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thot-of-khonshu · 1 year

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Say You Love Me (Joel Miller x f! reader)

1K Celebration | Masterlist

Part 2 - Coming Soon

Pairing: Joel Miller x f! Reader (pre and post outbreak)

Rating: M (18+, explicit smut)

Word Count: 6.2K

Summary: Red wine. Rage. Regret. Reunions. When pride separates you from the man that got away in 2003, you thought you’d never see him again. But when going to tie loose ends for Bill and Frank, you see him and a young companion.

Content: TLOU spoilers, slight changes to the story, age gap (~10-15 years), multiple sex scenes, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, fingering, cowgirl, creampie, oral (f), rough sex, alcohol consumption, grief, violence, mentions of death, the musical stylings of Fleetwood Mac

A/N: Happy TLOU day! This initially started out as a creation for my 1K celebration to "Maroon" by Taylor Swift, but as you can see it completely manifested into its own short story. Thanks to everyone for being patient for my writing. I hope y'all enjoy!

Every time you have a dream about everything before, you try to document it down in your ratty journal with your pen running on empty. Everything seems to run on empty.

You dream of your former life less and less as the years go by. It’s a hazy memory and you can’t remember how we were able to live on such luxuries and be comfortable and be happy.

You dream of the man with his large hands and warm smile on your living room floor, warm with wine.

Red lips. Red cheeks. Red wine.

The bitter taste of cheap red blends on his tongue.

Sticky Austin nights where you’d start outside in the thick humidity but end it in ice cold a/c. It never mattered anyway, Joel always ran hot like a furnace so you’d have to settle yourself in between thin sheets.

You met through Megan who was dating his younger brother Tommy, a Gulf War vet that was more serious about holding his liquor than he ever was fighting in the war. One night when he’d had too much to drink, Joel, the responsible one, picked him up. A sleeping baby girl in the backseat.

He barged through your front door. “Tommy, what the hell are you doin’ bothering these–”

He stopped as soon as he looked at you. From that moment it was like the two of you had this instant communication. He didn’t have to say anything, all you needed to do was look into his eyes.

“HI there.” He smile at you, that warm smile with that dimple on the side of his cheek. “I–uh–hope you’re not the girl my little brother’s been botherin’ “

“That would be my roommate.” You smile back at him. His smile grows even wider and you can’t remember the last time you had such electric eye contact with someone.

Tommy bursts through the door, coming out of the bathroom with Megan hoisting his large frame.

“Please get him in bed and away from vodka.” She hoists Tommy onto Joel.

“Tell me a bedtime story.” He slurs. Joel looks at you apologetically as he turns to bring him to the car. You and Megan exchanged a silent look as she could pick up on what was going on and she nudged you to go after him.

“Hey wait!” You call out, you try not to focus on his broad back muscles. “I think it’s clear Tommy needs some chaperoning whenever he comes over here.”

He furrows his brow in confusion at first. “Y’know, his big brother to come over and make sure he’s doing right?” ‘You smile.

“Just say when and I’ll tag along.” Joel winks at you.

He was always a man of his word.

The next weekend, Megan invited Tommy over and suggested he bring Joel along as well. Tommy came barreling in like a freight train and Joel laid back to greet you at the door. He held up a six pack of beer.

“I didn’t wanna come over empty handed. It’s all we had in the fridge.” Joel said.

“Yeah, Joel wanted to come right over after workin’ tonight. Even let Sarah stay at a friends house, ain’t that sweet?”

“Alright, Tommy. I still clearly gotta babysit you.” Joel rolls his eyes.

“We’ll, thank you for the beer, Joel but we’re more wine drinkers here. Do you like red blend?”

“I’ll drink whatever you give me.”

————————

A few hours later, Megan and Tommy have gone off on their own adventure. You and Joel split the bottle of wine between the two of you and despite him stating he could handle his liquor, his large body was sprawled out across your living room floor with his empty glass tipped over.

“Miller, I thought you said you could handle your liquor.” You grin at him from the couch.

“I usually can. I don’t know what was in your roommate’s cheapass screwtop–”

“Hey–don’t blame the alcohol for why you’re currently on our living room floor right now. And while she can’t defend herself.”

“You saying I’m a sloppy drunk?” He leans closer towards you and you observe the patches in his beard.

“I’m saying I don’t wanna hold your hair back above the toilet.” You grin at him. He looks at you, hard. You feel your heart rate rising and the moment is almost too much to handle. You need to ground yourself with something, anything. You turn to your vinyls.

“You like records?” You ask him, moving towards the shelf.

“Didn’t know people your age still listened to them.” He called out. You scoffed.

“I’m not that much younger than you. Besides, this is timeless. CDs might come and go like 8 track players, but these? These are gonna last through everything.” You hold up a record and he nods in approval, Fleetwood Mac’s self titled album. You flip to side two and the sounds of “Say You Love Me” flood the living room.

You join him on the living room rug and close your eyes, listening to Christine McVie’s voice.

Have mercy, baby, on a poor girl like me

You know I'm falling, falling, falling at your feet

I'm tingling right from my head to my toes

So help me, help me, help me make the feeling go

“God, her voice is just so ageless. I know everyone always looks at Rumours as their best but this one is just cla–” Your breath hitches when you feel his hand brush your cheek. You feel the warmth of his face coming closer and closer as you finally open your eyes to see Joel ready to kiss you.

But he forgot his wine glass in his hand as it spilled onto you with the remainder of his alcohol.

“Shit, shit.” Joel stumbles up and looks around. “I am so sorry, I can clean that up.”

You get up to him walking around your kitchen, looking for paper towels. When he turns around, you put your hand at his chest and look up at his beautiful brown eyes.

“Why don’t you help me find a new shirt?” You ask him in a low voice. His jaw is slacked as he slowly nods.

“Yes ma’am.” He follows behind you, taking your hand as you lead him into your bedroom.

One thing about Joel Miller? He takes his time. He takes his time giving you soft, syrupy kisses and drawing the anticipation by pulling at your lip.

He builds you up by meticulously touching every part of your body while peeling off your clothes, grabbing at the swell of your ass, the dips of your hips and pulling at the back of your neck. He wants to make you feel amazing.

Once you’re naked, he lays you on top of your bed and peers up at you as he pulls your knees apart.

He drags the tip of his tongue over your clit, savoring your taste as he moans in relief. You tremble against him, dragging your hand through his dark curls as he begins to put his full mouth into you, his tongue entering you as his nose brushes your clit. You can’t help but squirm on top of him, rocking onto him as he moans below you.

“You taste so fucking good.” Joel gets up for air briefly and dives back in. Kissing at your inner thighs, he takes one of his thick fingers and pushes one into you, your body instantly tightening around it.

“So wet for me too.” Joel moans. He moves in earnest, putting his mouth back onto your clit and the pleasure is all you can concentrate on. He adds another finger, getting up to watch you squirm at his fingers as your wetness fills the room from his methodical thrusts.

You feel yourself tense, your muscles tightening around him as your pleasure intensifies and your breaths go shallow. When he curves his fingers and moves his mouth back to your clit, you short circuit completely.

You writhe on top of him as you cum, moaning louder than you’d expected and hoping Tommy and Megan don’t hear anything. Your shallow breaths fill the room and your eyes are shut. Pleasure still pulsates through your body as Joel is now on top of you, kissing at your throat as you feel his heavy, still clothed cock on top of you.

When you release it, it springs from his boxers, thick and dripping at the top with precum. You rub the tip of his head as he lets out a hiss of air at your throat. You bring the liquid to your mouth and savor the taste.

“I hope this ain’t too forward,” His hands cup and knead at your breasts. “But I’m desperate to feel you.”

“Please” You beg. “I have condoms but I’m also on the pill. Whatever you need, just please don’t stop.”

Joel lines himself up against you, rubbing his thick cock against your soaked walls. His eyes don’t leave yours as he gently enters you. It’s soft at first, him trying to fit in every single inch while also not cumming immediately while he was inside of you. You gripped him, wet and tight.

During the pause when he’s finally deep inside of you, you both are riddled with heavy breathing. Your kisses are slow but hungry. You start to move below him and that’s what drives him wild.

He begins to pump faster inside of you, rubbing himself against your swollen clit. You don’t think you’ve ever had something so intimate before. You’d had sex, but this just felt like something out of another dimension. Joel was entirely focused on your pleasure, hungrily pawing at your body as he rocked on top of you.

When circled his fingers on your clit, you knew you were going to cum a second time. You grabbed at the bedsheets, another climax of pleasure making you arch.

After you came twice, Joel was needier. He raised your leg so he could get into a deeper position and you had felt so incredibly full. He fucks you at a rapid speed and feeling you convulse around him for another orgasm wasn’t helping and the room filled with the noise of his balls slapping onto your skin.

You loved that his broad body surrounded you, that all you could feel was him and all you could hear were his grunts into your ear. His hips began to stutter as he filled himself into you, emptying himself as much as he could into your tight walls.

You don’t realize how badly you were gripping him until you rub his back, his head on your chest and you feel the claw marks. His breathing is labored, still feeling the impact of your sex as you bury your fingers into his curls.

“This should go without being said,” Joel looked up at you. “But I would really like to take you out sometime.”

You weren’t going to say no to that.

—---------------------------------

You wake up, the motion of the car rattling you.

“Morning, sunshine.” Megan smiles behind the steering wheel. Before everything, Megan was terrified of driving and now you’d catch her dead before she’d stop and pick someone up, choosing to run them over instead because they were likely a hunter.

And wouldn’t you rather kill than be killed?

It all happened so fast but so painfully, hauntingly slow at the same time. In one night, civilization as you knew it had ceased to exist. Megan came home, shaking, covered in blood telling you you had to leave tonight.

You drove until you ran out of gas. You walked until you were able to rob some idiots that tried to give you a ride and take advantage of you. And that’s how you ended up at the Philadelphia quarantine zone. Somewhere far away from Texas and the sticky heat and long carefree nights.

There were a lot of men like that in this world, who thought they could take things from vulnerable women. Little did they realize, the vulnerable women didn’t make it. Not all of them were like that, though. Bill and Frank weren’t.

You’d met Frank over the radio, talking over some music his partner BIll was playing as some sort of signal. Frank was incredibly kind, warm and worldly in a world with almost nothing left. He’d offered to trade things between you and Megan’s QZ and the Lincoln town he lived in with Bill.

And Bill? He was…Bill. He wasn’t exactly kind and open to strangers, but he knew the both of you and trusted you after all of these years. Whoever Frank loved, he loved. So when you’d heard the 80’s distress signal coming from the radio, you’d decided to risk the trip and make sure everything was okay.

When you had gotten to the gate, usually coded, it was wide open and the two of you exchanged looks in surprise. Without having to say a word, you grabbed your handgun out of the glove compartment. Megan pulled up to Bill and Frank’s, seeing their door open.

The two of you had tried to get out of the car as quietly as possible. Crouching behind the car as you heard the crunch of footsteps.

“It could be Bill and Frank.” Megan whispered.

“When is it like Bill to ever keep the gate open?” You asked her. You heard the crunches coming closer.

The two of you signal to step out at the same time, adrenaline pumping through your veins. After all of this time, it never gets easier doing this.

Before you could pull the trigger, you hear a HYAH and see a small figure jump out towards you.

Jesus, it’s a child. Before she could try to stab either of you, Megan pins her down to the ground, knocking the knife out of the way and the kid squirms under her.

You see another figure jump into frame to defend the kid. A man with grey hair, a broad frame and a handgun. The two of you are in a standoff but something feels off. You know you’ve been to Lincoln so many times before but something about this feels entirely too familiar.

“Do not hurt the kid.” The man drawls, looking down at her and then back at you. “She didn’t—“

And then his eyes meet yours. Still as piercing as you remember. And you realize that you’re standing in front of Joel Miller for the first time in twenty years.

“…Joel?” Megan says something first.

“Hi Megan.” He looks at her briefly to acknowledge her, but he looks back at you. The gun still in his hand, gripped tightly.

“We’re not looking for any trouble.” Joel says. “We’re here to check on our friends.”

“Bill and Frank.” You finally say to him. “Our friends.” The look of confusion on his face is apparent.

“You two knew Bill and Frank?” He asks.

“How about ‘it’s good to see you two alive after all this time’, Joel?” You ask him, exasperated. You were tired of holding this gun, your hands were getting clammy and you had no intentions of shooting him. Even after all this time, you knew he wouldn’t shoot both of you either.

Megan lets the girl up and she runs to Joel. She puts her gun down and you motion for him to follow suit. He looks at you for a long hard moment, his eyes scanning your body as you feel yourself redden with embarrassment, feeling fully exposed in front of him and looking like apocalyptic shit. He sets his gun down as you follow suit.

