thought. You’d never quite understood why girls threw themselves at him despite knowing the extent of his shady business practices, but you understood now; his mouth was soft and his jaw was sharp and his aura, while commandeering and a little intimidating, was relaxed and calm and familiar. You were having the strangest urge to reach over the table and brush his hair from his face, or maybe tap his nose.

He was… oh, he was cute.

He was smirking at you again. You were staring. Fuck. You looked down at your milkshake.

“You’re cute,” he said, and the milkshake went down the wrong way.

“What?” you spluttered uselessly.

“You’re cute. I can’t believe we’ve never met before.”

“Well…” you began, pausing to collect yourself, “...we have now.”

He grinned. You grinned back.

Yoongi walked you back to the bus stop, and when he asked you if you wanted him to walk you home, too, you refused.

“You homeless?”

“Just for tonight.”

He didn’t push.

When the sun rose, and you finally slunk back home like a dog with its tail between its legs, your father rushed forwards and drew you into his arms and cried apologies into your shoulder, like he always did.

I’m so sorry, ___. I didn’t mean it. It’ll never happen again, I promise.

He even bought you pizza for dinner - but then he got drunk, and then he did it again. Like he always did.