#this really isn't about anything and had nothing else attached to it

[micamicster]

Super Rich Kids

Close my eyes and feel the crash...

I wrote this one on post-its on a trans-continental flight after my phone (where i was re-reading the raven cycle) died. 0/10 plane experience would not recommend but I did manage to entertain myself! And now hopefully you as well!

When Ronan pulled into Monmouth Manufacturing he knew Gansey wouldn’t be there. Adam Parrish was, though, sitting on the steps in the golden afternoon light, bike dumped to the side in dying grass. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid when Ronan bootlegged the BMW into an approximation of parking on the far side of the lot, which was fine because that’s how he would have parked the car anyway, whether or not Adam was here.

Ronan was pretty sure that Gansey had arranged a shift system with the other boys, to prevent Ronan from being unaccompanied on the rare occasions of his own absence. The idea of a babysitter should have rankled Ronan, but Adam did not seem particularly invested in his role. Small favors.

As he got out of the car he gave Adam his customary once-over, as brief as it was habitual. You could notice a lot in a single glance, if you were Ronan, glancing at Adam.

Adam was wearing long sleeves (his father? Or just because it was October?) and his faded camo pants, the ones Ronan said made him look like a jingoistic meathead. They had recently acquired a tear in one knee. Not in the stylish, deliberate manner in which Ronan’s own jeans were shredded, but awkwardly, in an L-shape, where they had caught on some jagged edge and given way before even careful Adam had noticed and unhooked himself. The tear gaped open at times, like it was doing now, revealing Adam’s knobby left knee and, worse, a triangle of his brown thigh.

Ronan looked away.

Ronan never allowed himself, even in dreams, to trespass beyond the carefully demarcated boundaries of Adam’s clothes. And Adam was usually helpful in the maintenance of this boundary. Unlike Gansey, who could be found working on his model Henrietta in boxers at all hours of the night, or wandering to and from the shower in a towel, absent-mindedly forgetting his clothes in bathroom or bedroom. Unlike the boys Ronan played tennis with, who stripped down casually in the locker room after practice. Unlike even Ronan himself, who’d never met a shirt he couldn’t rip the sleeves off; Adam was always fully covered.

This summer, foolishly, Ronan had imagined that this might change. Now that the hideous secrets Adam protected with his long sleeves were no longer his alone. But by now he knew what kept those sleeves in place, something that Adam had already understood: that knowing and seeing are two very different things.

For example: this. Ronan knew that Adam, like most people who walked around on earth under their own power, possessed thighs. Two of them, attached in the normal way to other body parts, such as knees and hips. To know this was one thing.

Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The way his knee bent, and the muscle above shifted as Adam made room on the steps for him. Ronan was looking away, out at the familiar, grounding, skid marks on the concrete of Monmouth’s lot, but he could picture in their place with deadly accuracy the hinge of Adam’s knee, the tanned skin of his thigh, scattered with golden-brown hair. He could dream about pressing his face against it.

He picked up a rock and hurled it. It glanced off the side of the soulless suburban and fell anticlimactically into the grass dying by the rear tire. It didn’t help.

Adam shifted next to him, subtly.

“What?” said Ronan. “Impressed?”

“Surprised, more like. I thought you were supposed to be the tennis star.”

“You think you can do better?” Ronan pried another hunk of gravel or concrete out of the dirt and tossed it in his left hand, tauntingly.

“I know I can.”

“But?”

“But,” said Adam, with some hint of exasperation coloring his voice, “I’m not going to sit here chunking rocks at Gansey’s car to prove it. My ego’s not that fragile.” His accent slipped out on chunkin’, not as if Ronan had pissed him off enough to forget to hide it, but as if it was a word he’d never used any other way.

Ronan threw his rock again. This was, if anything, a worse throw than before, and it skittered harmlessly across the suburban’s roof.

Adam made a small but contemptuous noise.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know he hates this fucking car.”

“That was for your shitty aim.”

“Come on then.” Ronan hefted another piece of gravel. “Ten points if you knock out his taillight.”

“It costs a hundred and five dollars to replace a taillight on that make and model. Plus tax.”

Ronan’s brief cheer was collapsing again. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to bust Dick’s lights.”

Adam blinked slowly, his dusty eyelashes obscuring the contempt in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll leave.” (He wouldn’t).

Ronan dropped the rock. Next to him Adam sighed. Abruptly, he put out his hand. “Telephone pole. Six feet from the top.”

Ronan swept back up the rock and dropped it into his hand. Their fingers did not touch. His heart thudded.

Adam tossed the rock once, testing its weight while his gaze, cool and assessing, remained on the telephone pole. It was a splintered, tilting thing, shamed by his attentions. In one smooth, economical movement, he rose to his feet and let the rock fly. His leg went forward, knee jutting out of his clothes, his back curved, and his arm swept around in an arc, fingers scraping at the blue October sky. Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to know if the rock hit—he could see it in the brief hard satisfaction on Adam’s face.

Adam turned back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn that hundred,”

Adam shrugged. The gesture was disinterested, but there was a quirk to his mouth that contradicted it. “I know nothing blew up, but…”

Ronan already had another rock in his hand. “West corner lightbulb. It breaks or it doesn’t count.” Adam rolled his eyes, but turned agreeably to watch Ronan miss.

“Would you like to get your tennis racket?”

“Eat me,” said Ronan. (Maybe).

They traded shots back and forth for a while, calling increasingly specific and complex plays.

“Bullshit. Bullshit.”

“Get the government to pay for some glasses, Parrish, and then come back and try to tell me that wasn’t a fucking bullseye—”

“It wasn’t even close! You—”

“You calling me a liar?” Ronan loomed, and Adam, as usual, was unimpressed.

“Just because you don’t lie doesn’t make you right all the time! Like when you said that quote on Tuesday was Seneca. It doesn’t stop being Martial just because you’ve got a child’s sense of morality—”

“See, right there.” Ronan pointed triumphantly at an invisible scuff mark on the doorsill, marking where his handful of gravel had made impact.

Adam gave it a skeptical glance. His face was faintly flushed from exertion in the cold air, but his eyes were as cool and considering as ever. “What we need,” he said, “is a knife.”

Ronan was not allowed knives.

~

“Are you trying to stab each other in the feet? Why are your shoes off! It’s October!”

“Equal playing field.” Ronan wiggled his toes against the cold asphalt. “Parrish’s shitty knife is no match for my boots.” Over Gansey’s head, Ronan tried to catch Adam’s eye, to share a ‘can you believe him’ sort of look. Adam’s embarrassment over being caught acting irresponsibly meant Ronan could expect the look to be rebuffed, but he couldn’t help himself from trying it anyway.

Adam was bent over, eyes hidden. He carefully dusted off his socked feet one at a time before sliding them back into his shoes, as though the socks or sneakers could look any worse. A little parking lot crud might improve their appearance, actually.

Next to him, Gansey was still fussing. Without the pressure release valve of eye contact with someone who knew Gansey was overreacting, Ronan snapped, “Come off it, man, I’m not going to slit my throat while Parrish watches. He can’t afford that caliber of snuff film.”

Gansey’s concern transformed into revulsion, but underneath it he looked hurt, which was far far worse.

Adam straightened up. “We were just using it to mark where we hit. Honestly, we could have done it tossing a sharpie, but neither of us had one.” He sounded conciliatory, which pissed Ronan off. But Gansey was letting it go, returning the knife to Adam with an apologetic smile. Sorry for the fuss. Sorry for Ronan. Ronan’s bare feet were cold against the asphalt.

“Well? Are you going to throw or not, Parrish?” he said belligerently.

Adam rolled his eyes, but obligingly stooped for gravel and let one fly at Ronan’s open bedroom window, a shot he made easily.

Gansey whistled. “You’ve got quite the arm on you. How come you’re not on the Algionby baseball team?”

Adam shifted his feet, awkwardly.

“Please,” scoffed Ronan, “he’s not a team player.”

Gansey did not let it go. “Bet you’d have a better fastball than both our pitchers.”

There was a pause, during which Adam’s face clearly showed all of the thoughts he was trying to corral into a polite response to Gansey’s unconsidered enthusiasm. Ronan got there first. “Yeah, Parrish, why not hitch your wagon to the star of organized sports, like every other rags to riches wannabe?”

“Ronan!” said Gansey, Ronan’s offensiveness registering where his own had not.

“Hitch my wagon to a star?” Adam was unruffled. “I thought quoting Transcendentalists could get you excommunicated.”

“Who said I know it’s Emerson. It’s a sourceless idiom to those of us who aren’t sad little nerds.”

Adam smirked. The smirk said, I never said Emerson. His words said, “Gansey’s damning me with faint praise. No one’s going pro out of an Algionby sport team. Even tennis.”

“Ouch,” said Ronan, cheerfully. “Hit me where it really hurts. My school pride.”

~

Now that Gansey had arrived, his plans for the day took precedence over noble pastimes such as flipping pocketknives at each other’s feet. His plans involved comparing readings from various instruments and then placing said various instruments in various new locations, all of which were equally arbitrary (to Ronan’s eyes) and inaccessible. Gansey’s plans involved him waiting by the car to monitor the readings while people hiked with antennae to the outermost reaches of the signal. People, in this instance, being Ronan and Adam, Noah having mysteriously and silently fucked off, as he so often did when a job required carrying anything.