“I think y’all should come inside, then.” Joel said. “Some things you need to see.”

You follow Joel and the young girl-you find out her name is Ellie- into Bill and Frank’s house. You go to the same place that Bill and Frank would keep supplies, notes or any clothing that Frank had to spare - the second cabinet to the right. That’s where you see their note.

Frank’s condition had worsened over the past few years. A degenerative disease you weren’t sure exactly what it was, but when he asked for a wheelchair from the Philadelphia QZ you were both more than happy to bring it to them. You knew it was only a matter of time before he went. When Bill decided to go with him, you weren’t surprised. Despite his exterior, everything Bill did was for Frank, the man he loved.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt that kind of devotion to someone until today.

The four of you sit at the table. An awkward silence between the four of you, the only sound being Ellie rocking her chair. One of the legs must’ve been broken and Bill hadn’t gotten to it ye–

Oh. Right.

“I didn’t know Bill and Frank knew anyone else besides us.” Megan said.

“Likewise. I guess that makes sense.” Joel said, his eyes still on you.

You agreed. “Frank, I’m sure, would’ve loved the extra company. More people to host garden parties and socialize for but if Bill had anything to do with it–”

“He would’ve threatened to kill us.” You say in unison.

“Trust me, he made sure to make us aware if we tried anything he had his gun right on the table the first time we met.” You said.

“His reputation precedes himself.” Joel said.

The two of you are silent for a moment. Megan and Ellie looking between the both of you.

“Am I missing something?” Ellie asked, pointing at the two of you back and forth.

“And I think that’s my queue to look around for some food. Maybe we can have some dinner, figure out what the fuck we’re doing and then call it a night before we go our separate ways, huh?” Megan quickly said.

You sit at the table with Joel and Ellie, completely silent as Joel is now looking away from you and Ellie keeps looking at the both of you.

“You can cut the tension with a knife, huh?” Ellie whistles.

“Ellie, go take a shower. They’ve got hot water.” Joel says. She quickly gets up and runs down the hall.

“You don’t have to tell me twice. But after I take one, you’re going in because man. And if we’re gonna be around company…”

“Ellie.” He raises his voice into a stern inflection you haven’t heard since…

Where the hell is Sarah?

—-------------------------------------------------

Later that night, you’ve hunkered down with Megan, Joel and Ellie. The four of you have rabbit along with some vegetables and rice from Frank’s garden. The tension has subsided as you’ve gotten into the wine cabinet. That’s when the memories flow back. The three of you share stories from Texas, your old lives that seem so long ago. Reminiscing on how things used to be as Ellie interjects with a question about the old world every now and then while reading a comic she snagged from Bill’s basement.

Megan eventually stretches her arms up. “Well, I’ve been drivin’ all day and I’m exhausted. I’m about to hit the hay.”

“Well I am gonna finish reading this in peace and quiet so I can read about this alien’s guts spilling out without interruptions. Goodnight! You kids have fun!” Ellie grins.

Megan gives you a look etched in worry before she heads to the stairs. You roll your eyes at her because you can take care of your goddamn self. You have been for ages.

You hear the footsteps go upstairs as you and Joel sit across from each other at the table. It’s like a lockbox with feelings you hadn’t had in years starts rattling in your chest, a monster of them waiting to come out and erupt.

You look over at him, his hair slicked back from his shower, grays prominent in his hair and his beard. The swell of his lips was still prominent and had the ability to drive you crazy.

“Bill and Frank.” You say to him, hoping to silence the voices in your own head.

“Bill and Frank.” He repeats, his hands fidgeting on the table.

“So, uh, I guess while we’re here–I’m gonna raid the liquor cabinet.” You head to the liquor cabinet to see if there’s anything strong enough to hold the awkward air between the two of you. You see a dusty bottle in the back of the cabinet, a red blend that looked entirely too familiar to pass up.

You bring it to the table, setting it down in front of Joel. He looks up at you and shakes his head in disbelief, a small smile etched across his face.

“After all this time, you still drink the same shitty red blend.” Joel says.

“Can you handle your liquor any better, Miller?” You slide it towards him, he catches the bottle with one large hand.

“I guess we’ll have to see.” He grumbles, slicing the wine bottle open with his knife.

It didn’t take long for you to feel the heaviness of the wine, sloshing in your stomach as you and Joel took turns taking long drinks from the bottle.

He tells you of Tess, his smuggling partner that had recently gotten infected while smuggling Ellie out of the city. While you admired her bravery and her sacrifice, you can’t help but feel a sting of jealousy. You’d had your partners every now and then, but none of them ever stuck around long enough. None of them ever mattered like he did.

“She was like family.” He stated.

You knew you couldn’t just say sorry. “I’m sorry for your loss” almost seems insulting these days with teh weight of how much it happens.

“Did–uh–you have any smuggling partners?” Joel asks, sipping on the bottle and looking away as if to play nonchalant. Twenty years and you can still tell when it’s all bullshit.

“I did. None of them were exactly like family but they were enough to help Megan and I get by. I never trusted them enough to introduce them to Bill and Frank.” You said.

“Oh.” Was all he could say.

“I–I couldn’t. I just couldn’t let myself get too far with anyone after–” You can’t even bare to say it. But he looks at you as if you have, like you’ve just cut part of his soul open.

“What the fuck happened?” You muttered, swigging from the bottle.

“You want the version they’re teaching kids in FEDRA school or the version we remember?” Joel asked.

“Joel…” You give him a long look. He looks at you, briefly, breaking eye contact to look anywhere else and scowl. He chooses to grab the bottle from you, taking a large gulp.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” He says.

“Maybe it doesn’t.” You say. “But I still wanna know. I just…we could’ve had this life.”

His brow arches.

“You and me. Tommy and Megan. Bill and Frank. We could’ve been a team. It would’ve been something.”

“Tommy decided to fuck off and join the Fireflies. Pretend like he was makin’ a difference. And then when that fell through last I heard he was in Wyoming. Megan was better off.” He stated.

“You were…” He silently mutters.

“We don’t have to talk about any of it. I’ve done some shit I regret but I did it to survive. Because that’s what we have to do in this new world. I get it. But those first few years…I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He takes a large drink of wine. “Or Tommy.”

“Or Sarah.”

“Well, there’s no damn use in thinkin’, is there?” Joel snaps back. You know you’ve clearly hit a nerve talking about Sarah. With whatever happened to her. Was she with the Fireflies? Was she with her Uncle Tommy? You’d hate to think it could be any worse. That brilliant, beautiful girl in any sort of trouble or not existing in this world.

By the pain in Joel’s eyes, the exterior he’d tried to mask by furrowed brows and a hardened expression, you knew. Suddenly the air felt thick.

“I’m sorry…I’m gonna step outside.” You rush to the porch as you feel the tears flood through your eyes. Sarah’s gone. You didn’t know that after all of the pain, after all of the violence, after everything this world has taken from you, that you could still feel this searing pain of loss.

You suddenly hated yourself for not being there. For not calling. For running away from things when they had gotten too serious, as if some bullshit relationship problems would matter in a week’s time in that moment. You had no idea what was about to happen.

If you’d known you would’ve lost everything and everyone in your life you had loved, you would’ve tried to hold on to the man you loved and his family for as long as you could.

But then again…maybe it was better this way that you weren’t there. You didn’t hold him back, you didn’t hold him back either. This world isn’t for the weak. Love makes you fucking weak. Joel makes you so fucking weak, 20 years later. It’s infuriating, intoxicating and confusing.

You hear the door open and footsteps come through. You wipe your tears away as you see Joel sit next to you on the bench.

“I’m sorry.” He says, solemnly. “You didn’t know. It was that night of the…”

“I know it’s so god damn insignificant now…but I’m so sorry I didn’t call.” You choke. Joel remains silent, his lips wavering.

“You didn’t know.” He repeats himself.

“So what happens now?” You ask him.

“We do what we came here to do. Get our supplies, celebrate Bill and Frank and we drink.”

“We drink.” You nod.

And drink you did.

You drank and remembered the good times, the times when he’d come over every Friday night that Sarah had a sleepover and you’d talk and touch each other until the sun came up. You drank and remember how even though Megan and Tommy had fizzled out, he had still come over to be with you. You drank and remembered the bad times, when you couldn’t handle the intimacy, you both couldn’t decide what this was.

You can’t bear the way he looks at you. You need an escape. You head to Frank’s record collection.

You dust off the record collection and see the familiar cover of Fleetwood Mac’s self titled album. You look up at Joel and his cheeks look like they sting with glee. He lets out a small giggle.

“What was it I used to tell you?” You try to remember.

“Records are timeless.” Joel says as you flip the vinyl to side B. “You were always right.”

The room floods with the faint sounds of “Say You Love Me”. It had been years since you’d heard this song but you still remembered every word. Joel extended his hand out to you and you took it, fingers stroking his palm.

You pressed yourself lightly against him, turning and looping over the hardwood floor as the music continued. Somehow, someway, you could still smell his subtle sandalwood scent.

'Cause when the lovin' starts and the lights go down

And there's not another living soul around

You woo me until the sun comes up

And you say that you love me

The two of you giggled like children as you looped around Bill and Frank’s living room. The light of the moon shone on Joel’s face and the hardened exterior of the older man was gone for a moment, and you were taken back to 2003 where that gorgeous carpenter was leaning against your doorway for the first time.

Your hand crept up his neck, feeling his peppered curls as he shivered. In response, he pressed his body closer to yours until you were cheek to cheek.

He turns to face you. His eyebrows scrunched in worry and confusion of the feelings that were rising. He never thought he would see you again, and these damn emotions kept flooding through his body.

“I showed up to your house that morning.” He whispered. “Right after we dropped Sarah off at school. My birthday.”

“So do you still think it doesn’t matter?” You asked him.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“But it would’ve given us one more good day. Before it all went to shit. And if that’s all we had, then I’m okay with that. Better than the alternative.”

You pressed your lips onto his, slow and calculated at first. You gave him one small peck to test his willingness to kiss you. You looked back at Joel and his eyes were shut tightly.

“I’m sorry–I shouldn’t have–” You try to break away but he tightens his grip around you.

“I’m just trying to savor this moment.” Joel whispers. You meet his lips again, hungrier, needier. Both of your hands exploring each other as if to make sure this was real and you weren’t dreaming it.

“Joel.” You break away as he strokes your cheek. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Yes ma’am.” He says.

It’s no shock that after all this time, you and Joel still fit together like a glove. Your body melts into his with a comfort that you haven’t felt in years. You didn’t know your body could ever feel that good again.

You didn’t think your hair, greasy and damaged when you looked at it in the mirror, could be stroked like that again. As if Joel had gotten a spool of gold and he didn’t want to ruin it, Joel petted you with delicacy as he undressed you.

Your stomach, somehow softened throughout the years with age even though you hadn’t had proper nourishment in years, being planted with soft kisses as Joel moved south, desperate to taste your pussy again.

You climb onto his lap and grip him with one hand, still as thick and as long as ever. You take a moment to look at him through the moonlight, after all these years he’s still incredibly handsome but this world took the sparkle in his eye away.

“Please, sweetheart.” Joel begs. “Let me feel you again. I’m desperate.”

That word is what makes you sink down onto him, inch by inch until he’s all the way inside. It was probably a bad idea to attempt to do this without any prep work but you didn’t care, you needed him and it filled a part of you that hadn’t been taken care of in years.

“Fuck. Fuck.” Joel rasps. “You’re still so goddamn tight.” You can feel your inner muscles clenching at his thickness and the desperate groan that he releases makes you weak.

You start to move, slowly, as his fingers dig into your hips. The pressure between the two of you is unbearable, you feel him and his full length but you’re desperate for more release. Joel’s ragged breaths concern you, though.

“Are you gonna be okay if I go faster?” You ask him.

“I ain’t that old, sweetheart.” Joel rasps under you, that damn smile back in action.

And with that, you lifted yourself up and slammed yourself into him, grinding your clit against his cock at a fast and desperate pace.

He moves forward, putting a mouthful of your breast into his mouth as his other hand rests on your lower back. You can feel the intense pleasure so blindly that you don’t know how long it’ll be until it boils over. When you contract around him and cum, Joel lets out an animalistic groan.

“Fuck, that’s it.” He moans. “Milk my cock, baby.”

You ride out your orgasm and just when you think you have time to recover, Joel begins to thrust upward deep and hard. His hips snapping up and bouncing you on top of him. He tangles his fingers into your hair, pulling you down to thrust his tongue into your mouth.

You suck his tongue and desperately cling to him, unsure how much longer you’ll be able to go without cumming again.

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” Joel groans. “Cum around my cock one more time, just give me one more. Please.”

He breaks free from your tight embrace to rub your swollen clit as you grind on top of him again, trying to remain as silent as possible so you don’t wake anyone else in the house.

You convulse and cum around him again, dizzy with pleasure as he takes one leg for leverage and begins to fuck into you harder than before. At this point, you can’t control the sounds coming out of you as he hits a spot inside of you that feels so good. His hips begin to stutter and Joel fills himself into you. He cums so hard that you feel it leaking out of you while he’s still inside.

The two of you stayed just like that for a few moments, clung to each other as you heard his heartbeat hammering inside of his chest. You peppered soft kisses onto his body as you got from on top of him. The contrast of being full and then leaving him made you wince.

Joel got up from the bed and you hesitated for a moment. Did he regret this decision? Was he going to sleep in his own bed? When he came back, he had a warm washcloth and he used it to wipe between your legs. Hot water will never be taken for granted in this world.

The two of you then snuggled up together, the situation being better left unsaid. You knew that you both had to start preparing for the morning, so instead of talking, you just shut your eyes and tried to enjoy his strong arms around you.

—-----------------

You heard a faint knock at the door and almost forgot where you were for a moment. When you felt Joel’s arms around you, his lips pressing against your cheek, you woke up with the biggest smile you’d had in a very long time.

“Good morning, you two.” Ellie shouts throughout the door. “Knock knock. Megan’s making breakfast, wake your asses up, lovebirds!”

“Don’t–don’t come in here Ellie.” Joel tries to exclaim, sleep in his voice.

“I’m fucking good, man. I’m gonna help Megan with breakfast.” You hear her footsteps as she leaves the hallway and you turn to him.

He was still there. And suddenly you were reminded of each and every time he’d stayed over, Megan making everyone breakfast as you’d talk and laugh through the previous night.

This morning was no different. It felt oddly comfortable, the four of you enjoying each other’s company even though you knew it had to end. You’d spent the rest of the morning gathering supplies but then it was time to grab your backpack out of the bedroom.

Joel was sitting on the edge of the bed. It reminded you of how things were the previous day, where he couldn’t look you in the eye. He was riddled with discomfort. In this world, you’re so used to not even having to say goodbye. That’s honestly not as painful as having to do it.

You walk up to him, giving him a long hug.

“Joel, if it’s true what you told me – if she’s immune – this is huge. It might give the world another chance. It might give us another chance.” You say to him.

“You still have so much hope for the world. That's why I will always love you.” Joel whispers. You feel your heart crack. You feel the toolbox in your chest start to rattle.

You know you shouldn’t say it. You know you’d be an idiot to say something so vulnerable and stupid in this world. But if you don’t say it, what else do you have?

“I love you too, Joel. Take care of yourself, okay? Take care of Ellie. If you ever find yourself at the Philadelphia QZ you know where to find me.” You say to him.

He presses his lips against you softly. As if to savor every moment, every feeling. Every curve and swell of your lip. He grabs at the back of your neck and you mimic him, grabbing the back of his. As if pushing further into the kiss could bring you back to those hot Austin nights.

Because you knew this was the last time you’d get a good taste of home.

You walk him out towards the car, Ellie already next to the passenger seat bouncing up and down because she had never ridden in a car before. You and Megan send them both off, his reflection in the rearview mirror never leaving your sight until the truck becomes a small blur.

“You gonna be okay?” Megan asks you, with that same look of worry she had given you the night before.

You’re not sure if you will be, but you have to forge ahead as you always do. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” You state. And the two of you get ready to go, heading into the car back to the QZ.

“Talk about a blast from the fuckin’ past.” Megan says, starting the car. “It’s funny…I had actually heard about Nick – y'know the one that was in the Fireflies– talking about somewhere in Jackson. Small fuckin’ world.”

You lean your head up against the car window. Your thoughts immediately go back to last night.

Small fuckin’ world indeed.

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re-lmayer · 29 days

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i've found myself in a bad situation. the tl;dr is i have to move, but i can't afford to. i'm a disabled student and just do not have the funds required to rent a truck, hire movers, and cover deposits. so, i'm offering various services on my kofi, but if you don't need those you can also donate there or via paypal. my cashapp and venmo are both erinshelley91 if you'd like to donate on those platforms (i couldn't figure out how to link to those)

if you can't afford to commission me or to donate, reblogging this post and sharing my twitter thread is a free way to help me out and is so appreciated!

more context and stuff under the cut, i just don't want to make a long post on ppl's dashboards

my landlord has been cheating on his husband, and their relationship is rocky. he also has a massive spending addiction according to his husband. his spending addiction is making him not want to perform the actual duties of a landlord, because investment costs are cutting into his shopping spree funds

ex, he is illegally not fixing a leak in the shower of the upstairs tenants, and claims the costs are more than their rent. he told them to "figure it out, or get the fuck out." (verbatim.) he also told me it would be cheaper for him to not have tenants at all bc his utility bills would be smaller. he then left it to ME to inform another tenant to leave (then gaslit me and denied it in front of his husband when his husband questioned it)

in his words, we have 90 days to leave. i am disabled and a full time student and have been living on my fafsa returns, and the last job i had made one of my disabilities worse to the point i've had intensive physical therapy (several hours several times a week) and am likely going to have to undergo surgery

i'm also mi/nd, so even on a good day i'm not very well equipped to handle things, and the recent stress has also caused my therapist to see me several times a week in lieu of institutionalization

all that said, i'm not in a good spot physically or mentally, hence the best i can do right now is offer some of my skills on kofi

i'm currently working with my state's vocational rehab to try and find a suitable job until i can get my degree, but even then i simply would not be able to afford the costs of a sudden move in the timeframe i've got to work with

UPDATE MARCH 25, 2024: i want to invest in a scooter to do gig work like doordash. this will let me work at my own pace, and earn towards the move myself, then i'll have some more independence to continue doing that after as well

they require 50cc or under, which means i could get a scooter for under $1,000. i'd also need to cover fees to renew my license (i let it lapse since i haven't had a vehicle), get a helmet, and get insurance (roughly $100 annually)

i also made some amazon wishlists for folks who would like to help but prefer to know exactly where their money's going. i have one for housewarming stuff here, and one for necessities here

update as of april 5: my cat peed on my bed, and since it's a memory foam mattress it soaked all the way through and ruined it

update as of april 7: she did it again. this time there's blood in it

update as of april 14: i still haven't been able to take her to the vet, but i've been trying to do at home remedies

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woso-dreamzzz · 2 months

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Pets

Hardersson x Child Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Rocky the Rock

"Morsa," You say one random day off," Why does Sam have Helen?"

Magda looks up from where she's working on her laptop. You're sitting by the coffee table on the floor, cross-legged as you make your farmyard animals enact something that really reminds Magda of the book Animal Farm which is a little disconcerting but she's trying really hard not to focus on.

"Huh? Helen the cat?"

You nod.

"Well, Sam's got Helen for companionship. Helen's her pet cat."

That makes you frown a little bit. "Why?"

Magda shrugs. "Some people want a pet to keep them company. Some people have cats like Sam, some people have dogs or hamsters or other little things."

You go silent for a moment, you head bobbing up and down in a nod. "Okay," You say," Can I go play outside now, Morsa?"

Magda leans back in her chair to look out the window. It was meant to rain later on today and she didn't want you to get a cold but, thankfully, the sky is clear.

"Do you want someone to kick a ball at you?" Magda asks as she helps you slip on your coat.

"No thank you, Morsa," You say, practically vibrating to be let out," Just going to play."

"Okay. If you get hurt, yell and I'll come out, alright?"

"Okay!"

Magda types away at her laptop for a while as you play in the garden. Every so often, she drags her eyes up to check on you but you're just poking around in the gravel.

When Pernille comes home, you're still there and Magda is still typing.

"Where's Princesse?" Pernille asks before she drops down to steal a kiss.

"She's outside," Magda replies," Hey, Pernille, what does it mean when a kid starts asking about pets?"

"What?"

"Well, she was asking about why Sam has her cat. I said it was for companionship."

"Magda," Pernille says fondly," I love you so much sometimes."

"Sometimes? Not always?"

"You know what I mean. You're so oblivious sometimes."

Magda frowns. "Huh?"

"She's planting the seed in your mind," Pernille explains," So when she asks about getting her own pet then it's not out of nowhere."

"But we can't get a pet!" Magda says," We're moving soon!"

Pernille laughs. "She's probably angling for one when we go back to Germany. She's very smart."

"It's sneaky! Oh my god, are we going to have to start buying pet food?! And vet bills! I don't think there's a good vet near our new place and-"

Magda's mouth snaps closed as Pernille rests her hands on her shoulders. She's giving Magda a pointed look tinged with amusement.

"Magda," She says," Calm down. We're not getting her a pet."

"Oh." Magda blows out all her air. "We're not?"

"No. We'll be much too busy and Princesse's still very little. A pet would just add stress onto everything."

"But she wants one."

"And I want a three course meal and for Sam's whole existence to stop being a threat to Princesse's wellbeing but I'm not getting any of that anytime soon."

Magda laughs. Her hand reaches for Pernille's hip, dragging her closer until she's comfortably sitting on Magda's lap. "I can make you the meal. I'm not too sure I can help with Sam though. I can wrap Princesse up in bubble wrap though."

Pernille smiles. "You're so sweet, Magda." She cards her fingers through Magda's hair, leaning forward to steal a kiss like she did earlier. "You're such a good mother."

Magda rarely gets embarrassed about these things but with Pernille's weight in her lap and you playing in the garden, there are no interruptions. Her face flushes red at the compliments.

"The perfect mother for our little girl," Pernille continues, littering kisses all over Magda's face," You and her are so alike."

"I think she's more like you," Magda can scarcely gets the words out as Pernille bites at her earlobe.

"That's only because you're so oblivious. You and Princesse are more similar than you think."

"Well-"

"Momma! You're home!"

Pernille looks over Magda's shoulder to see you. Your hands are covered in dirt like you've been digging around in the flowerbeds again and you're pulling off your shoes, throwing them onto the floor.

"You look like you've been having fun," Pernille laughs," You're all dirty."

"Only a little," You say, wiping a hand on the front of your shirt," Where's my googly eyes?"

Magda frowns. She'd been preparing herself for you to ask about a pet, not about your arts and crafts supplies. "Er...Should be in the toy box."

"Thank you!"

You run off without even giving Pernille a hug, though she's secretly grateful for that because your hands look to be caked in dirt.

Magda sighs. "Is she going to start sticking those eyes on her shoes again?"

"I hope not. She nearly had a breakdown when they fell off last time."

Neither of them get an explanation about what you're doing with your googly eyes until way after dinner when you stand in front of them sitting on the sofa.

Magda takes a deep breath.

This is it.

It's time to completely break your heart.

"Sam has Helen as her pet," You begin," Morsa says Helen's for companionship."

"Pets are a lot of work," Magda says quickly, wanting the soften the blow," They take a lot of care."

You frown, your crinkle appearing between your brows. "Even the little things?"

"Even them," Pernille says solemnly," The little ones a very complicated. You have to feed them and clean out their cages."

You nod along before," That's okay. I've got one that doesn't need feeding."

That alarms Magda and she remembers how you were poking around in the garden all day. She wonders if you've managed to dig up a mouse or something from the dirt.

Pernille also looks suitably alarmed and her eyes immediately dart to where your hands are hiding behind your back.

"Princesse," She says slowly," Have you brought something into the house that you shouldn't have?"

You shake your head. "He is my pet," You say.

"Princesse-" Magda begins before her mouth hangs open in shock.

"His name is Rocky," You say proudly as you hold up a little granite rock from behind your back. You've stuck a set of three googly eyes on it. "And he is my pet."

"That's a rock," Magda says.

"Yes. Rocky the rock. My pet."

"Pernille, that's a rock."

"I can see that, Magda."

"I found him all by myself," You boast, puffing out your chest," I saved him from the cold and gave him eyes so he can see. He's my pet and he's going to sleep in my bed with me."

Magda can do nothing but stare with an open mouth as you show off your new rock.

"Pernille," Magda manages to whisper as you fawn and coo over your new rock," She dug up a rock."

"Yes, she did."

"She wants to sleep in bed with it."

"Yes, she does."

#woso x reader #hardersson x reader #pernille harder x reader #pernille harder #magdalena eriksson x reader #magdalena eriksson #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso #The Big Adventures Universe

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jarofstyles · 2 months

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Lush

Hello my ducklings! Since we have been getting a lot of questions about our Patreon and what is included, we decided to give you guys peeks into the series we have exclusively on there. This is Lush, escort y/n x dark businessman H. There will be some twists and turns in this one, hot smut, a fake relationship and a possessive and slightly obsessive dark H- our favorite. This series will only be on Patreon but this is the first part to give you a taste!

Check out our Patreon for access to Lush and our other exclusive series + 100+ exclusive writings.