Ronan put his head down and trudged. It was brambly here, and slightly damp, and he was beginning to work up the kind of counter-intuitive sweat that appears from working in the cold, the kind that makes you colder later.

As the person leading the hike, custom would dictate that he should catch and hold the long clinging arms of the brambles for the following hiker. This presented a dilemma. Ronan compromised, and set about stomping the multiflora into the ground as he walked. Scarlet hips burst under his feet, invasive and beautiful, spreading their millions of seeds across the damp earth. Noxious weeds.

“It’s too unreliable,” said Adam, into the silence. “Sports. It all depends on… your physical condition.”

“And your condition is shit.”

There was Adam’s ironic smile. “Yes. So.” He shrugged. There was the part they weren’t saying, which was that his physical condition could always get worse. Unexpectedly.

“My dad hates baseball.” Ronan heard himself make the slip—hates and not hated—and a spark of fury burned through him, brief and inconsequential.

“My dad loves it.”

They marched on in silence.

Adam swore as a bramble Ronan had beaten down sprang up again, catching him right across the tear, where his skin was exposed. He bent to unhook it from the camo with deft, deliberate hands. “What?” he said, like he could feel Ronan’s eyes.

Ronan looked away. “Why not the military?” He kicked purposelessly at the bramble and heard Adam sigh. “And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Test scores like yours out in hicksville high school, you must have had recruiters hopping all over you like fleas.”

“Would you believe I had a moral objection?” Adam’s smile was self-deprecating. Ronan studied it.

“No.”

Adam shrugged. It, too, was self-deprecating.

“I think you had a superiority objection. You think you’re too smart for that shit.”

Adam blinked at him. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

Ronan snorted. “Hell no. You can do better than getting blown up in a desert for the United States government.”

The smile, when it came, was small and stunning. “Damned by faint praise again.”

#lmao with this and the country playlists this blog has been on a real raven boys kick the last few days #anyway... enjoy? #i need to make a tag for my writing like... generally but until then #super rich kids #this really isn't about anything and had nothing else attached to it #it was just a random scene that stood alone so like... #probably the best thing for me to start out this 'posting unfinished stuff' project #i feel like gansey does not appear at his best in this fic but that's not a reflection of how much i love him! #he's trying his best to keep this family together! and the other 15 year olds are no help at all! #ronan lynch #adam parrish #the raven cycle #pynch #tw suicide mention

[normal-thoughts-official]

it always struck me as kind of hilarious that you have to pass a 30DC check to convince shadowheart not to kill dame aylin but if you're just like "sure do whatever lol" she chooses not to kill her anyway. tsundere ass fuck. killing is bad unless it's out of spite. i have morals unless you try to tell me what to do

but i just got to that scene in my new replay and it made me realize that that's not what's at stake at all

because the persuasion check isn't "don't do this". the persuasion check is, your life is whatever you make of it. you don't have to do something just because your goddess tells you to.

convincing shadowheart not to kill dame aylin is easy. she knows it's wrong, and she doesn't want to, not really. if given the choice, she is literally unable to go through with it even if she clearly wants to, or wants to want to so badly she can't tell the difference

the problem is convincing her she has an option in the first place

the problem is convincing her that her life is her own

shadowheart has never belonged to herself since she was captured. not in body, not in soul, not in mind, not even her memories. she quite literally doesn't know who she is in more ways than one. she doesn't know her past or her family, she doesn't know who her loved ones are (including the sharran loved ones, like nocturne), all she really knows about herself is a fear of wolves that's been implanted into her by lies and an attachment to a flower she can't remember the details of. and a mission. always a mission. the will of someone else she has to carry on, that is not for her to understand or question or think about. she can't even want to serve shar, because she isn't allowed to pursue her intention to become a dark justiciar. she is supposed to be well and truly nothing, empty as the sharran doctrine

(oh, and pain that she doesn't know the reason of. no matter what, she must bear the pain)

how can she see herself as more than her goddess, when she quite literally doesn't know anything about who she is other than her devotion to shar? how can she choose her own destiny, when she couldn't even choose how to devote and give herself over to her?

she can't, which is why, unless you have infinite rizz points and/or roll a nat20, shadowheart attacks you. not dame aylin. you. and she never argues about whether or not it's the right thing, because she knows. what she's rebelling against isn't the idea of letting dame aylin go. what she's rebelling against is the idea that she could leave her cage and belong to no one but herself. because the idea is scary and she quite literally doesn't know where to begin. which is why her obsession becomes to find her parents, even though she doesn't remember them at all. because maybe they can tell her who she's supposed to be, and she can have the comfort of having her path laid out before her again

(which is also why she has to kill them. not because of some hand hurty curse bullshit. but because she just wants them and selûne to become the new shar, and she has to let that go if she truly means to claim herself again)

and now im sad. because it's easier for shadowheart to do turn against shar and everything she's ever had on the grounds of saving someone else than on the grounds that she deserves better than to be a puppet. even if you do nothing, saving dame aylin, to her, is easy. saving herself is a wholly different matter, one she's not sure she has any right to, or wants to, even if it's what she really needs. accepting a selûnite's humanity is easier than accepting her own. losing everything is easier than gaining her own autonomy. and she will fight tooth and nail to be allowed to stay in her own, metaphorical soul cage

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #shadowheart #meta #overflowing trashcan

[prettyboykatsuki]

I can just imagine fujo neet reader practicing different sex position with rin to make sure she gets the proportions right.

✮ tags ; fem!reader, sexual tension, rin's pov, RIN IS KIND OF MEAN TO HER BUT HE WANTS HER SO BAD FDKJJS, reader is a fujoshi and bl mangaka, pre-relationship, they work together, part of a ficverse i haven't written yet Sorry, ONE JOKE ABOUT RIN WANTING TO OFF HIMSELF, SUPER SUGGESTIVE LOL 18+

✮ wc ; 3.5k (WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!)

✮ a/n ; i had to do this for my sanity. i promise i will write them a proper fic with them i promise.

You never text Rin.

Not really. Not first at least. It's a new... friendship. Kind of. Sort of. Most of your communication thus far has been through meetings and random in-person chance encounters. Outside of that, Rin will call you since it's faster. If you do "text", it's mostly through twitter DM's.

There's a discord server your fans run, and you pop in there often enough. He's had the invitation extended but declined unilaterally, since he'd rather not see himself fucking Isagi anymore than he already has in his short, miserable career.

It surprised him this morning, seeing your message flash across the top of his screen. Asking, specifically, for him to come over and help you with something related to the new manga you were writing. He had it in his right mind to decline, but after learning it wasn't a doujin for him, he semi-reluctantly agreed.

Rin doesn't know when exactly your relationship to him grew this...comfortable. Inviting him over to your house, begging him for favors, not wincing every time he talks to you. Rin isn't an extrovert but compared to you he's a social butterfly. And your aversion to people in general, Rin thought, would prevent you from doing anything more than squeak at him forever just like you did when he met you.

(Though nothing in his life has been normal since your arrival in it. He's not sure why you would remain unchanged when he certainly hasn't.)

He doesn't know what to feel when you ask him for a favor, and he doesn't know what force of nature compels him to go. If it's morbid curiosity or annoyance or something else even worse.

It was compelling enough to take the train all the way out to Machida - an hour long trip from his own place. His manager hounded him to take you something, so he has a bag of ginseng energy drinks and snacks with him as a gift. He took the bus with his mask on, and then walked all the way to your building.

Your apartment is tucked somewhere classically suburban - attached at the far end of a residential street and behind concrete support beams for a highway just overhead. Cherry blossom trees and other shades of white flowers grow around it in thick patches, making the entrance hard to find. Rin would've had trouble if you didn’t give him details on exactly where to go.

It's an older building, stone walls worn and grass-stained from age. At the gate are groups of old people talking amongst each other as they sort through recycling and trash. All visor hats and sunspots, they fawn over Rin for a long while before he goes in and interrogates him with questions. None of them know him, which is relieving. It quickly graduates to them asking who he's there to visit, if he has a girlfriend or not.

All of them ooh and aah when he mentions your name, say something about being relieved she's found a man so handsome and that Rin should marry you because even though you're a little strange you're a good girl. Rin does not have the time nor energy to correct them - only nods and bows his head and leaves.

On the elevator ride up to your floor, he can't help but think repeatedly that this isn't the kind of place he'd expect you to live. He thought it'd be out in the middle of nowhere, maybe in a damp and broken building.

But this is a nice place with nice people, vibrant and colorful. Totally opposite from what he considers your personality.

Suitable or not, Rin manages to make it to your floor without a hitch.

He finds you, then, as he'd expect. Down a long hall, behind an unassuming white door. When you open it, you're a mess. Your hair completely unkempt, face greasy, a wild look in your eyes and complete surprise in your expression as if you didn't invite him over. You do, however, manage to invite him in without stuttering or stumbling over your words foolishly like you did the first time you spoke to him.

Another surprise is how... clean your living room is. It's lived in but he was expecting more mess in there. Your bedroom is in a similar state, undoubtedly messy but not terrible. Your NEET tendencies finally end up showing when you drag Rin into your office where you draw your manga.

It's not dirty but it's cluttered. There's a pull out sofa on one wall, with a blanket and pillow littered about and pages upon pages of paper sheets with scrapped panels about the floor. One wall has a bunch of post-its with several notes in both English and Japanese, and another has tacked up pieces of art. Both yours and other peoples. He chooses to ignore the ones of him and Isagi, The walls themselves are cream colored and uninteresting and the wood floors are slippery. At the far end of the room is a spread of desks, a PC set-up and a professional looking tablet among various art supplies in stacked boxes.

It's this room you bring Rin into without explaining yourself at all, mumbling and muttering as you give him a place to sit and go back to your work for fifteen silent minutes.

When you're finally finished doing whatever the fuck you were doing, you turn yourself back towards Rin. Bluelight glasses fall down the bridge of your nose as you swivel around in your chair - your sweatpants half pulled up your leg with the other pulled down. You're wearing fuzzy socks with Naruto characters on them.

You stare at him, pulling your glasses off and rubbing your eyes - dark circles under them.

"Uhm," Your voice is clipped and thick with exhaustion. "You came."

Rin deadpans. "You asked me to come."

"I thought you'd say no."

He did too. He doesn't respond back. You chew your lips, already anxious and Rin resists the urge to say something about it.

"Okay. Uhm. Please don't get mad," You start with and then explain, looking away. Your hands pull your sleeves over your palms. "So. Like. For my new series, I'm finally getting to the sex scene but I've never drawn characters with an intense height difference like this. And I need... new reference photos.... and uhm," You rub your feet together on your chair where you sit "Well our height differences and size is the exact one my characters have. So."

Rin stares at you. "So?"

"SoIwaswonderingifyou'dtakereferenceimagesforsexpositionswithme,"

Rin feels his jaw lock. "Slower."

You frown and look away, tucking your chin with embarrassment. "I was uhm, like, wondering if you'd take... take the uhm, sex position reference photos with me, please."

"What?"

You clasp your hands together, immediately prostrating yourself by throwing yourself down the ground. He flinches back, wondering if you're gonna hold onto his leg next.

"Please, please help me. You're the exact height of my seme and you uhm have similar builds and he's doing the most of the legwork. The poses are a little bit hard but I want them to look good or Minami-san will eat me and I'm scared of her, please help me."

"Who is Minami-san?"

You sniffle, on the verge of tears just thinking about it. "My editor. She used to be my fan. She's scary. Please, Rin-kun, please."

"What the hell did you do before?"

You frown at him, big wet puppy-dog eyes.

"It was hard. Sometimes I'd pose with my big stuffed animals and make up the proportions. Oh and usually watched porn and stuff. Sometimes I'd get lucky with stockphotos. But I don’t get the angle exactly right unless I have good references."

Rin wonders if anything you have ever said has processed in your mind before saying it. He doubts it for some reason.

"So," Rin pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes the image of you humping your stuffed animals out of his head. "You're asking me to.. pose with you?"

You nod and chew your lip. "Please, I promise I'd never ask you for this if I wasn't s-scared of Minami-san! Please?"

"I should make you pay me for this," He sneers. You flinch back and close your eyes.

"I'm sorry." You whine wetly, but then open your eyes again anyway. "Please help me."

Rin doesn't know why he helps you. Maybe you're just too pathetic for him to ignore. Maybe he's a masochist. Maybe inhaling the same air as Bachira last week turned him stupid.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Fine."

__

If Rin didn't believe you before when you told him you make your own references, he'd definitely believe you after you take him to your bedroom.

Your bed is in the center of your room, instead of being pushed against a wall. Large stuffed animals laid in one corner. On both sides of the room, are makeshift digital camera stands and remote-controlled lighting among another remote for said cameras. There's about 4-6 angles from what you explained to Rin, and a few adjustable lights. It's an elaborate set-up and takes the kind of dedication Rin can only imagine a hardcore fujoshi freak like yourself thinking up.

All of this to mostly draw porn of him and his rival. He tries not to think about it too hard because he thinks it's going to give him an aneurysm. Rin sits at the edge of your bed as you adjust each of the cameras individually.

"What do you do if it's not on a bed?"

You flinch like you aren't expecting him to talk. "Uhm. I either simulate as best I can o-or move my things and bed around. It's why I moved my desk to my office."

Rin stares at you. "You take it seriously."

You nod meekly. "Producing high-quality doujin is what made me money, so I have to work hard. Being poor is tough."

If Rin didn't find you so unbearable he might find that awe-inspiring in his own fucked up way.

"Okay. Everything is set-up. Now for the poses," You say, suddenly sparking back to life. Rin sits and watches. "They're having sex on a public beach so the bed and the way the seme sort of sinks into the sand will be good... I think the bridge one is the one we'll do first."

"The bridge?"

You nod, talking in short sentences. But Rin can tell this is where you're comfortable, doing things for this... hobby. Your usual constant embarrassment and shame seem to disappear when it comes to it. It's fascinating like a car crash. "Uhm. You have to stand on your knees and then, I'll lay on my back and arch my back up to meet your... y'know. It'll emphasize the height difference."

Rin stares at you agape. You take the remote control for your cameras in your hands and look at him expectantly.

Rin doesn't know whats wrong with him. Why the hell did he agree to this?

"Do you want me to take my jacket off?"

You nod, surprised. He shrugs the thing off of his shoulders and tosses it onto the floor.

Rin, per your instruction, gets into the position in the middle of the bed. He stands on his knees waiting for you. You join him a minute after, squinting at your phone screen beforehand. He isn't sure what he's expecting as a result of your ask, but he sure is shocked when he finds you placing your feet flat on the bed next to his knees and pushing yourself up for your crotch to meet his.

He knows that’s what you said but your shamelessness proves to be… shocking.

He tries not to let it show. His jaw ticks. His face feels warm but his expression remains neutral all the same. You shift and adjust and don't seem concerned at all - like it doesn't occur to you that this is in any way socially unacceptable. Or it's unfathomable Rin would take advantage of this. That this is weird, or could be interpreted in less than innocent ways. Rin knows you're so out of touch that it probably isn't. That this is, to you, just considered a favor which is partially why he even agrees.

But you're mid-brushing up against his bulge. The angle of your back forms a triangle, your arms laid flat at your sides as you squirm and push. And your expression shifts, deep in thought.

"Uhm, like, would you mind p-putting your hands on my hips? Kind of squeezing tight like it's," You flush this time, but Rin harbors doubt it's about him. "Like it feels good I guess? Like hard, and stuff so you can see the indent."

He's so astonished, he does it on autopilot. Neutral and even. He lets his hands grab your hips and holds tight just as you ask. Your long, loose sweatshirt falls down revealing the soft skin of your tummy. He can see the tops of your underwear, the thin cotton kind that come in 6-packs with a single bow in the middle in a grey color.

You don't seem to care about it. Rin shouldn't either, but his body does seem to care. His brain does. Something is happening in his gut. Anger maybe. Some cheap, frustrated desire to make fun of you.

Instead the words he's been wanting to ask since you proposed this tumble out of his mouth. He stares at you.

"Is this the first time someone's done this with you?"

You jump with a start, but remain in position. You take the pictures first, six clicks in a row before answering.

"H-huh? Why-why are you asking that?"

He doesn't know. Really. And he knows how it sounds. Rin doesn't say anything and you fold under the immense pressure of his gaze.

"S-stop staring," You say, and take a few more pictures, lowering your back just a little but still staying up right. "And no. No one tall enough or with the right physique."

There is another gnawing question, another burning curiosity. He makes his voice as even and unaffected and apathetic as he can. As mean as possible.

"Have you ever even had sex?"

Your eyes blow wide, but you seem to fall for the persona of apathy, curious boredom and cruelty. Worse, you seem a little used to it. You squirm this time and Rin holds you firmly in place. Your voice is small.

"Uhm, like, once I guess. I-it was with a guy, I didn't really date him but he seemed interested in me and I didn't think I'd ever have the opportunity again s-so I did it and I didn't uhm, it wasn't very good or anything." You reply, and he can feel your toes curl in your socks next to him and his brain feels like it'll melt from out of his ears. "Sorry, I don't-don't think you care about that, just uhm, felt like I should explain."

"Yeah," Rin feels dizzy. "Do you need another pose?"

You blink and then nod. "Yeah! Another one kind of like this, but with the legs like uhm, on your chest and my feet closer to your head. With you leaned back a little. Does that make sense? The butterfly position, I think."

Rin swallows something at the back of throat.

He nods, pulling you into position so easily he can heard you gasp. Your legs straighten against his clothed chest, and your sweatshirt falls far enough to let him see your bra. A fabric sports kind, a little worn - just the logo visible. He doesn't say anything about it, your feet resting near his neck. You make a little soft noise.

"This feels a little difficult to be in. Poor uke. Sorry if this one is kind of weird, but can you put your hands, I dunno, on my ass, I guess? I know that's probably too much but I think it'll be a good detail, so please? I'll pay you"

Rin stares at you, teeth gritting so hard he feels the back of his skull throb. "Fine."