Warnings- escorting, mention of homelessness and money struggles, daddy kink etc

WC- 2.9k

-----

Y/N knew her job, and she did it well.

Sit still, look pretty. Perched on her favorite client’s lap, his strong thigh covered in a trouser that matched the blazer that probably cost more than she’d made in the last 3 months, she sipped her champagne quietly and ‘let the men talk.’

Harry Styles was an enigma. He had popped up a few weeks ago, bringing her to a dinner after a debriefing in a lux hotel in one of the bigger hotels on the Vegas strip. The window had overlooked it all, a penthouse that seemed to be used quite frequently considering the fridge had been stocked and he had socks stuffed in a drawer that she’d used later that night.

“I need you to sit on my lap, keep me company.” He had said plainly. The man was intimidating. Broad and tall, soft brown hair swept back and off his forehead. Stubble shadowing his face and over his lip, his features were sharp and his eyes a little harsh, but she could whole heartedly admit that he was the most attractive client she’d ever had. Being a year in after escaping a situation that was still haunting her nightmares, she had been eager to accept the higher paying and well vetted job she had, thank god, stumbled into. It wasn’t conventional, no, but nothing really was in Vegas.

“I can do that.” She replied, hands folded in her lap. He stood before her as she had sat on the couch, looking up at him as he spoke. “Is that all we’re doing in our time together?” To put it in a nicer way of asking. She could have bluntly asked if he was going to want sex, but she did try to at least have a little decorum- until the situation granted the freedom of it. It wasn’t uncommon for her and she was safe, tested, and generally did enjoy sex- but it was a job. This time, however, would probably be enjoyed more than she had in the past. A real attraction to the man would be helpful in many parts of making this more enjoyable.

“Who said that?” He rose a brow, looking down at her. It was a smoldering look but she couldn’t find it in herself to look away as he got closer and tilted her chin up. “I intend to take everything you’ll offer. I’d suggest canceling your plans for tomorrow.” She didn’t have to ask why. It was clear this man intended to fuck her, and fuck her well.

Spoiler- he did. Harry had, for all intents and purposes, rocked her shit. So when she found his name on her books twice the next week, she hadn’t complained. She’d been excited, actually, considering she’d been able to feel the sting of her ass when she’d sat in the Lyft the next morning to take her to her apartment. Another good thing about him, she found as she looked in her purse, was that he tipped extremely well. More than was deserved, if she was being honest, but the one time the girl brought it up he had shoved another hundred dollar bill into the waistband of her sleep shorts and sent her on her way.

It had become known to her that he specifically requested her. If she wasn’t available, he’d offer more money than the other client was paying- and her Madam had no problem with that, considering it upped her cut. She found herself with him 3 times this week, frequenting clubs and drowning out business talk as his large hand splayed across her waist and the other hand held a sweaty amber colored liquor on the rocks. Much to many of her friends and client’s surprise, Y/N didn’t drink much. She stuck to lighter things, champagne and rosé, and kept to a one to two drink maximum. She preferred keeping a clear head when on the job and honestly? Drinking wasn’t her thing. A buzz was nice, but anything past that meant a headache in the morning. She wasn’t a morning person to begin with.

This meeting was going past its normal time, making her wonder what was being said. If she was being frank- Y/N didn’t do much listening in his meetings. It felt like they were talking in code, another language, and she couldn’t be assed to listen about imports and exports and blah, blah, blah. Her brain was happy to sit and be warm on a handsome man’s lap, observing the dance floor. Dancing used to be so fun, something she’d always loved to do as a child. Now she didn’t get to do as much, even though she’d wished she could. Club dancing was far different than her normal type but if she was on the balcony of the most VIP of the VIP sections, she was going to take her people watching to the next level.

“Y’alright?” His raspy voice breathed over her ear, not taking his eyes off the men who were talking amongst themselves. “I know it’s late. We can go back soon.” While Harry wasn’t the most warm and fuzzy person, he did respect her time. He was a little scary, truthfully, and she didn’t want to upset him. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was respectful and kind to her, he spoiled her with tips and orgasms, and she had no complaints. If staying out a bit later than he had said was the least of her worries besides his scowling, she was golden.

“I’m okay.” She smiled. “People watching. Sorry, I’m not paying attention. Dunno what half of the stuff you’re talking about means.”

Y/N had no reality of what he did. No clue. She was too afraid to google him. To ruin the illusion she had of him in her head. He passed the background test and signed the heavy contract that came with hiring her, so he wasn’t about to harm her or anything- and from what she’s learned in Vegas, sometimes you’re better off not knowing. There was a lot of shady business practices that went on. It was legitimately upset her if he was a bad person outside of the law, so she decided not to go searching for answers she possibly didn’t want to find.

“That’s good.” He murmured, pressing a private kiss underneath her ear. “Don’t worry about it. S’nothing interesting anyways. Got t’keep up appearances.” His voice dropped. “Would much rather be between your thighs. Missed this body while I was away.”

And, Oh. It made her hot, a nervous giggle leaving her throat as the words tickled against her ear. Harry had gone away on a business trip, he’d prefaced it because he had been gone 4 day. He’d prescheduled to meet her on the day he came back. Her stomach did a swoop in her body as the cool hand that held his glass deposited it on the table, finding her thigh and squeezing over it. “You did?”

She had to wonder if he was buttering her up, but the thought was dispelled because Harry didn’t need to do that. He had always been a bit blunt and she liked that about him. Less sweet talk that he didn’t mean. What he said made sense- complimenting her body and her mouth and appearance, what she did for him, but he never went too far and said things he didn’t mean. So she believed him when he nodded, slipping his hand further up her dress and making her swallow thickly. He’d given her pretty lingerie he’d bought from wherever he went, the buttery silk laying against her body under the dress that hugged her figure. Red, he said, because she was a little devil between the sheets. “I did. Got t’bring you with me next time.”

Some girls did that. Y/N wasn’t even sure what the rate would be for a trip, but the idea appealed to her. “You sure you can afford it?” She whispered back, a playful tilt to her lips. Obviously he could. He was by far the wealthiest man she had in her books, evident by the liquor he ordered, the watches he wore and the cars the drove in. It was arousing to her, if she was being honest. When she settled down one day, the one thing she really wanted was financial stability. Maybe that sounded shallow, but with her history with no money and being a little jaded, it made sense to her.

“Can afford that, and a shopping spree for you while I do business.” He brushed his cool fingertips against her slightly damp panties. Harry didn’t smile often, but when he did? It was a smirk. A hot, arrogant little smirk that she should probably be annoyed by, but wasn’t. “Need to get you out of here, though. Have something I want to talk to you about before I sink you down on my cock.” His fingers retreated after a gentle brush to find them wet, moving to her leg as he began to wrap up the meeting. People would listen, even if they weren’t finished- he just had that way about him.

—--

Y/N had no clue what, exactly, he wanted to talk to her about. They’d had some nice conversations so far about a plethora of things. Movies, books, restaurants, some morals. But it wasn’t too deep. Both of them had seen it for what it was, even if they had impeccable sexual chemistry. She didn’t know the man all that well, only what was told to her and what he had divulged- and knowing the man had a sweet tooth didn’t account for much. So it was slightly intimidating when he asked her to meet him in the living room of the suite as he put away his watch and jacket.

What could he possibly have to talk to her about? Her brain was coming up with nothing.

“C’mere.” He sat himself down on the couch, offering his lap back up to her. It wasn’t something she did in private unless his hands were down her panties or she was riding him, but she decided to go for it. Her heels kicked off to the side, she sat herself back in the familiar way. It had taken her off guard, but his hand took her own and she watched as he flipped it over, thumbing over her ring finger. “I need to ask you a favor. A proposition.” He murmured, calculating eyes going back to her face. “And you can say no, if you want. I’ll understand.” Of course, this made her alarm bells ring but there was little time to panic. Considering he was a very get to the point man, he did exactly that. “I’d like for you to quit your current job and pretend to be my fiance.”

The bomb was dropped. Why, exactly, a man of his caliber needed a fake fiance? She had not a fucking clue. Harry continued, her face slack in shock. He took that into account, it seemed. “I like you. You’re polite, know how to behave in public. Gorgeous little thing. You’re intelligent, you’re quick, and you understand how to keep to yourself. That’s a very valuable thing to me.” His thumb resumed rubbing her ring finger. “We have incredible sex. You fulfill and exceed my needs, and I’m satisfied with sex for once in my life.” Y/N let him do whatever he wanted and thoroughly enjoyed it. There was no faking it with them. Their chemistry crackled in the air when it shifted. There was no doubting that. “My family has been pressuring me to settle down. I have no time to properly date, nor the desire to.” He sure as fuck wasn’t the type to go on dating apps, and the dating pool he was around was a lot of vapid people with money hungry libidos. At least he would know Y/N was there for money and there would be no confusion between them. “I enjoy your company. It isn’t traditional nor conventional, but I’d provide for you. I will deposit your average monthly income in your own bank account and give you a card to my own. I’d pay for your rent while you stay with me, and you’d have free time to do as you please. Whatever hobbies you’d like. Horse riding, art, reading, I don’t care what it is if you like it.”

Her head was swimming. What the fuck? She’d heard of men falling in love with escorts, sure, but this seemed… More transactional. For some reason, it made her feel a little more comfortable. He wasn’t proclaiming love after barely knowing her. He knew how it went and that she needed to be provided for. “Like a sugar baby?” She blurted out.

“Not particularly. My fiance in title. You’ve been introduced as my girl to everyone already, so it isn’t a difficult sell to anyone but my family. We’d announce our engagement, I’ll bring you to London to meet them, let it run it’s course.” His eyes bore into hers. “I don’t want you with anyone else while you’re mine. I’ll be the only one you sleep with, and vice versa. I don’t want you to split your time between me and anyone else. I’m asking for devotion, which is a lot. But I’d like it to be you.”

“Why?” Y/N knew he had explained it but it was still confusing. “I know what you’ve said but… surely theres other people that you’d want to ask? I’m just an escort you’ve been seeing for a little while. I mean.. The sex is great, don’t get me wrong.” And she was extremely attracted to him and his energy, but… “I’m not in my escort mode all the time. I don’t want to be working 24/7. I’m not as docile while off the clock.” She wasn’t about to get put into 24/7 smile and nod territory. It was fine when it was an outing, or even a night, but she did have a personality she quite liked outside of it.

“I wouldn’t expect you to be agreeable all the time. In fact, I’d like to see you fight me a little.” Harry’s smirk returned. “Makes the sex hotter. But…” he returned to his business face. “I chose you because we get along. I don’t like a lot of people. I may pretend I do, but it’s difficult for me to find people who don’t make me irritated. You’re… interesting to me.” It wasn’t the answer she expected, no, but still. She had more questions.

“So what about after it’s all done and over with? I’ll end up on the streets, homeless again because I know Madam isn’t going to just let me back on her lists.” She crossed her arms, not realizing what she’d said. Harry caught it, pocketing it for later. It didn’t sit right that she had been on the streets at all, but that wasn’t a topic he could broach right now. He didn’t have the right to ask yet.

“I will make sure you’re set after this is done.” He promised. “I will have all of your expenses covered while you’re with me. Nails, hair, food, clothing, hobbies. You’ll be making your pay and then some every week and not touching it. And if it ends early, I will payout an extra mil. Does that sound reasonable?” He rose an eyebrow. “I’ve got the paperwork with me, but you can sit on it if you want.”

“How long can I sit on it for?” It took everything in her to not bite at her nails. The one thing the acrylics were good for was curbing that habit. “It’s not a no, but I’d like to look at the contract and have a lawyer look over it before I agree to anything.” As young as she may seem, she wasn’t stupid. This would be a perfect way to take advantage of her. While she didn't have that feeling from him, she’d be dumb not to protect herself.

She didn’t expect the smile from him, but it made her heart beat a bit faster as he brought her hand up to kiss it. “Smart fuckin’ girl you are.” He laughed. “Good. That works with me. I hope you do sign it, though.” His eyes darkened a bit. Harry wasn’t good at sharing and the idea of this pretty thing belonging to him, in essence, made his dick twitch. “I’d love to take you with me to Italy and see you on my yacht. Maybe fuck you on it. Think you’d really love that.”

Y/N had a feeling she would, too. The idea of being with one man, a man she so far enjoyed despite a bit of arrogance and intimidation, was appealing after a year here. But she needed to cover her own ass before sinking into something too good to be true. “I would.” Her nails moved from his hand to card through his soft hair. “I’d love that. But I think you should focus on tonight, hm?” Her legs opened a little, and she guided his hand back to where it had been previously. “Take a look at the pretty things you’ve already got, Daddy.”

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dwobbitfromtheshire · 4 months

Text

Anyway, I just saw this video of a guy walking in on his roommate taking a bath with a raccoon, and I just had this image in my head.