Rin, per your request, puts his hands on your ass. It's easy enough, and he doesn't hold too tight. But it's too intimate, too stupidly fucking intimate, and he can feel you. You're hardly paying attention, caught up in your own head with whatever else. Rin is paying too much attention. Like how your sweatpants aren't thick enough to cover the outline of your frumpy cotton panties and how your soft all over. He's going to kill someone. Maybe himself.

Six more clicks and a little noise of satisfaction.

"Okay!!! I think these will turn out so great, and I can use them later too. Just one more. I have a lot of refs for this position, but uhm - I want to see if I can get the proportions correct, so if you'd please lay down," You tell him with such genuine excitement he can't find it in himself to say anything horribly cruel. "I'll be doing most of the work this time. I just-just need to see how uke will compare..."

You mutter something to yourself as Rin lets you down and lays himself down on your bed. You sit next to him for a long while, squinting at your phone. Rin stares at you as you. Wonders if he's gone completely insane, and tries to ignore the doom of the impending hard-on cozying itself in his pants.

Unceremoniously, you find yourself perching over Rin's lap. Not bothering to give him any pretense, it's the one thing about today that's really getting him.

"Oh, I need my hands for this," You give him the remote and stare down at him wide-eyed, over his lap. This has to be hell. "Could you take the photos this time?"

He closes his eyes and counts to ten and wonders if a concussion has made him insane. "Hm."

You brighten and Rin feels his chest go tight. "Thanks!"

Rin just nods, his mouth drying as you start to move and pose. A picture with your hands next to his head, and anothe r where you're sat up - your hands at your sides. Rin obediently takes pictures when you ask, his entire body tensing every single time you move.

"Okay, last one," You say. This time, you put your hands on his chest. Just the one. You must have something specific in your head that you're wanting to recreate. You bend down close, looking down at him as you do - your other hand clenched.

Rin looks up at you. He should not be thinking about you in any way. He's looking at the way your lips curve and plump and at your bare skin and your dark circles and your stupid licensed anime hoodie. He just gapes at you in confusion and mystique. He's around so many weirdos. It's not like there's anything special about you. You’re just another freak who makes porn of him. Plenty of people do that.

A loser and an idiot with no sense of self-preservation. There's nothing special about this, but Rin hasn’t been able to convince himself of that.

You stare down at him.

"Take a picture?"

Rin looks at you. Studies your expression. You seem like you're thinking. It's the only oppurtunity he has to pry.

"Did you want to ask something?" He says first. “You’re not hard to read.”

You startle, then nod. Your hand is on his chest. It's warm, and smaller than his.

"Oh, I-I guess I was wondering about what you asked me earlier. And uhm, like, I don't know. If you ever did anything. Your relationships aren't in the media and fans speculate but," You fall flat on your words. "I guess I was just curious."

Rin hates this question. It's why he never answers it. Why he hates being called a hearthrob, always too shallow and too personal for his taste.

"Nothing long term or serious. It was most for physical relief." Rin says, almost on autopilot. “Not that’d you know what that’s like.”

Your eyes widen. Rin feels his hands twitch, watching your expression finally grown conscious of him. Lust spreads through you like honey and Rin can see it in how you look. You squirm in his lap. He's not usually so aggressive, not usually one to care about sex in any important way. Not one to brag about something so unbelievably inane and trivial.

But it's bothering him, just how much he's fighting the urge to pin you down and fuck you. You of all people. It's not like him. Rough sex is whatever, but it's bothering him how little any of it seems to register in your head anymore like it once did. You could barely breathe the first time you met.

He doesn't know why he cares that you don’t anymore. He doesn’t give a shit about anything related to you

But the thought nothing seems to bother you anymore bothers him.

"Oh... I see. That's uhm, interesting. I b-bet you have a lot more experience than me. Maybe it'd be a good thing to keep you around for that kind of refernce too," You joke.

Rin lets his hand slip up to your hips without asking, not bothering to hide it anymore. His head feels with nothing but stupid useless thoughts. Thoughts of fucking you in your old, worn clothes and stained shirts and comfortable cotton underwear. Thoughts of your hands clutching at his shoulder all weepy with desire and need and stupidity - your big wide eyes bleary and sensitive. It's cruel how relentlessly he thinks about taking advantage of all your differences. Of how unathletic and awkward and unused to everything you are.

It's horrible just how much he's staving off his own arousal about it. Maybe you're strange habits are infecting him, making him strange too strange. All Rin can think about uselessly is how easily he could put you in your place. Fix you in some strange way. You’d be his to fix and you’d cry and weep and want to run away. Rin wouldn’t let you, keep you pinned and caged like an animal.

His throat feels tight. What is fucking wrong with him today?

Is he that pent up? He stares at you, and gets some passing feeling that there is more to it than that. He closes his eyes.

"Whatever," He says, letting go. You don't seem to notice it again, how thick his voice is getting "Are you almost done?"

You nod and smile. "Yes. Thank you."

Rin feels his heart tug and seethes. “You're welcome."

#return to sender #writing tag #fujoverse #rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #bllk x reader #bluelock x reader #THIS IS KIND OF COOKING ME TO DEATRH IM?

[rucksackmentality]

List of the truths shared in Nana Morri's Honesty trial (C3E79):

Imogen: I am genuinely scared to meet my mom again.

Laudna: Deep down inside, both Delilah and I want the shard...Fearne should have it, but I don't know anymore what's my opinion or desires or feelings, or hers.

Imogen: I love Laudna deeply but I'm disgusted at the thought of Delilah looking at us all the time.

Orym: I'm super lonely all the time, especially at night. It doesn’t matter if I'm bunking with one of you guys.

FCG: Sometimes I pity some of you because you have beating hearts and opportunities and you don’t do enough with them...Chetney, you have so much love to give and it doesn't seem like you're interested in anything other than wood! There's people out there who you could love and experiences you could share with someone else, but all you care about is wood!

Orym: I've always kind of laughed it off but I guess I do kind of wonder if Chetney is my dad.

Ashton: I am the reason that the Jiana Hexum robbery went fucking wrong, and the reason why I got thrown out of a fucking window.

Fearne: I feel like we’re very ill-equipped for this job and we're going to fail at saving the world. (Laudna: Honestly that's probably true, I'm right there with you.)

Chetney: While wood may be the superior material to metal, I do fear that, with the dwindling interest in it, that children will find my toys - and thereby myself - obsolete every year I grow older.

FCG: I think it's something buried deep down in my circuitry, but every time I hurt or kill something - it feels really good. It makes me sort of relax a little bit and some of my stress goes away.

Imogen: I know we're supposed to save the gods, but I've tried talking to them my whole life and none of them would ever respond. I think I'm tainted. I dont know if I want to save gods that don't love me.

Laudna: You know we could rip-cord out of [saving the world] at any moment...right? And sometimes I fantasize about it all the time.

Fearne: I sometimes do stuff to you guys while you're sleeping - not weird stuff, I just like to look at you closely...and maybe like, twiddle your hair or braid it. Nothing bad!

Ashton: Whenever it starts to get quiet, I start worrying that one of us - most of us - are going to end up killing another one of us accidentally...I have panicked thinking about when one you kills another one of us.

Orym: I have all the faith in the world in you guys...and I have also spent time thinking of how to neutralize each of you.

FCG: I kinda worry that I put all my eggs in the Changebringer basket and she might betray us all. I had a really weird conversation with her and I think she's just out for herself and she might not really care about me - but what if she does? And I'm saying horrible things?

Imogen: Fearne, I was really disappointed in you for running away from your power. You should take the shard!

Orym: I really miss Dorian, and sometimes I think that's okay, and sometimes I think it isn't.

Ashton: I feel fucking worse that I just fucked up Fearne's life way more than mine and I should've died instead of that happening.

Chetney: I grew up in the Bramblewood outside of Westruun, and when I was a kid, I came back from learning how to make toys and found that my whole family had left. All they left behind were toys. They ran when Errevon the Rimelord was running across the plains, and so I'm kind of afraid of dragons. And I had five siblings - Alabaster, Pepper, Sugarplum, Hermey, and Chad - and I was so mad that they left I never looked for any of them, and now I'm pretty sure they're dead. So I think any family I have is just gonna look for a reason to leave me. That's why I don't get attached to anybody.

#critical role #cr spoilers #c3e79 #cr3

[pinkie-pop]

"I Have Something To Tell You."

Part I Part II Part III

Featuring: Gender-Neutral Reader, Yandere Genshn Impact, non religious SAGAU, Yandere Fatui Harbingers

Word count: 3.1k

Includes: Portrayal of mental illness, suicide, description of injury,

Synopsis: After killing yourself and landing in the world of Genshin Impact, you reflect on all that has gone wrong.

•~•~•~•~•~•

You don't really want to go home. Not exactly. But it's easier to say you miss your bed than to say you'd be fine with any bed, so long as it isn't the one in your wing. 

You thought people who get isekaied into new worlds were supposed to be happy. You've always been unlucky, you suppose. That's right. It's easier to say you were unlucky than to face the reality of the situation: that this was all your own fault.

You should have sucked it up. Should have gone to counseling or stayed at a hospital. Should have done something else. Should have done anything else.

You should never have killed yourself. 