Steve went over to the Munsons' new house to hang out with Eddie. He knocked at first, but no one answered. He knew Eddie was home. He tried the door, and it was unlocked.

"Eddie?"

"In here!" Eddie hollered.

He wasn't sure what to expect when he went into the bathroom, but it wasn't Eddie taking a bath with a raccoon.

"What?"

"Oh, yeah, I rescued a raccoon! Poor little guy got in the flour. Kids, am I right?" Eddie scoffed.

"Okay, but I don't think it was necessary to get into the bath with him," Steve said.

He was relieved to see that Eddie was wearing swim trunks.

"I know it wasn't necessary," Eddie said. "I think he wants you to say hi. Don't worry. I took him to the vet. Clean Bill of Health, and he's had all his shots. Let him sniff your hand."

"Okay. . ."

Steve reached over and let him sniff his hand. He slowly started to pet him, and he smiled when the raccoon leaned into his hand.

"Aww, I think he wants you to be his mommy," Eddie said.

"I'm a man," Steve said.

"A man can be a mom if he wants to. Get with the times! It's 1986, man! Besides, they're all just made-up words. You can call things whatever you want to. For instance, I call spoons forks and forks spoons now. Does it piss Wayne off a little when I ask him for them? Yes. Does he love me a little less for it? Probably. I'm still his nephew, though," Eddie said.

"Jesus."

"No, Eddie," he grinned.

"How can someone be this adorable and this annoying at the same time?" Steve asked.

"If I didn't know any better, I think you wanted to be more than just my boyfriend," Eddie said.

"I'm your boyfriend?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, you're my friend, and you're a boy. You're my boyfriend," Eddie said.

"Have you just been calling me that in your head?" Steve asked.

"It sounded good to me," Eddie said.

"Do you call your other guy friends your boyfriend?" He asked.

"No, that would be weird," Eddie scoffed.

"But not weird with me?" Steve asked.

"Nope!"

Steve giggled and knelt by the tub. He grabbed the back of Eddie's neck and pulled him in for a gentle kiss. He pulled back and watched Eddie's eyes light up in realization, his cheeks pink.

"Oh, yeah. That makes more sense," Eddie said, and he kissed Steve. "You know, this tub is big enough for the both of us."

Steve was now in the bathtub, stripped down to his boxers as he and Eddie bathed a raccoon.

"By the way, I'm not telling Robin that this is how we got together," Steve said.

"Yes, you are. You're going to tell her every single detail, and you're going to love every moment of it," Eddie cackled. "What shall we name our son, mother?"

"Hmm," Steve said thoughtfully. "Dustin!"

"It shall piss off Dustin the First mightily so! Yes!"

"And let's get him a little hat!"

"Let's!"

And when he told Robin the story of Eddie and the raccoon, she laughed so hard she fell off the couch. And she finally did meet raccoon Dustin, she became smitten. . . Mostly to use him whenever human Dustin pissed her off. She would always declare that this was her favorite Dustin.

And so, they lived strangely ever after. . .

THE EN . . . Fuck, Raccoon Dustin ran off with the d. Him and his little bandit hands. 😑

#stranger things #stranger things s4 #eddie munson #joseph quinn #eddie stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson lives #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #bisexual steve harrington #bisexual eddie munson #bi4bi #idiot4idiot #stranger things fanfiction #a ficlet #rueleigh writes #its a crack fic #i love crack fics

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ginnsbaker · 1 month

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (2/?)

Part summary: Leigh goes on a double date with Jules. You reach a tipping point with Leigh's relentless hostility towards you.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5,072 | Warnings/Tags: None for now... smut eventually, enemies to lovers A/N: So... this turned into more than a two-shot. But it will still be a mini-series. It's also kinda slow burn for a mini series (lol). Also, this isn't canon compliant at all. Meaning, I took a lot of liberties and added stuff to Leigh and Matt's relationship, and it doesn't follow the timeline of the show. With that said, enjoy!

Masterlist | Part I | Next Part

The vet bills hit Leigh's bank account way harder than she’s willing to admit.

She knew taking care of pets could get pricey, but she thought that was just for those on their last leg, like Matt's dog, Rogue. Facing those steep costs made her think twice about turning down Drew's offer a while back to bring back her advice column. So, she calls him up as soon as she pays up a quarter of the charges on her credit card for Visitor's medical expenses.

Drew answers on the second ring. “Hey Leigh, what's up?”

Leigh doesn’t beat around the bush. She never has to with her best friend. “Can we meet at the cafe? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure. Be there in 20,” Drew replies right away.

The coffee shop they frequent is a small local business that specializes in cold brews. Leigh’s favorite thing about it is not the coffee though, but its interior: mismatched chairs, bookshelves lining the wall, and the temperature that’s always just right. Leigh arrives first, securing their favorite table near the window. Drew walks in a few minutes later, coffee already in hand, and greets her with a warm smile.

“Okay, spill. What's going on?” Drew asks as he takes a seat.

“I've been thinking... about the column. I was wrong to turn it down. I want back in.”

The look of utter surprise on his face tells Leigh this was the last thing he expected. She senses his response won't be a straightforward yes.

“I'd be thrilled to have you back, Leigh, I really would—”

“But?” Leigh cuts in. She doesn’t need to hear a bullshit ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ excuse. She wishes Drew would just be as direct with her as she is with him.

Drew lets out a sigh. Under different circumstances, saying no to Leigh would be as easy as declining an upsell from a McDonald's cashier. However, ever since Leigh became a widow, rejecting her feels significantly harder, even though he's well aware that Leigh values honesty over pity.

“But the thing is, the new writer’s really hitting it off with our audience. She's had a string of articles go viral lately.”

Leigh doesn’t look at all impressed by that. “Yeah, I heard.”

Personally, Drew’s not a fan of the new writer's style, and honestly, he still prefers Leigh. It would just be a hard sell if he brought this up to management. As the saying goes: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

“Look, I still think you have a unique voice. You know I’d still take advice from you over the new girl.”

Leigh scoffs a little at that, shaking her head. Drew rolls his eyes; it’s typical of Leigh to never know how to take a compliment. He continues, “How would you feel about guest writing? Maybe for the first couple of weeks, we could find a way to incorporate your insights into a series or a special feature.”

It’s not what she hoped for, but she recognizes the olive branch for what it is.

And she’ll take it.

“I... yeah, I think that could work, Drew. I've got a ton of new ideas, and this... this could be great,” Leigh says. “Uhm, thanks.”

Drew grins. “I thought you'd like that. Let's kick off with a couple of guest pieces, see how it goes.”

Leigh half-heartedly returns his enthusiasm just as her order of cheeseburger and affogato are served.

“Anything new with you?” Drew asks, his voice taking on that tone he reserves for the really good gossip. Knowing Drew's helping her out, Leigh figures a little life update wouldn't hurt as a form of thanks.

That update is about you. And the moment Leigh spills the beans, Drew's face lights up like a Christmas tree. But his excitement fizzles out just as fast when he figures out Leigh's got nothing scandalous to say. All she mentions is how you might've missed the mark by not doing your homework on the guy you were seeing.

“What’s your plan then?”

“Seems like everyone’s asking me that,” Leigh says flatly.

“You took your stray to her place, right? So, there must be some sort of plan. I mean, you could've gone to any other vet if you wanted to avoid her.”

“Yeah, but her clinic's location is so convenient, and I didn't want to shrink my world just for her.”

Drew hums in response. Leigh admits she’s been unusually passive with you. Normally, she'd confront issues head-on, but even almost half a year later, she still hasn’t fully processed Matt’s death, let alone his cheating. She's been trying a new tactic, almost as if by ignoring her problems, she hopes they'll fade away on their own. She seems to be betting on the idea that if she pretends long enough, maybe one day she'll wake up and find those issues have lost their grip on her.

“I don’t know Leigh, the whole thing’s weird,” Drew says, scrunching up his face a bit.

“It’s not like I’m trying to make a friend or enemy out of her,” Leigh replies with a shrug. “I’m just using her services as a doctor, and she’s getting paid for it. That’s all there is to it.”

“Oh, so that’s why you need your old job back. She’s draining your purse,” he says, smirking as he adds, “Bitch.”

“You don’t have to call her that,” Leigh chides, though the corner of her mouth twitches in amusement. Deep down, she understands the twisted satisfaction in disliking someone without having to justify it.

“The funniest thing that can happen is if you two actually end up being friends,” Drew quips, picking up an accidental curly from Leigh’s plate.

Leigh finds that scenario hard to imagine, almost impossible. She doesn’t think she can be friends with someone Matt liked more than her.

Leigh is hunched over her laptop, with sheets of paper and colorful markers spread out on the table, meticulously designing missing dog posters for Visitor.

Jules, leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, watches Leigh for a moment before speaking up. “You know, you should've done that the second you decided to take Visitor in.”

Leigh doesn't look up from her screen. “His leg needed to be taken care of first,” she reasons.

Jules rolls her eyes, pushing off from the doorframe to come closer. “And? How did it go at the clinic?”

Leigh pauses, then lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I already told you about the tests Visitor had to go through. They said he’ll be fine.”

“I mean with the doctor, not the patient,” Jules clarifies with a smirk.

There's a beat of silence before Leigh quips, “No cat fights happened, I promise,” her eyes going back to her laptop.

“Any chance she knocked off a bit of the bill?” Jules asks, moving to sit behind Leigh to take a peek of her work. It looks like an 8th grader’s art project, but she bites back any criticisms.

“Nope.”

“Told you she’s a bitch,” Jules murmurs under her breath.

“It's not like anyone's doing charity work these days, especially not in this economy,” Leigh argues weakly.

“Yeah, right. Like she needs your money, Leigh. Veterinarians are loaded, if you didn’t know.”

“If you say so.”

Jules decides to drop the subject, and Leigh can hear her shuffling and thinking behind her.

“Hey, there's something I've been wanting to ask you. Don't get mad, okay?”

“Prefacing like that? I'm bracing myself to be utterly scandalized,” Leigh says before smiling and sneaking a glance at Jules.

“Great, you’re cracking jokes again. That’s a good sign,” Jules deadpans but a second later, she’s smiling too.

“Ask away,” Leigh prods.

Jules takes a deep breath, and then:

“Do you think you’re ready to meet someone new?”

Leigh suddenly stops, her fingers just hanging there above the keyboard, unsure of what to do next. What’s the protocol here? If three months is usually the cooling period after a break-up before one can start dating other people, then what's the deal when it's about a husband who's not only passed away but was also cheating? How does that work?

Before Leigh can come up with an answer, she realizes she's already saying no.

Jules groans. “Come on, it's just a double date. It'll be fun. You and me and—”

“I’m really not in the mood to meet other people, Jules.”

Jules cuts in, laying it on thick. “Leigh, seriously, when was the last time you went out and had a little fun? You're practically turning into a recluse. I won't stand by and watch my sister morph into the neighborhood's infamous dog lady.”

“Dog lady? Really?”

“I'm just saying, it's either try something new or start knitting dog sweaters for fun. Your choice.”

Jules can be a real pest sometimes; it’s an endearing quality except when they seem ready to go for each other's throats.

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” Leigh rests her chin on her hand, seriously considering the invitation for a second. “I don’t know how to meet people, Jules. I stopped meeting people when I met Matt. He was my entire world, you know?”

Jules softens, throwing her arms around Leigh’s shoulders. “I know. And I wouldn't push if I didn't think it could be good for you. Plus, I promise, if it's awful, I'll personally escort you out and we can ditch them for ice cream. How's that?”

Leigh senses that Jules won't give up until she gets a yes, so she decides to concede just this time and get it over with.

“Okay, okay, you win. I'll go on your stupid double date. But if this ends in disaster, you're buying me the biggest tub of ice cream you can find,” Leigh says, shrugging her sister off her.

Jules pumps her fist in victory. “Deal! You won't regret this, Leigh. And who knows? It might actually be fun.”

The double date goes surprisingly smoothly, except for the occasional touches coming from her date. To be fair, they are typical for a date and are executed with respect. However, for some reason, Leigh finds herself unusually conscious of every physical contact, making her anxious to move things along and call it a night.

As they step out of the restaurant, Leigh mentally scrambles to remember her date's name. She's bracing for the goodbyes, ready to retreat into the comfort of her room, when Tommy, Jules' girlfriend, suggests they cap the night off at a new bar. It turns out Leigh's date has an investment in the place. He jumps at the suggestion, clearly eager to flaunt this detail, perhaps hoping to impress her.

He does earn a sincere, “That’s cool,” from Leigh, just before she slides into the backseat of his car. Tommy quickly calls dibs on the front seat, leaving the siblings sitting next to each other in the back.