•~•~•~•~•~•

It all started maybe a week ago. You've always been depressed. Never passionate about anything other than your video games, never smiling at anything other than a shiny new character or banner weapon, but it had never been this bad before. For all the talk, you had never actually wanted to die.

But then something changed. You aren't quite sure what it was that set you off. Maybe a particularly bad day at work, a side effect from an experimental medication you're on, or nothing at all. Regardless, something changed, and it changed fast. Soon, death became all you could think about. It plagued your mind both night and day until, at last, you slit your wrists in the bathtub, and when that didn't work, and you woke up again, you climbed up your local water tower and jumped off.

But it didn't matter. You woke up again. Looking different, but still undeniably you. Your face and voice had changed, but the same two scars still sit mockingly upon your wrists. You can't say you're prettier now, just different. Weren't the protagonists of transmigration stories meant to wake up in beautiful bodies, completely unlike their originals? So why was it that your hair and eyes remained the same, that only your face and body had differed? 

“Your body,” Dottore explained, “was completely destroyed during your fall. So it reconstructed itself, leaving you a little different, a little the same. That's why,” he said, tapping your wrists,”—that these are still here.” Any other scars you have had disappeared from your body, any blemishes vanished, though the two on your wrists remained. It left you looking smooth and unfinished, a pale imitation of who you once were. Like someone who had only seen you a couple of times tried to draw you from memory. Dottore told you it was because you were attached to them. That the scars shaped your soul, hence their survival. You didn't quite understand, if you're being honest, but he seemed to know what he was talking about, so you didn't bother to question it.

When you woke up again after death, the first thing you noticed was how cold it was. The chill wind was bitter against your white nightwear, the breeze penetrating through the thin fabric as easily as a needle piercing one's skin. The cold seemed to seep into you, lodging itself deep inside your bones. 

It was snowing, you realized dimly. That's odd. It hardly ever snowed anymore. The thought that you ought to have been dead by now hadn't yet occured to you, only the thought of cold and bitter winter days lingered in your mind. You thought of school being dismissed due to snow in your youth, of playing and building snowmen as a child. You recalled how the snow eventually stopped coming in winters, due to the Earth’s gradual heating. When it did come, it was a sad and pathetic thing, only a few inches total, melting as soon as it hit the ground. 

You thought long and deeply, in an odd, serene state of mind despite, or perhaps because of the polar cold. You aren't quite sure how long you stayed there, reminiscing, but it must have been quite a while, seeing as how your fingers and toes turned black, contrasting starkly against the snow.

It was Tartaglia who found you first, buried knee-deep in snow, strangely calm despite the way your fingertips are blackened by the cold. Of course, you were calm. You were supposed to be dead anyway.

“You okay there, comrade?” He asked you, waving a hand in front of your face. You blinked at him slowly but otherwise didn't respond. You were so still that he would have thought you dead if not for the soft rising and falling of your chest. Tartaglia attributed your inaction to shock—a symptom he's seen plenty of during his time as a Fatuus. Seeing as how you seemed unable (or perhaps unwilling) to move, he simply picked you up and dragged you back to the Zapolyarny Palace, where you were able to warm up and get treatment.

In normal circumstances, your arms and legs would have had to be amputated, but your circumstances were far from normal.

Dottore was the one who had saved your limbs (Your legs, having been buried in the snow for hours, were beyond saving, but your fingers and hands were able to recover). For that, you were grateful. He’s a creep, sure, but sentiments of debt made you tolerate his odd rambles about medical malpractice. Made you politely ignore the way his hands seemed to linger and stray.

After all, if he could save your limbs from certain death, he could most certainly remove them with just as much ease, too.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The mirror in your quarters is broken. 

You punched it when you first saw yourself reflected in its panes and refused to get a replacement, despite the many urgings of Pantalone to let him buy you one. Simply having your mirror broken was not enough to completely block out your new reflection, so you requested a can of blackout paint to be brought over to your room, where you then did a—in hindsight—rather shoddy job of enshrouding the reflective surface. It looked bad, but you didn't care. 

All you cared about was never seeing the face that you hesitate to call yours ever again. 

•~•~•~•~•~•~•

You aren't quite sure why Tartaglia brought you back to the Palace when it would have been much easier to leave you in the snow. You asked him about it once, but his response was less than satisfactory. 

“You could say I fell in love with you at first sight,” he said, ruffling your hair. Because what could be more charming than a frostbitten civilian in white nightwear that camouflages them in the snow?

You decided then and there to ignore any questions you had about the Harbingers’ growing attachment to you. You didn't need to know why they felt the way they did. Only that they did.

Only that they do.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

You were given a luxurious room at the Palace, far nicer than even the best of five-star resorts you could never afford. You even had your own personal maid, a brawny woman named Lera (an aptly chosen name, considering it means strength). She had her own helpers that also attended to you, three girls named Ana, Ulyana, and Irina (Ana and Ulyana are twins belonging to two rather uncreative parents, and Irina is an only child). Ana and Ulyana seem to be around your age, Irina a few years younger, and Lera about two decades older. Having the four of them around makes you feel as if you've been transmigrated into a romance fantasy novel.

When Tartaglia brought you to the Zapolyarny Palace, it caused a small ripple of chaos in its wake. The halls were filled with whispers about the strange person who seemed to have captured the heart of the eleventh Harbinger. Even more shocking than that, however, was the second’s agreement to heal you. There were many rumors going about, talk of backroom deals that must have been done to get Dottore to agree to save your arms, but no proof of such things were ever found. Some brave souls claimed that Dottore had also fallen for you and that that was why he had agreed to help. These people were hushed by their friends rather quickly, for fear of their own lives.

Stranger still was the seventh’s involvement in your recovery. Sandrone, though you're not sure how she heard about it or why she had decided to help, had created a pair of porcelain legs for you to wear. They were pretty, like a doll’s, a pale eggshell white with elegant gold carvings etched into the skin. They were comfortable, too, so much so that you almost forgot they were prosthetic, and Lera had to remind you multiple times to take them off before heading to bed.

You wanted to thank Sandrone for your legs, but you haven't seen her since your measurements and fitting. You asked a servant to send a message to her, but you've gotten no indication that she's even received it, let alone a response. As for Dottore, you were able to send your regards through Ulyana, who had to visit his section of the Palace anyway.

Tartaglia visits you daily, and soon you begin to coincidentally meet with the other Harbingers, who always seemed to have time for entertainment in the form of you.

“Oh, are you the one that our dear Tartaglia is so smitten with?” Came the sing-songy voice of Columbina. You pause, turning around slowly. To be honest, Columbina was one of the Harbingers you'd most like to avoid. Her soft voice sent shivers down your spine that—you hope—would be attributed to the cold instead. 

You turn towards her, and, afraid your voice might crack, say nothing and simply nod instead. 

“What’s your name, little songbird?” She asks you. You give it to her in a quiet voice, and she returns it with her own. Before she can say anything more, Tartaglia comes by and wraps an arm around you, making up some excuse about the two of you having someplace you needed to be. Columbina watches the two of you leave in silence, a small, closed-eyed smile upon her face.

Later, Tartaglia warns you away from Columbina. “There's something not right with her,” he says, a rare frown dancing upon his lips. “I can't place it, but you're better off staying away. And that's not just because I'd rather keep you to myself.” He then smiles and ruffles your hair in an attempt to lighten the mood. You don't say anything, but nod when he asks you to avoid her.

Pantalone is next. He visits you directly, bringing with him two golden bracelets you have no choice but to let him place upon your wrists. They do a good job of covering up your scars, which you assume is the intention behind the gift. It's oddly thoughtful, coming from him. But you know better than to think it was free.

You aren't sure if you want to know what he expects in exchange.

You meet with La Signora next, and you're surprised to see that she's still alive. You suppose the Traveler hasn't made it to Inazuma in this world yet. That's strange, but you decide not to dwell on it.

Next is Dottore’s segments, also still alive, and all of whom seem to enjoy lingering around your quarters. You often find one or two hanging around in the hallways, always making light conversation or asking if you require anything. You know better than to write it off as a coincidence, and for a while you entertained the thought that Dottore had put them up to it, before promptly writing it off as ridiculous. 

Still, a small part of you can't help but wonder if the doctor has taken a special interest in one of his dear patients.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Two weeks into your stay at the Zapolyarny Palace, you overhear a conversation amongst the servants. You hide behind a banister and listen in.

“How long has it been now?” Says a maid, a nervous hand tangled in her hair, tugging it slightly. You’ve seen her before but have never gotten her name. She’s speaking to another maid who you recognize as Tatinana.

“Almost a month, I’d say,” responds the other, gently stopping her from ruining her braids.

“Everyone’s getting antsy. I’ve never seen Lord Tartaglia so irritable.”

“I know what you mean. He used to be such a laid-back guy. Now, you can barely even hold a conversation without him looking at you like he’s ready to tear out your eyes. Lord Scaramouche has gotten even more unbearable to be around, too. And you can tell the Player’s absence has taken a toll on everyone else as well.” Player, huh? If their absence is so heavily noticed, they must be important. It’s odd, though. You’ve never once heard about such a character existing at all, let alone their disappearance. You keep listening, hoping for clues about this mysterious person’s identity.

“Don’t you think the timing is a little odd? They showed up right before the Player stopped logging in. They’ve got the Harbingers wrapped around their finger. It’s too precise to be a coincidence. There’s something to it, I just know it.” Is she…talking about you now? So this ‘Player’ disappeared right before you showed up? They stopped ‘logging in’? Well, isn’t that wording a bit peculiar? It sure sounds like gamer lingo to you.

This Player that they mentioned…it couldn’t be you, could it?

“Enough with your conspiracies. Let’s get back to work before—” A floorboard creaks from under your foot, and the two maids freeze. You suppose there’s no use in hiding anymore, so you step out to face them.

“E-esteemed guest, w-what brings you here?”

“Ah, nothing much,” you say. “I heard voices and came to take a look. What were you two talking about?” You ask casually, stuffing your hands in your pockets.

“Nothing!” The girl with braided hair squeaks. You raise an eyebrow at her, and the other shakes her head.

The girl sighs. “We aren’t supposed to talk about them,” she says.

“Maria, I think they heard,” Tatiana says. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me more about this ‘Player’ you mentioned.” 

“Didn’t stop you before.”

“Right, well…” She pauses, seemingly formulating her next words carefully. “It’s this…force. This being behind the Traveler. We don’t know its true nature, none of us have ever seen anything like it. It controls the Traveler and their companions like a puppet to its puppeteer.”

“They’ve lost their minds,” Maria whispers. “It’s scary. They make us clean a ghost’s room. Every day, it has to be spotless.”

“And? What’s the goal?”

“That’s the thing…none of us know. The Harbingers know something, they’re all obsessed with the Player, they’re convinced that the Player holds some kind of power they can utilize, but the Player isn’t from Teyvat, and only Lord Tartaglia has figured out how to interact with it.”

“Interact with it how?”

“By being possessed. All the Harbingers want to be controlled by the Player, they think it’ll make them stronger. But it’s more than that. They used to just want to use the Player for their own gain, but somewhere along the way things changed. They’ve been working on a way to bring them here, and when they do there’s a whole wing in the Zapolyarny Palace dedicated to them.”

“It was unbearable right after the Player first disappeared, the air was suffocating. But then Lord Tartaglia brought you back and things started to return to normal. I overheard him saying being with you reminded him of when the Player used to take control.” You nod, the cogs in your head turning furiously. That settles it, then. Without a shred of doubt, you are the Player.

“Hey, so listen…”

The Tsarista summoned you and all Harbingers to a meeting in an effort to control the chaos your revelation had caused.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

You thought you were prepared to see the Tsarista for the first time, but nothing in the world could prepare you for the sheer, glacial beauty standing in front of you. Her presence was strong, commanding obedience with a simple glance. Her eyes looked at you coldly, interest evident in her face as she called the meeting to order. A beautiful crown of ice sat upon her head, her impossibly white hair elegantly framing her face as it cascaded down her back.

The meeting passed by in a blur. You remember them talking about your need to be protected, to never leave the Palace without at least two Harbingers or the Tsaritsa herself escorting you. You remember telling them about how you died, stating simply that you ‘fell from a high place’ and omitting the part where you jumped. You remember the color of the buttons each Harbinger wore on their coat. But you don’t remember the part where you agreed to stay with them. You don’t remember anyone even asking.

After the meeting, news of your true identity spread like wildfire. Some people didn’t believe it, calling you a fraud or an imposter, but those voices were quickly snuffed out the second the Harbingers started to accept your new status as the Player. Immediately, you were moved to the Player’s Wing in the Zapolyarny Palace, an easy move, considering you had no possessions. 

You don’t know why they’re trying so hard to win your favor or even if they realize that they’re failing, but either way, you know you need to get out of here. You’d try dying again if you thought that would work, but after seeing your scars, the Harbingers have already blocked all potential means of speeding up your expiration date. That only leaves one option.

The Harbingers’ visits, already a nuisance, became overbearing in no time. If it wasn’t Tartaglia dragging you to his training hall, it was Dottore giving you the nitty-gritty of his latest experiments. If it wasn’t Arlecchino shoving sweets down your throat, it was Pantalone burying you in gifts.

If it wasn’t one, it was always the other. 

You have to run away. 

But how? The Harbingers are all working together to keep you under constant lock and key.

Maybe if you were able to break the bonds they’ve formed with each other, you could recruit one of them to help you. They’re all selfish assholes. You’re sure it wouldn’t be difficult to convince one of them they’d be better off keeping you to themselves.

“I have something to tell you,” you say, brushing a strand of hair out of the Balladeer’s face. “It’s about Dottore.”

#yandere genshin #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #self aware genshin #genshin impact #sagau #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #sagau x reader #yandere harbingers #yandere childe #yandere columbina #yandere pantalone #yandere scaramouche #yandere wanderer #yandere sandrone #yandere dottore #yandere capitano #yandere arlecchino #yandere la signora #yandere tsaritsa

[jade-len]

so today i tricked my very straight male friend into reading svsss.

okay look, i wasn't planning to at first and it's not like it was completely my fault. he wanted to read it!

i was showing him how badly they fucked up mu qingfang in the donghua by comparing it to the english novel design (he said that mu qingfang went from looking like a soft dilf to a predator registered on the epstein island list). and then, i showed him how different some of the other character designs were like gongyi xiao's ("he looks like he'd be a genshin character" -friend, to eng novel design) and luo binghe's ("lowkey, he kinda gives airbender vibes" -friend, to bunhe eng novel design)

so that was all i was gonna show him, nothing else. but after seeing them, he goes, "these designs actually look hella cool. what's the book called?"

now, do i:

A. tell him the name, eventually revealing that it's a danmei when he looks it up?

B. just straight up tell him that it's a danmei?

C: don't tell him the name just yet, spill the summary, get him interested, and tell him to not search anything up about it because there's heavy spoilers and it will reveal them the moment he types it up on the search bar

i go with C, obviously.

me: so, basically, some guy named shen yuan transmigrates into an incel harem male power fantasy novel where the protagonist, luo binghe, has hundreds of wives. thing is though, the guy pretty much took over the body of binghe's teacher he had when he was a teenager, who turns out to be a really scummy dude. and now he has to be nice to him so that the protagonist doesn't rip off his limbs and put him into a pickle pot in the future to suffer for eternity.

friend: that sounds hilarious and horrifying at the same time.

me: yes it is, and you should read it. it's like. my favorite novel at the moment. but don't search up anything about it because people spoil that shit. i'll let you borrow my novel

friend: nah don't worry, i'll just pirate it

friend: wait. does it have pictures?

me, my plan coming together: yeah, it has pictures. buuut, when you pirate it, it doesn't. trust me dude, i tried and was severely disappointed. plus, the physical copy is so much better

friend: fuck yeah ok thanks

me: hold on though. i'll text you later to see if my friend who's borrowing it rn is done reading it

he's hyped. he's excited. he craves a good book and a good transmigration interpretation. he's especially happy about the fact that it takes place in a chinese setting with cool powers and an actual good main character. "this sounds so good, god i wanna read it so bad."

i tell him that binghe is actually adorable, too. that it's pretty much found family! my friend then asks if shen yuan adopts him and becomes a father figure or something.

and i said "yes". you know, like a liar. (the father figure part probably isn't a lie though)

now i'm gonna give him the novel tomorrow! of course, i'm gonna cover the chapter 2 bunhe sexual awakening scene with washi tape and say that my baby cousin (sorry baby cousin, you would never <\3) scribbled all over that paragraph with her markers, and since i'm a neat book freak, i put washi tape and just wrote the scene! i don't know if that's really all too believable, but he didn't seem to care that much. just a simple "if my baby cousin did that to my book i would punt them into the sun"

i think what'll be more hilarious is the fact that you can't really tell that svsss is a BL. especially not volume 1. there's like, only a few lines indicating, but if you remove the baby binghe sexual awakening scene then you probably won't be able to know (...if you don't really read romance or anything. idk he's kinda dense anyways). so let's hope he gets attached and has a slow descent into the homo before i drop svsss vol 2 on him!

ok anyways i'll update you guys later with a reblog. maybe in about two or three days lol

(also don't worry, we already fuck around with each other on a daily basis like this. he's already tricked me into reading some manga i was unprepared for, and i thought that it'd be funny to mess around with him using svsss this time lol)

#greatest prank ive ever donee i think #manipulation 100 fr #absolute tomfoolery #am i a bad friend for this? perhaps. is it hilarious? definitely. #this is truly the most moment of all time #svsss #mxtx svsss #the scum villain's self saving system #luo binghe #luo bingmei #shen qingqiu #shen yuan

[adventuringblind]

Viva Las Vegas

Landoscar x Reader

Genre: Fluff? Crack? Idek...

Summary: Two boys can't get a hint, and the female in the middle is just waiting for them to make a move. Preferably with her ending up between them.

Warnings: spicy, kind of panic attack? Allusions to sex, alcohol consumption, mentions of Lando's crash, and him being on pain meds.

Notes: Reminder that my requests are open for the 1000 follower celebration! Also, a certain someone put this idea in my head so now you all have to suffer.

Masterlist

Being the baby of the paddock really hadn't been that bad. A year younger than Arthur and having to put off with Charles was never on her top list of things she wanted to do, but she managed. Followed him around races like a lost puppy.