The new bar clearly wants to be the town’s next hotspot, but it seems to be trying too hard. It's got this odd vibe where you're not sure if you should be dancing or just looking around, wondering what it really wants you to do. But Leigh agreed to this, and she won’t embarrass Jules by ditching.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

She stiffens a bit as he draws near, the heat of Patrick's breath—Jules had reminded her of his name during the car ride—making her uncomfortably aware of how close he is. She shifts, trying to put a polite distance between them without seeming too obvious about it. “Um, just a gin and tonic, please,” she says.

She practically sighs in relief as Patrick heads off to order, her eyes darting around the bar. The 90s R&B background gets her head bopping, but all she’s thinking about is her couch and an episode of Parks and Recreation waiting for her at home. Jules and Tommy are in their own little world, giggling and looking all cozy. Leigh never thought she could feel like a third wheel on a double date.

Patrick is taking his time, and when Leigh cranes her neck to peer over the bar, she catches him striking up a conversation with a blonde. Her eyes narrow into slits as she watches, both of them obviously charmed by the other as Patrick laughs at something she said, enjoying himself in a way he hadn’t all night.

Leigh feels a prick of irritation. Sure, she hasn’t been giving him the time of his life, but they’re still on a date. Isn’t there some unwritten rule about not flirting with other people when you're supposed to be with someone?

She waits a bit longer, hoping Patrick would remember he was supposed to be getting her a drink and come back. However, he hasn't moved an inch from his spot and is even passing Leigh's drink to the woman as they keep chatting. Leigh’s mind races. She knows she isn’t into Patrick, has been giving him nothing but the bare minimum, yet she can't shake off the feeling of being slighted. It's not like she wanted his undivided attention, but this... this just seems rude.

She catches Jules looking at her, a questioning eyebrow raised. Leigh just shrugs, not sure how to explain the jumble of feelings she's experiencing without sounding petty or jealous.

When Patrick finally comes back with her drink, the mood has already turned sour for Leigh. She musters a polite smile, accepts the gin and tonic with a thank you, but then heads to the bar on her own without saying anything more. At this point, she's indifferent to what Patrick, Tommy, or Jules might think or say of her; she's finished playing nice for the day.

Leigh slams her gin and tonic like it's water, the sting barely registering. She signals for another without missing a beat and strangers start sliding over drinks with cheeky grins. She toasts to nothing, to no one, letting the conversations slip away before they can get even one word out.

By drink number six—or was it seven?—everything's spinning, laughter too loud, lights too bright. Leigh’s clinging to the bar for dear life when she thinks she sees you. But as quickly as the figure appears, it's lost again, leaving her questioning her ability to handle her alcohol. Back in her college days, Leigh could hold her liquor like a champ, thanks to endless nights of partying. But now, staring down at her drink, she realizes she might've overestimated her current tolerance. The alcohol hits harder than she remembers, making her head swim more than she'd like to admit. It's been a while since she's gone this hard, and her body isn't shy about reminding her.

The worst part of it though is why, of all the faces her mind could conjure up, it's choosing yours.

Just as she tries to shake off the bizarre vision, your face appears again, this time on the dance floor, writhing in a sea of thick, sweating bodies. You're dancing closely with a man, and it’s—

It’s Matt.

Leigh blinks rapidly, attempting to dispel the hallucination because it's impossible; Matt is dead—this can't be real.

But the image of you and Matt refuses to go away. She continues to see the way your grind against him, the way you caress his face as you pull it further into your neck. Anger surges through her, hot and uncontrollable, and before she knows it, her last shot of tequila crashes to the floor. Before the bartender or anyone else can even figure out what's happening, Leigh storms through the crowd, pushing her way to what she believes is you and her husband, and shoves the couple hard. The moment she does it, the fog in her brain finally clears.

She saw wrong. They’re just a random couple, looking as shocked as she feels mortified.

Humiliated and more drunk than she's willing to admit, Leigh doesn't stick around to apologize. Tears start to well up as she pushes through the crowd, dodging empty faces while Jules' calls fade into the background. She shoves through the last of the mob, bursts through the doors into the night, and freedom feels just a breath away. But that breath catches, twists into a violent churn in her gut, and she can barely stagger a few desperate steps away from the entrance before her knees are on the cold pavement, and she’s spilling out onto the ground in front of her. A few groans of disgusts from the people around her doesn’t register as she succumbs to the consequences of her indulgence. Shortly after, she remembers why she’s cut back on alcohol, apart from the fact that Matt abhors it, turns him off more than anything.

“Leigh?”

The voice is familiar, even if she’s heard it only a few times. Her head's spinning as she looks up, the chilly air slapping her face after the stuffiness of the club. She blinks, trying to clear the blur of tears and the aftereffects of one too many drinks, squinting at the figure stepping out from under the streetlights.

Your face, more clearly now under the lamp post is kind of sobering her up a bit.

So, were you actually there in the club, or is Leigh so haunted by thoughts of you and Matt—thoughts she's tried so hard to ignore and bury—that she managed to conjure you as a way to finally confront her true feelings about the entire situation? It’s always the battles with herself she never wins.

“Hey, you alright?” you ask, lowering yourself to get a better look at her but keeping back a bit—just enough space for her to catch her breath or in case she needs to throw up again.

Leigh doesn't respond, doesn't even seem to see you're there. You rummage through your crossbody bag, pulling out some wet wipes and offering them to her. She still doesn't look up, but grabs what you’re offering with a little force.

She proceeds to wipe her mouth and then her entire face as you continue talking, words tumbling out in a nervous stream.

“I saw you back there, in the club. I wasn't sure if I should come up to you, you know, with everything that's happened... with me being... well, the person I am in all of this,” you explain softly. “And then I saw what happened, how upset you got. Sorry I followed you here, I…I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Leigh abruptly gets to her feet, and you instinctively step back, giving her more room than probably needed.

“Why?” Leigh fires at you, her tone so icy it almost makes you regret coming after her. You're taken aback, eyebrows scrunching up in confusion.

Why what?

“Why do you even care?” she clarifies, eyeing you as if you're the densest person on the planet.

You grasp for something, anything that sounds like you're not just here out of guilt. “Anyone who knows you would be worried,” you say before you can think twice about what it could mean.

Leigh's laugh is sharp, cutting. “You don't know me,” she throws back.

“Yeah, I don’t,” you mumble to yourself. You wish you did, so you could fix this.

Leigh’s anger doesn’t let up. “You know what I think? You're playing the good Samaritan to scrub off your guilt. But not knowing Matt was married? That's on you. I bet you never asked too many questions because you wanted him to be Mr. Perfect—single, ready to mingle, the dream guy.”

Opening your mouth to argue, you find yourself at a loss. Leigh’s not entirely wrong. With Matt, you were in a bubble, caught up in the thrill of meeting someone who seemed so right, so honest. You clung to his every word, wanting to believe in this image of him you'd built up.

The truth is, you never wanted to meet Leigh Shaw; you wanted to believe Matt's only fault was how he ended things with you, by disappearing.

But before you can admit to all of that, Leigh is already storming off. You think about chasing after her, but she spins around so fast at your footsteps, shooting you a threatening look and a low, “Stop following me,” that nails you to the ground.

You keep staring at the spot she disappeared from, long after she's gone, wondering why Matt felt the need to find love elsewhere.

Leigh goes home, but not to an empty house. The second she opens the door, Visitor bounds into her arms, full of wiggles and wet nose kisses. Her mom's off somewhere, doing who knows what—Leigh's stopped trying to figure out where or why. Meanwhile, her phone buzzes with a string of voicemails from Jules, but Leigh's not in the mood to dive into those just yet. She decides they can wait till morning, along with the other missed calls and unread messages from strangers, asking for more information on Visitor.

For now, she peels off her socks and pants, leaving them scattered carelessly up the stairs before passing out on her bed.

Visitor’s follow-up check-up rolls around way too quickly for comfort. The moment Leigh steps through the clinic door with the dog in tow, you can practically cut the tension with a knife. Leigh's trying to keep it together, but her attempts at civility are imbued with a coldness that can’t be ignored.

With only a small ‘good morning’ from you and a nod from Leigh, you start the consultation, knowing you’d be doing her a favor if you just get right to it.

“How's Visitor been eating?” you ask as you work your stethoscope.

“He eats fine,” Leigh drawls.

You nod, jotting down a note before moving on, “And his activity levels? Any changes there?”

Leigh’s response comes laced with sarcasm.

“Oh, he's just peachy. Running marathons every morning.”

You clear your throat, trying to rein in your mounting annoyance at her childish behavior. “I'm just trying to get a complete picture,” you say.

But Leigh's not having any of it. Her comments grow sharper, her patience thinning, and it's clear she's more interested in taking jabs at you than discussing her dog's health.

Her last sarcastic remark has you drawing the line. “Leigh, you can be upset with me all you want outside of this clinic, but I won't tolerate disrespect while I'm trying to do my job,” you say evenly. “You're welcome to find another vet if you can't keep this professional. I have every right to refuse service if this continues. It's not what I want, but I'm not about to let you treat me any less professionally.”

Leigh goes quiet, yet she keeps her eyes locked on yours, decidedly not backing down. Then, after a tense moment, she mutters a single word, “Sorry.” It's not much, but it's something, and you decide to take it and move on.

“You mentioned something about a blood sample?” Leigh says, steering the conversation back to the reason she came in, and you're all for following her lead on this.

“Yeah, we need to check if his platelets are up and his infections are down, see if the meds are doing their job,” you explain. Then, veering a bit from standard procedure, you add, “Since this is a follow-up visit, I'm going to cut the lab test price in half for you.”

The discount evidently lifts her mood. It's not a perfect truce, but it's enough to get through the examination without any more barbs.

A while later, you're back with Visitor's CBC results in hand. “The infection's gone down, but it's still borderline,” you report, showing her the numbers. “We'll need to keep him on the medication for another week. And I'm adding some multivitamins and a specific diet to his regimen.”

You scribble down the details, then note at the bottom of the pad about the discount—not just for the lab test, but for the prescriptions too.

Leigh takes the paper, scanning the details before her eyes finally meet yours. “Thank you,” she says, her voice softer than it's been.

“You’re welcome,” you reply with a smile before going back to your notebook, looking deep in thought.

Leigh feels like you're back to your usual, friendly self. Yet she thinks she prefers the more raw, unfiltered version of you. The version that called her out earlier. These days, she's starving for that kind of honesty. Because having her as your client can’t be all that pleasurable. She's aware of how challenging she's been, and the straightforwardness somehow makes her feel more understood, more seen.

She wishes people would stop seeing her as Leigh: the one with the dead husband.

Then, out of nowhere, she asks, “When did you start working here?”

It's a seemingly insignificant question, yet coming from Leigh, it prompts you to close your notebook and focus entirely on her.

“I—”

“Because a year ago, I remember meeting a different doctor,” Leigh adds, absentmindedly running her fingers through Visitor’s coarse hair as he sleeps on her lap.

“You’ve been here before?”

It’s a painful memory—one that still sometimes brings tears to her eyes whenever it crosses her mind. Back then, the clinic bore a different name, and she and Matt had come together to say goodbye to Rogue.

“I have when it was still called Palm Coast,” she says.

You nod, understanding the context now. “Yeah, that was before my time. I bought this clinic on a whim after spending a few years practicing in Dubai.”

While most would latch onto the tidbit about your intriguing career history, Leigh zeros in on something else entirely, asking directly, “When did Matt start coming here?”

You shift uncomfortably at her question, and Leigh immediately regrets pushing too hard. She’s about to backtrack when you halt her apologies. “It’s okay. I’m open to talking about it, just not here,” you suggest. “How about over coffee?”

Leigh hesitates, then says, “Okay, let me just text my boss that I won't be able to lead the yoga class this morning.”

“It doesn’t have to be now. Tomorrow works,” you say.

Realizing her assumption, Leigh’s cheeks color slightly. “What time?”

Now it's your turn to feel a bit awkward. “Would 7 work? It's the only time I have before the clinic opens.”

“In the morning?” Leigh says again, making sure she heard you right.

You nod sheepishly in reply.

“Or we could maybe—”

“No, it's okay,” Leigh interrupts quickly. She's usually up before sunrise anyway; the only change would be trimming her morning run a bit. And for a one-time chat to get the answers she's after, she figures she can make such a small sacrifice.

–

“Are you sure you want to return Visitor to his real family?”

True to form, it's Jules who breaks the two-day-long sibling spat. It's usually her who tries to smooth things over with an apology, even on days when Leigh isn't exactly the easiest person to deal with. Her therapist keeps telling her not to always be the one to buckle, especially when she's the one who's been hurt, that Leigh should be the one to step up and make things right for a change.

But here she is, reaching out first, just like always—because waiting for Leigh to make the first move feels like waiting for snow in July.

“Oh, so you’re talking to me again?” Leigh says as if she's gearing up for another round of conflict rather than welcoming peace.

Jules ignores her and continues, “Have you actually tried to find Visitor's owners, or have you just kinda... kept him because it feels good to have him around?”

“So what if it feels good to have a dog who loves you and is loyal to you?”

Jules shakes her head in a condescending manner, which only serves to irritate Leigh further. As soon as her popcorn is done, she heads out of the kitchen, flops onto the couch, flips on the TV, and kicks her feet up on the coffee table. Jules follows her, opting to stand next to the TV, poised to yank the plug out if necessary.

“Leigh, you do understand that taking care of a dog isn't something to take lightly, right?” Jules starts, but she breaks off when the dog in question trots over, tail wagging, trying to coax Jules into picking him up.

Leigh acts like she hasn't heard a word, her eyes glued to the TV screen.

“I thought you'd learned something from what happened with Rogue—”

That hits a nerve. Leigh's quick to fire back, “Oh, and jumping into a serious relationship is super responsible, right? Especially when staying sober is part of the deal.”

Right after the words leave her mouth, Leigh regrets them deeply. She's painfully aware of Jules' long battle with alcoholism, a struggle that began in college and required more than a couple of tries before Jules could claim any sort of victory over her addiction. Leigh knows it's still a sore subject for Jules, still fighting her demons, making her comment unfairly harsh.

Though the retaliation didn’t come out of nowhere. Leigh caught Jules at the club, discreetly sipping a drink she swore off, and chose to keep quiet then to avoid causing a scene in front of Tommy. She had plans to bring it up later, but then her own slip-up with drinking, bailing on her date, and the fallout with Jules spiraled into one of their nastiest rows in a long while.

“Jules, I’m sorr—”

“Just save it, Leigh.”

Jules heads for the door, her hand clenched tight, barely hanging onto her emotions. Leigh feels the situation slipping further downhill, and she can't just stand back and watch things crumble even more. She's about to chase after Jules when the doorbell rings, stopping both of them cold.

But Jules doesn’t even bother with the door; instead, she veers off, storming upstairs with that telltale slam of her bedroom door echoing down. Leigh sighs, stuck in the aftermath, while Visitor starts barking at the door. Dragging her feet, Leigh heads over to open it, half-expecting another problem but hoping for a distraction.

Leigh definitely wasn't expecting Danny, and seeing him there, she gets the sinking feeling that this storm swirling around her isn’t going to blow over just yet.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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hwaightme · 9 months

Text

Cat named Mars (catboy!hwa hcs)

(masterlist) (perma-taglist)

😻 pairing: catboy!seonghwa x gn!reader 😻 genre: headcanons, fluff, crack, demon? to cat? to roommate? to lover? 😻 summary: the longest bulletpoints about what it would be like to have catboy!hwa as your bf - the whole story 😻 wordcount: 4.5k 😻 warnings/tags: editing? who is she, unhinged crack part nyah, catboy!hwa, cute catboy!hwa, soft and polite catboy!hwa- okay i will stop |, language, food/eating, mention of others not treating animals well, sweater paws, mention of adorable nerdy hobbies, domestic, cuddle, a surprise about how hwa ended up being a cat in the first place, both past and present tense used, mainly lowercase 😻 taglist: at the bottom of the fic~ 😻 a/n: let me drift in the soft and fluffy catboy!hwa lands until waterbomb strikes, for my own healing; my braincells are out of service but i hope you enjoy <3 all reblogs, thoughts and notes appreciated! big hugs!

once upon a time he was a cat

there was never a moment to think about anything except work, and maybe about groceries and bills (but even those things normally hit you at two o'clock in the morning, leading you to check your phone and make make amendments to your schedule in a panicked state). there was never any room for a cat. until there was.

of course there just had to be an adorable kitty, at most maybe a couple of years old, lean and with jet black fur that was surprisingly shiny for an abandoned cat, sitting square in the middle of a cardboard box on the side of the street that formed a part of your regular path and commute to and from work. in the morning, you had locked eyes with the cat, heart bleeding and hurting for the poor creature but secretly hoping that someone else would take it - you couldn't take care of it, could you? in the evening, you were huffing and puffing with the cardboard box in your hands and the cat happily meowing, its tail stretched out upwards into a chimney pipe, slightly tilted to the side at the very end. you read somewhere that it meant the cat was happy, so you were going to take that as a good sign.

sat on the floor at the entrance to your apartment, you eyed the beautiful creature as it kept on purring and trying to hop out of the box and towards you, while you were insistent on keeping it in, lifting a cardboard flap repeatedly in an effort to prevent it from jumping. so. now you had a cat. there was nothing in the box, and on the outside, in horrific scrawl was a message suggesting whoever took the kitty either "kept him, or throw him away, whatever". non-humans. "that's who your previous owners were, right kitty?" you mumbled to no one in particular, but it seemed that the cat picked up on your speech and inched closer to you, ears moving like disks to pick up signals. "so you are a he, yeah?" a meow. so you were right. at least the beasts from this cat's past got one thing right. "do you have a name? actually… you know what do you want a… new name?" you were fast on the attachment scale, you realised. it had been barely a few minutes and you were already trying to name the cat who you had not even checked for diseases, nor had any basic facilities to take care of him. but he was more than excited by the prospect, and mewled in what sounded like gratitude. you began to list off names, eventually boring the kitty, and he started to falter in his enthusiasm. all until one name rang a bell.

"Mars?"

and that was how you ended up with a black cat named Mars.

by the power of actually having to shake paws with a cat, and you promising to get him quality snacks, you managed to get Mars checked at the vet who confirmed everything was fine, and was equally as amazed as you that he was so well groomed and neat. while you knew you did not have much of a right to do this, your inner pride still swelled and, to yourself, you said that 'yes, my Mars is really neat and handsome'.

you took to addressing Mars as 'your handsome boy' and that seemed to wake him up and get him speeding towards you faster than anything else could. also 'the prettiest star' and 'my universe' and 'marvellous Mars' all worked wonders.

at the same time, he was shy, as if he did not want to disturb you with his antics. always tip-toeing around you as silently as a cat could (which was very silent, to the point where he jumpscared you a couple of times but that is okay because excuse me did you see his precious face????) and never taking up much space, even though… hello? Mars? you are a cat?? he would rarely ever hop on any surfaces unless you explicitly told him to do so - this had left you convinced that your cat was well-versed in human-speak. he never meowed for food until you had told him to vocalise and tell you if he was very hungry, and gave him a rundown of his eating schedule and how it was important that he drank water. he was the politest cat you had ever met, while at the same time his timidness made you wonder if you were in any way intimidating. not once did Mars ever enter your bedroom, even though you left the door wide open for him, preferring to crash on the couch or on the floor of some other room. the first couple of times you joked about it saying "are you scared you'll see something, Marsy?" but when your cat actually looked away and hunched over, you were convinced that you hit the nail on the head, and that you were probably either hallucinating or were slowly turning into Doctor Dolittle.

but you were persistent. and insistent. and you took the little blanket with kuromi decor on it from him (yes this was that extreme of a situation) and put it at the edge of your bed. climbing in and covering yourself in the many layers, you looked at the terrified figure hovering at the entrance to the room, boba eyes as wide as saucers. he kept on looking at the blanket, then at you, then again at the blanket, then again at you, probably wondering if he could snatch the thing and make a run for it. you were on the verge of giving up at this point. sleepy, with work tomorrow, you were not about to engage in a whole war with your cat.

"you know what, if you want to stay, you can stay. i promise i will not hurt you, nor will i push you out. if you want to come closer, do. if you just want to take the blanket and leave, you can do that. your choice. i won't be hurt. i promise. you are already super brave and i love you either way. okay, Mars?" he did not respond, frozen in place. "my handsome boy?" his head twisted towards you. "precious?" a blink. another blink. one paw in front of the other. "are you actua- wow! I am so proud of you my baby! my brave boy!" you were cooing praises at him like there was nothing else in the world that existed as soon as he hopped onto the bed, foregoing the blanket and making a beeline towards your face, as though that was his read source of comfort. he was afraid to look away, focusing on your every expression as you patted his head and let him nuzzle into you. "you are so so brave, you know that? i know this is hard, so if at any point you want to leave, you can, okay?" purring louder than a powerdrill was the response you received. along with kitty cuddles through the whole night. because apparently, your cat was a koala all along.

and even in his cuddles he was gentle. you did not think you had ever seen him use his claws… ever. except maybe on a few toys but as soon as you were in sight poof gone, soft Mars activated. he was like your personal heater, careful to wrap himself closer to you not to push you out, but to instead complete whatever curled up position you were lying in. if you were stretched out to the side, he would find a place. if you were in a ball? he would find a place again. if you were lying down straight for whatever reason? give him a couple of nights to get comfortable, and now you had the ultimate cat comforter either on you, or around your head. and yes, you were blessed with a cat who barely shed, somehow. some of your friends who had cats almost cursed you when they found out, but you only smiled, looking at your lockscreen. nowadays, even during the workday you were thinking of Mars at least a little bit.

maybe you were spoiling him a little bit, but it was too adorable to see him watching you play legend of zelda or animal crossing on your nintendo switch. and when he saw that you got a gift from a friend in the form of a lego set? well. you were literally afraid to open the box because of how hyper your cat got - perhaps not today…

you fell into the most pleasant routines with Mars, from waking up and going to bed together, to eating breakfast and then 'parting ways' for you to attend to human business and him to his 'cat business'. it was cute. it made your head sing. you were happier than you had ever been. all thanks to that one random day. one random box. and one black haired kitty who radiated sunshine.

it was the eve of the one year anniversary of you being the proud owner of, or how you preferred to say it, the best friend of 'L/n Mars', and you were as sure as his ears were pointy in wanting to go all out with your celebration - minus the guests (because the last time you had invited a male friend of yours over your cat turned into a whole other creature and then sulked for at least three days until you took a day off work and called it 'Mars day', but you just assumed it was some territorial thing). you had set up little themed decorations, found a cute little headband with the number '1' that is suitable and safe for a cat and would not hurt his head, got a matching, human-sized one for yourself, made a whole dinner for your favourite kitty from scratch - the ingredients all checked with the vet who you now casually called by first name because you did not dare ever give Mars anything that might harm him and would rather panic call the doctor.

you were sat at the coffee table, so that it would be easier for Mars to reach the food (you set pillows on the floor for extra comfort, for which he thanked you with a loud meow), and had your respective mini-cakes set out in front of either of you. you had given up on making him ever eat kitty food - another peculiar quirk of your cat, so the 'cake', which was more a protein gift than anything, was fully home made. but Mars was happy. more than happy. if cats could smile, that was exactly what he was doing, right at you, squinting his eyes, threatening to hop over the table. you told him to wait, and quietly whispered your gratitude to him. much to your delight, he waited and listened, clinging onto every word.

"you know, i really think you are an angel. before you i was quite… how do i say this… life was just passing by. and now i look forward to it. and to be able to see you every day, to have fun days with you, to talk with you… all of that brings me so much joy and i hope that i can make you at least a little bit happy too. i wish you could tell me what you want, of course, but i really do think you know what i am thinking, what i am saying. and i hope that i am right in saying that i can understand you a bit too. you really are the smartest, most precious Mars. light of my life. i love you so much, my gorgeous, and here is to many years more, cheers~" you clinked your glass with orange juice with his water bowl, and giggled when he took a couple of neat laps to match with your gulps, only to lick his lips and hop off the pillows and go under the table.

in a matter of seconds, he reappeared at your side of the table, and poked at your lap with his paw, looking up at you with his bead-like eyes that seemed to contain the whole universe in them. you pat him between his ears, scratched under his chin, delighting him, and then stretched out your legs, gesturing towards your legs to signify that lap-napping season was open. Mars did not need to be told twice, and soon enough you had a black cat curled up on your lap, purring away, mewling a couple of times when you started eating to remind you that he was hungry too.

"so you want me to feed you now, too? aren't you cheeky-"

as if you could refuse him. you would be lying if you said you could. so there you were, on the floor and feeding Mars, quiet music playing from your phone, not quite sure if you could be any happier.

"i love you."

quite the contrast to what happened the next morning.

suddenly he is a catboy

when you wake up, Mars is nowhere in sight, and even when you call him, to which he would reply with at least a meow, you are only met with silence. you are alarmed, but wait in bed for just a little longer to see if Mars would come to you. nothing. you call again, 'pspspsps' him, all to no avail. only the breeze and the birds outside, along with inexplicable rustling from another room in your apartment. you raise an eyebrow and prop yourself up on your elbows. more rustling. a door opening, which sounds like the closet where you kept your warmer clothes. what is going on? another door closing. footsteps? you are on high alert. grabbing your phone and the light saber model which you had made a while back and kept safe by your bed, as it turned out exactly for this kind of moment, you head out to face whatever, or whoever is the source of the sound.

you are stealth itself, rounding the corner with weapon in hand, ready to face the attacker - or so you thought. until you come face to face with the tall, young man dressed head to toe in your clothing, namely a tracksuit that you had accidentally gotten in the wrong size and then somehow ended up being refunded for without returning the item, and a beanie that he had pulled over his head. spikes of jet black hair are poking from under the hat in all directions, and his deep brown eyes are widened in shock as he freezes on the spot and stares back at you.