She was a perfect angel. Kind of. Not really, but she put on a good face when in public. Charles' perfect baby sister.

Lando Norris got to see a whole other side of her. The side that the cameras and public don't see.

The side that takes risks and tests the limits. The one nobody else has managed to pull out of her. The one Lando seems to make being so incredibly easy.

Charles adores the two of them. Lando would never hurt her. He may be impulsive, but he's loyal to a fault.

A couple of years later Is when Oscar comes along. Lando's new teammate. It's awkward for exactly two months into their work together.

Lando didn't like what happened to Daniel. He was still upset about it when word got out that Oscar had signed. It didn't feel real at the end of the year.

Then something shifted. Maybe it was the shared frustration of such a horrible start to the season? She may never know. But one thing is certain and it's that they like each other.

Oscar likes Lando. Lando likes Oscar. They both like her, and she loves them right back.

Yet she could not, for the life of her, forgire out why neither of them is saying anything about it. One can really only handle so much sexual tension before they explode. The sweet moments between the three of them. The fact she has attempted to get the both riled up with nothing to show for it except what Lando does to her later and Oscar's stupid smug face just playing alone with sarcastic jokes.

They are going to be the death of her. The two of them are attached at the hip, and she's excitedly making popcorn thinking it's going to turn into a romantic comedy. It doesn't, and she would like whoever is directing the movie to hurry the story along.

Both her and Lando are getting under his skin, and it's evident in every interaction they have. She takes it upon herself to invite Oscar everywhere with them.

They are happy all together. If they would just stop being so oblivious it would be perfect.

Then Vegas happens. The place where memories are made and forgotten. Lost in the music, lights, and alcohol.

The car isn't the best here. Both boys are frustrated. Lando crashes, and Oscar manages, but it's written on his face that he's disappointed with himself.

She goes to Lando at the hospital. Then, when he's released and thoroughly medicated, they head back to the paddock.

He's hilarious. Lando and his already unfiltered mouth are just saying everything. Including every feeling he has ever had for both her and Oscar. It started fine and then escalated Shortley after to the point where Jon had to promise he wouldn't ever mention it.

Oscar runs through media duties with an unholy speed. He looks relieved when he finds the two waiting around by his door because Lando didn't want to go to his own.

"I'm sorry it's been a lame birthday weekend." Sighs the Aussie who has collapsed onto the sofa.

"Well- it doesn't have to be."

Should the two not on any kind of medication used their clear judgment? Probably, but who are they to deny Lando?

They did decide on keeping it chill and just to go out for an hour or two after Lando at least napped off some of the meds. Neither of the sober minds had any intention of mixing alcohol with whatever Lando was on.

The Brit looked so excited to be out with them. He openly expressed he didn't need anybody else because his two favorite people were already with him. Oscar replied with a smile. She's going to have to force them to kiss at this rate.

Somewhere between three drinks in and Lando sipping on something not strong came blurred confessions. Whatever Lando had told Oscar he was drinking definitely was stronger than he'd made it out to be.

Her boyfriend keeps throwing her mischievous looks and suggestive eyebrow raises. What kind of game is he playing at? She would love if he let her in on it.

But alas, Lando does not, and she is left to her drink and her mind as she watches the two refuse to do anything about the tension they are creating. It's getting far too much for her. She either needs Lando to make a move on Oscar or to come help her because her imagination is going to places.

Somebody does kiss her, but it's not Lando. She would be concerned if Oscar hadn't just moved closer to her.

Everything goes fuzzy after that.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning is met with ridiculous hangovers and a cramped position on the couch.

The couch? How on earth did she end up here? More importantly, why is Oscar using her like a blanket and Lando a starfish on the floor?

Her breath quickens. Something must have happened for them to end up here. She pulls herself up and almost passes out in the process. She would like to - no - needs to remember what happened. She finds her phone laying on the counter and opens it.

Her hand hits the counter and there it the sound of metal hitting granite. She shakily moves her hands into view.

Of all the stupid and impulsive things, she could've done, it had to be getting married in Vegas and being too drunk to remember it. Looks like George, Alex, and Lily were there, the three people who really should've stopped her.

But it's not that realization that makes her finally curl up on the ground, It's the name on the certificate.

Oscar Piastri.

She can hear both boys starting to stir and wake themselves up. The light hitting their faces drawing them back to the land of the living. Into what has become her nightmare.

She ducks behind the counter.

"What happened last night? My head is killing me and- why are you on the floor?"

"Well, we all started on the couch and then I needed water, couldn't find my spot again so I just stayed on the floor."

There is a pause. "What do you mean 'we all'?"

"The three of us? You know, it's bad not to sleep together on the night of your wedding."

There is a string of mumbled words from Oscar that she can't make out. "Seeing as I married your girlfriend, you seem way too happy about this."

"Mate, you were literally trying to fuck both of us last night and then went on this rant about-"

"Okay! I get it! No need to embarrass me more."

Lando is laughing hysterically. "I was wondering if you were ever going to do it. I was getting worried about your wife having a stroke if we didn't do something about this. She talks in her sleep you know."

She squeaks and then covers her mouth. She curls further into her hiding place, but it's no use. They boys find her and join her on the floor.

"You been awake long, love?" How can Lando be so gentle at a time like this? Like she hadn't just betrayed him! She stares in disbelief and then shakes her head no.

It looks like Lando is about to say something else when there is a knock on the door. He gets up and opens it to Charles and Max. The former of which is yelling in French.

"Looks like you guys also had a rough night." Lando is keeling over laughing which inevitably puts him back on the floor.

"What do you mean?" Max is standing there looking completely sober.

Lando is in tears at this point, and nobody understands what he's laughing at. "The matching rings, mate? Do you not remember getting hitched right after your sister?"

There is a set of identical screams followed by more frantic French.

"Speaking of that..." Max turns his attention to the little Leclerc and Oscar. "... You going to explain this one Lando? I remember this still."

Lando then blushes, and it looks like he considers running. "So listen - I may have talked you two into getting married." There is this innocent smile on his face that makes her jaw drop.

"This was you?! I'm panicking for nothing?!" She trails with French mumbling, and Charles joins in with her.

They look through pictures for a while and get water into their systems before Max and Charles go to leave.

"So, are you two going to get a divorce?" Oscar looks at Charles and Max who shrug.

"Maybe, but who knows? Maybe it'll come in handy some day."

"I knew you guys were fucking! Lando you own me now."

"How did you know?!"

"Little sisters know all, dear brother."

When it's just the three, a tense silence false between them. "So, what now?" She finally breaks. No longer able to handle the staring.

"We get a lawyer?"

"Or, hear me out, we keep it. We can always do that later!"

It's true, really. This a backward way of confessing, but it's not like they don't want to be together.

"Then Lando needs a ring also!" They laugh.

The Brit gets a hold of the certificate and finds a marker to write his name on it. "I fixed it."

Then he looks at the other two. Bright smiles on all of there faces.

"Shall we consummate the marage?"

#x reader #fanficion #formula one #f1 fic #formula 1 #racing #f1 fanfic #lando norris f1 #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris #landoscar #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x oscar piastri #ln4 imagine #ln4 #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri f1 #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x y/n #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x lando norris #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81 #mclaren lando norris #mclaren formula 1

[cherryredstars]

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: Fluff, References to Trauma/PTSD

Summary: Simon in a relationship!

A/N: Love this man, and I’m not sorry.

Word Count: 1.7K (Edited)

Ideally, Simon wouldn’t want to date someone with a military career like him. All he really wants is to have someone to come back home to, and that’s hard when the both of you might be deployed at different times. Plus, he doesn’t want anyone else to see the things he’s seen. He can barely take care of himself with all the PTSD he keeps with him, he doesn’t know how he would be able to care for someone else who’s struggling like him.

At the same time, he’s paranoid of strangers. You never know what they might be hiding, if they’re undercover spies of some sort or hitmen trying to kill the man that’s already dead. He knows everyone has secret intentions, everyone always wants something. Even if it isn’t malicious in nature. 

I don’t think Simon would date an overly nice neighbor who wants to take care of him when he returns from missions. He’d be too suspicious of them and think they’re trying to poison him with the food they bring him. I think his partner would end up being someone he meets purely by accident or someone he sees constantly. Like a barista at the local coffee shop or a cashier at the grocery store he used to work at. If it’s by accident, it must be the most bizarre scenario ever, or else he’ll think it was set up. Like maybe you storm up to him, accusing him of something and he has no idea what you’re talking about, only to find out you're chewing out the wrong person. 

Simon would take it slow, not promising you anything. But, he’d still ask you if you would like to hangout after he gets back from duty. When you agree, he thinks about it all the way to base, then pushes it out of his mind once he puts on his skull mask. There isn't any time for distractions if he wants to make sure that hangout happens. You guys would go on multiple dates before he asks you to go out with him. He finds the tiniest bit of tension falls off his shoulders when you say yes. 

In the beginning of your relationship, Simon never had his back turned towards you. When you guys are together, he’s always facing you or trailing behind you. He never stood besides you and when you guys slept in the same bed, his chest was facing you with a slight space between the two of you. He never really let you touch his back or hug him for more than a second. This was because it, literally and figuratively, prevented you from stabbing him in the back. He went through a lot of shit before he met you, still has to deal with it when he gets deployed for duty, so it’s natural for him to be distrusting and cautious. Even towards someone he agreed to attach himself to.