"so, what the hell are you doing in my clothes?"

"y/n- i-"

"HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?"

"i can explain-"

"nope do NOT get closer what-"

"Mars…. i…. it's me… your uh… cat."

"what?"

he looks embarrassed beyond belief, and crumbles to the floor, sliding until his back is against the wardrobe. wrapping his arms around his knees, he is scared to look up at you, worried that you would never recognise him, never accept him. this is exactly what he has been dreading all this time, and was heartbroken when the curse was finally broken, despite him technically being free now. he does not want to be away from you. this is his home. you are his home. you are the one who showed him true love.

"if it is okay… may i take this beanie off for a second?"

"i didn't even let you put it on in the first place," he winces. you feel a little bad, but hold your ground. his eyes sparkle in a way that is a little too familiar, reminding you of a certain someone. the cat who he mentioned. your precious cat. Mars.

"okay… here goes…" he slides the material off, making you gasp. hidden under the beanie is a pair of cat ears, fluffy, the same colour as his hair, and twitching as he adjusts after having flattened them to minimise their visibility.

"yo what."

"i have… a tail too."

"WHAT?"

he is not joking. a black tail to go with the black ears, sliding out from under the oversized hoodie. you are not sure what happened next, but you wake up on the sofa with the man, who you are now guessing is some human cat hybrid version of Mars fanning you with a magazine.

"I AM SORRY, Y/N PLEASE WAKE UP I AM SO- oh you are awake thank goodness i missed you i am really so sorry…" he drops the magazine almost instantly, leaning towards you and wrapping you in a warm embrace, much to your surprise. you yelp, but the softness, as well as his ears moving in the cutest way while he hugs you make you accept the gesture, and return it.

you never thought you would hear a grown man purr exactly like a cat, but here you are. well, you never thought you would have a catboy in your apartment either, but this is already happening so...

"so, Mars?"

"yeah?"

"you have some explaining to do."

after what turned out to be at least two hours of you and him going back and forth about what had unfolded and what was the history of the young catboy's state, you find out that, in reality, his name is Park Seonghwa, and that he is a demon, of all things. that is right, a demon. set out to curse and haunt and spread sin. but no, he is cast out of hell because he is too kind and soft. and so he had been cursed to be a cat, until for a full year, someone could give him their whole heart, their full love. while he explains this to you with a fondness unlike anything you had ever seen before in your life (except in what you perceived from cat Mars's eyes), you begin to blush, realising that all this time, you were talking to and confessing to him. Seonghwa. this handsome man who was always by your side and-

oh. and he was sleeping in the same bed as you. just great. you flush an even deeper shade and cover your face. and he had been jealous, not territorial, when your friend had come over.

"are you okay?"

"so okay."

"hug?"

"i, uh-"

"you give really good hugs."

"Park Seonghwa do you really want to make me suffer?"

"I AM SO SORRY ARE YOU HURT? DID I SAY SOMETHING WRONG I AM SO SORRY?!"

"no you are too cute. come here"

catboy!hwa headcanons

is initially cautious because well… you got used to him being a cat and now suddenly you have a whole man with cat ears and a tail walking around your house. he catches on to the fact that you are kind of shy around him too, but he does not push it, at least not straight away.

because that would mean that he has to get over his own shyness towards you extra quickly, and that proves to be difficult when it hits him that, well, he is now a person too, and you are a person, and he fell in love with you, and you told him you loved him before - on occasion he just walks around blushing with his ears pressed flat to his head but don't point it out he is already struggling ;~;

you might have to be the one to initiate the contact again because he is literally too scared to overstep anything and everything - even when you bought him his own first few sets of clothes as a 'human edition anniversary gift'. you approach him to give him a hug and he groups up as if he is about to dive into a pool, hands to his chest, eyes wide. but is he moving anywhere? no. does his purring give him away? yes. after that the two of you gently reintroduce physical touch and it makes you realise just how much you miss Mars, particularly because Seonghwa is still a little distant for understandable reasons. But you both are trying your best.

if you massage his head and scratch behind his hears he will melt - his favourite thing in the world is having his head rest on your lap with his eyes closed while you ruffle his hair really slowly and run your fingers through it.

desperately misses the times when you would call him handsome and pretty and smart, and every single affectionate word in the universe so he tries his damn hardest to get you to do that again, first by trying to be nice and helping you around the house, and when the results are not to his satisfaction and when cuddle sessions are pretty much the norm, but words of affection aren't… he pouts and openly asks you why you don't call him that anymore. you squeak the words out but the reaction makes every next attempt easier than anything.

he is scared to approach your room again, though, and this time you say nothing because well, this is a whole other territory. a couple of months pass before you consider and that is because you find him sleeping on the floor a couple of times, curled up with is tail covering his face a little, and he said it was because "he is scared otherwise and here is safe". so you take out a futon for now, but he is more than happy with this progress.

he learns how to cook both from you and from tutorials online, and then starts remembering what he used to cook a long time before - you basically stop cooking altogether because now he is insistent on waking you up with breakfast, packing you lunch and greeting you with dinner. he sometimes gets a bit too experimental, but you do not mind it too much because at least he cleans everything up.

you think you can ignore the lego in the corner of your living room? no :) it is a date now. a lego building date. for four hours straight. on the floor. him running this ship like you run your team at work. and his focus, his professional approach to the matter is a little too attractive, you admit to yourself. and somewhere along the way that translates into you planting a kiss on Hwa's cheek. this is the only time over the whole four hours that he drops the pieces he is holding in his hands, gazing at you, not quite sure if what he felt just now was real or not.

but nope, judging by your attempts to avoid his gaze this was very real. so he gets real bold real quick and guess who finds themselves trapped by two tones arms on either side of you, back on the floor, a curious and mischievous face a mere inch away? that's right, you. wants to build a starship, accidentally builds a relationship along with it - a major win.

there isn't ever a platonic stage really. an extensive awkward stage? sure. a roommates-maybe stage? sure. two people who like each other? sure. and now, after many months of you settling into a new routine, two people who love each other and keep telling each other that.

he finds a job that he can do remotely, and in this way remains mainly at home and around the neighbourhood with his beloved hobbies and balancing you out. in this way he now starts to sneak support to pay bills and to buy you little gifts (as a little apology for taking your clothes sometimes - read often)

it is not Hwa's fault that he misses you very quickly. it just happens. then one thing leads to another and he is lying on your shared bed hugging a hoodie of yours. eventually that leads to him dragging a couple more items out of your wardrobe and making a little nest out of them - only then does his worry go down and he goes for a nap while curled up in a ball.

when he knows that you should be arriving soon he starts walking up to the window, then away then back to the window, and away again. cycle repeats itself until he can spot you from a distance, and then he just stays by the window.

he helps you redecorate and rearrange your apartment, considering that you now have a 5'10'' human cat instead of one you can hold with two hands, and shocks you with just how many details he remembers about you, down to allergies, what colours irritate you when it comes to interiors, what plants you had to give away to keep him 'in cat form' safe - even though yes, he would not eat them, but how were you to know that?

he remembers all your special days, and hopes you remember his, too. thankfully, he knows his own birthday and using cat mathematics, converted from demon to cat to human. and so, now you can celebrate him wholeheartedly, only this time that also involves you taking him to go have a picnic under the cherry blossoms.

you and Seonghwa go to pick out and buy him a phone together, and you spend a whole day teaching him how to use it. soon enough your own phone goes off with notifications from him. he sends you fun things throughout the day and if he is busy, he sends you a selfie or a heartfelt message.

likes to curl up and read poetry with you. doesn't matter if out loud of in silence. what matters to him is that you are close. and good luck trying to get away - he has a tail and it is wrapped around your leg like an alert system so that he can tackle you right back to the couch or the bed. because it is you and Seonghwa time.

occasionally sings you lullabies that he either overheard somewhere or remembers, breaking into a smile when you wriggle closer to him and fall asleep, stress melting away from your every feature.

overall you are now living with a catboy Hwa cast out of hell for being too nice, who also turned out to be a big nerd, with heart eyes for you, sweater paws instead of actual paws, the occasional feline habits still coming through (like him rubbing his face against your shoulder, or your own face, or him hissing when frustrated or threatened, or him having the widest stretch in the morning, or… actually he is still part cat so, you have to deal with it), and all the love to give. thankfully not in the form of something he hunted. he buys birds at a store now. meant to be cooked. human-friendly.

he brings you a limited edition starship instead. if you display it he will look at you like he is falling in love with you all over again - if that is even possible because that would mean stopping loving you now, and that is the one thing he cannot do <3

😻 taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @pocketjoong-reads @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @burnmepls @pyeonghongrie-main @archivesummer @little-angel-k @marsstarxhwa

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please leave a kind reblog, much love!

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akindplace · 4 months

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For the past few days I kept posting several pictures of my dog asleep in her most treasured possession, her pillow. I never actually told you why she loves it so much. Some years ago, my mom saw a dog being rescued in the street with all her puppies. Turns out some of the people involved with rescuing her worked with my mom, and they decided to make a whatsapp group to help pay for vet bills and to find a place for her and her puppies. They found their home, but it’s harder to find homes for adult dogs, and she was very scared, and untrusting of people from living in the street her whole life.

They called her Valentina, because the name was very popular, but also because the word valente means brave in Portuguese.

She was in bad shape, thin, and with a skin condition. It would be hard to find a permanent home for her.

For whatever reason, my mom told me she wanted to foster the dog for a few days, until we found permanent shelter for her. Just a few days, she kept telling me. So the day comes, we took her in, my mom took her out for a walk, and when she came back, I looked outside and there she was sitting with Valentina on her lap. I asked her for how long the dog was really staying with us, and she said “if possible, forever”. I still don’t know why she wasn’t honest from the beginning because she knows how much I love animals; there was never going to be a way either of us would ever not want to keep her, anyway.

She was terrified of people, and would hide out under the car on her first days here, and it was hard to get close to her for a long while. But one of our dogs started playing with her, and slowly she would hang around us more. My mom felt bad because she would sleep on only a mat, so she gave the dog an old pillow and Valentina took that pillow as her favorite thing. But she would still run away if we came close to pet her while she was on her little bed.

Months later, Valentina finally sat next to me while I was eating to ask for a piece of my food (pão de queijo, because she has good taste). And I was so happy, I cried a little. It took over a year until she trusted us fully.

She learned how to ask for food, for treats, for pets. But she has also learned that in the morning, she wants us to take her pillow from its place my mom’s room and put it in the living room. And at night, she wants us to put the pillow back in my mom’s room. And she knows that if she sits in the specific spot for her bed and stares at us in judgement, we will bring her the pillow. It’s been years now. She is absolutely close with my mom, it almost seems she understands that my mom was the one who decided to adopt her. She got healthier, fatter, happier.

It took years of building trust, and now she lets us pet her, and doesn’t run away in fear. I don’t know what happened to her while she was living in the street but it made her so scared. But what matters is she found safety and belonging here. And everywhere she goes in this house, her little bed has to come along.

And sometimes, my other dog likes to lie down on Valentina’s bed (she has one of her own) and Valentina just stares at us with profound disappointment.

Life is good. I’m glad we could make a difference in her life, because she changed ours too.

#my dogs #dog post #Valentina #and her little bed #original writing #wholesome #on love #on hope #on safety

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messmersflame · 6 months

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help paying end of life for pet bill

so, niko sadly passed on the 22nd Oct. the vet did attempt to see if there was anything that could be done, but he would have only had a small chance of surviving the treatment, and even if he did, he would have had decreased quality of life, would have needed lifelong treatments, and also risked developing the same issues again due to the kidney damage, toxemia, and his apparent predisposition to bladder issues (which sadly went undetected until it became serious) and shorter than natural urethra.

i have been able to pay £200 of the initial bill (shown above), which brings me to a total of £363.50 that i need to pay. the vet has been kind and is allowing me until the 17th Nov to pay the bill off in full.

this will make things very tight for me finanacially, as i have my own bills and food to pay for, as well as still having his siblings to care for.

many people have been so kind and generous to me throughout all this, but if anyone else is willing and able to help me once more, my ppal link is below.

thank you all so much for everything, for all the support, condolences, and help. niko was deeply loved up until the end, by people he had never even met. it means the world to me.

#pet death

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alphabetboyluvr · 9 months

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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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