The day you walked into a room and he didn’t instantly turn around confused you. You thought that maybe he didn’t hear you, so you kindly announce your presence. When you tell him that you’re there, he still doesn’t turn around and continues what he’s doing. All he responds with is, “I know.” You had blinked in confusion before the widest smile appeared on your face. You said nothing else and continued doing what you needed to in the kitchen, both of your backs turned to each other. That same night, Simon turned on his side in his sleep, his chest facing away from you for the first time. 

Simon’s love language is physical touch, and he thinks it’s the cruelest joke ever because that’s the thing that scares him the most now. He’s scared to touch you. He’s scared his rough hands will tear up your skin like sandpaper. Scared that he’ll hold on to you too strongly and you will bruise and shatter under his touch. He’s scared that when he removes his hands from you, a bloody hand print will stain your skin, just like the blood of the thousands of people he’s killed stains his. He has to build up to it. Has to flex his hands to stop himself from constantly grabbing on to you. He keeps a small bottle of hand sanitizer in his pocket, and he uses it whenever he has that urge to touch you, like maybe it’ll protect you from him if he gives in. When he comes home from a mission, he washes his hands raw before he gets into bed and holds you. 

When he finally touches you, it’s small touches. The brushing of knuckles as he passes you, a small grip on the back hem of your shirt to tell you to stop walking, linking your pinkies together on a busy street, him brushing a bit of hair out of your face when you talk to him. Fleeting things that never last long but causes his heart to soar hours afterwards and for you to smile the rest of the day. As the relationship progresses, they last longer and get more bolder. But they still have the same effect on the both of you. 

His favorite receiving love language from his partners are acts of service. Likes when he goes to the cupboard, knowing he’s on his last tea bag, only to find a brand new box of tea next to the old one. Loves when he comes home from a mission to find his mug already on the counter and the kettle is on. Likes walking into the bedroom to find a set of clothing laid out on the bed for him. He appreciates that you already have dinner in the fridge for him to heat up, that you already took out the trash and washed the dishes so he doesn’t feel compelled to do them in his exhausted state. 

His heart warms when he sees his spaces. Or the spaces that are meant to be filled with his things. Like they’ve been waiting for him, like you’ve been waiting for him. He likes walking through the door and seeing the empty space on the floor next to your sneakers, meant to hold Simon’s heavy duty boots. When he walks into the kitchen, he stares at his place at the table that is already set for him with a small smile. Likes the empty hangers in the closet where he’s supposed to hang his clothes back up once they’re washed. Finds warmth in the dusty spots on the bathroom shelves where his hygiene products were placed before he left. Likes walking towards the shared bed after his shower, finding you fast asleep and his side of the bed empty. He likes filling those spots with his things, it’s like time didn’t continue when he left. Like nothing has changed and he was only gone for a few hours instead of months. He loves when you wrap your arms around him, pushing yourself into his side in your sleep. Your arms are his favorite Simon space. 

Despite the fact you do almost all the house chores, only because he's not home to do them himself, he refuses to let you touch his gear bag and clean the stuff in it. He’s scared all the bad things Ghost’s mask was present for would crawl out and hurt you. He tells you it’s fine, that he’ll wash the blood and dirt stained uniform, that he’ll put away everything in the bag. When he’s finished, he shoves the military bag to the back of his side of the closet, vanishing the skull mask from the light. It doesn’t belong there anyways. 

Simon is hesitant to let the rest of the team meet you. The team and you are two different parts of his life, each of you get a side of him the other doesn’t. He’s scared of what will happen when they clash. When Ghost invades Simon’s life off of the field. You reassure him the whole time the both of you get ready to go to a bar the team wanted to have celebratory drinks at. Simon is still nervous, but he can’t help the small smile that grows around the rim of his glass as he watches his family interact as one. He smiles even more when none of the boys hesitate to protect you from handsy customers who want to try their shot with you. That’s good, he thinks. It’s good that you’ll have people to take care of you if he never makes it back home to you. 

Of course, Simon gives you his dog tag. But, the dog tag Simon gives you is different. It’s slightly rusted, older. One that holds a past he has yet to share with you completely. This tag exists before Ghost and Task Force 141. It’s a tag from when Simon was in the SAS, before he was hurt and betrayed by the world as badly. When you ask him why he gave you this tag instead of his more updated tags, his answer echoes in your head: “Because that Simon is the one I am when I’m with you. That’s the Simon I want you to remember me as.” You never took off his dog tag afterwards. 

When Simon stands at the front door in the early hours of the morning, dressed in tactical gear with his military bag at his side, you both stand and stare at each other. He lets you put on his skull mask, the only time he’ll ever let you touch it. In those quiet moments where you both wait for one of the team to pick him up, you ask him in a whisper to come home because you’ll be waiting for him. He doesn’t promise anything, only says that’s his plan.

You never need to ask him why he lets you put on the mask for him. The both of you already know the reason. You already know it’s Ghost’s gift to you. It’s Ghost giving you Simon to take care of. You know it's because Simon is the safest when he’s with you. You know because, every night before he has to leave again, Simon vows to go wherever you are when he thinks you’re asleep. When Ghost walks out the door and closes it behind him, you know it’s Ghost that will be returning home, not Simon. And that’s because Simon never left, he’s right there with you. Everywhere you go.

Simon content pre-write 2.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost simon riley #cod ghost #ghost cod #cod headcanons #cod x reader #cod mwii #simon riley headcanons #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost headcanons #cod mw2

[x-reader-theater]

Breaking and Entering {1}

summary: Someone breaks into your flat through the window, and you don't have enough energy left to care.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Gender Neutral!Reader

word count: 1801

warnings: The Reader is described as having depression and suicidal ideations. Nothing is done about it, but it's very obvious so if you don't think you can handle that please do not read.

a/n: this is also going to be a series, but i have no idea how long it's going to take to finish it or how long it's gonna be. also if you haven't seen, my requests are open and you can find my request rules here.

Breaking and Entering Series: {Chapter 1}, {Chapter 2}, (You can also use the tag #breaking and entering series as well if you don't want to use links)

It was supposed to be a normal night. Lonely. Depressed. It was going to be the perfect terrible night.

So of course someone had to ruin it.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, about to disassociate and share at the wall across from you for eight hours, when you have to go back to work, when you hear a loud crash coming from beside you.

“Shit!” you exclaim, jumping back and over the back of your chair, stumbling over it and smacking the back of your head on your old wooden floors.

“Shit,” you hear a low, gravely voice say from where the smashing sound came from.

Your vision is blurry for a moment, but it clears as you see a skull leaning over you. The skull talks, but your ears have started ringing, subsiding right as he finishes talking.

“What?” you ask, dazed and probably a lot more calm for someone who just had a floating skull smash through what was probably their window, but you’re too dazed right now to really care.

“I said,” the heavily accented skull says and as your vision clears, you see the skull isn't actually floating, but is attached to a body covered in what looks to be some sort of tactical gear. “Sit up. I want to have a look at your head.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you say, before slowly sitting up. The man holds out his arm, and you feel his hand on your back push you up as well. He shifts, so he’s looking at the back of you, and you stare forward at the wall, trying to get your senses back.

“I don't see a wound,” the man mumbles, probably just intended for himself, but you definitely heard. You’re just too shocked to say anything. The man sits in front of you again, his hand still on your back as he pulls out what looks to be a pen light. He holds it up in front of your eyes, and you move away from it, but he reaches out with the hand holding the light and places it gently on your cheek, pushing your head, so it’s facing you again. “Stay still.” Gus gruff voice is contradictory to how gentle he's handling you right now. “I need to look at your pupillary response.”

You try to sit still, though you still jump at the bright light. He flashes the light in your eye and away and back again a couple of times, moving onto the second one and doing the same, before finally clicking it off again. You sigh in relief.

“Response looks good, but you should probably have someone monitor you in case something happens,” the man says. “Does anyone else live here?”

“No,” you say, probably unwisely but, again, you’re exactly sound of mind right now.

“Do you have anyone you can call? A friend or a neighbour? Someone who might stay with you and take care of you?”

You shake your head, but instantly regret it as it causes a lance of pain to shoot through your skull. You hiss and clutch at your temple.

“Careful,” the man admonishes, his voice gentler than it has been. “You don't have anyone?”

“No,” you say, watery and thick with building mucus. You blink a few times to drive the tears back as you are suddenly faced with how lonely you really are.

The man hums, but doesn’t say anything more, instead opting to ask, “What’s your name?”

You wipe at your eyes to get any stray tears and say with a tight throat, “[Y/N]. What about you?”

“You can call me Ghost,” is all he says.

You chuckle. “Terrifying,” you mock. You think you hear a laugh coming from the man, but underneath that skull mask you can’t tell. You get up and walk over to the freezer, grabbing a Ziplock bag you left on the counter a little while ago. You fill the baggie with ice before walking back over to the table and flipping the chair back onto its feet before sitting down again. Pressing the ice to the back of your head, you wince as you ask, “What are you anyways? What are you doing in my flat?”

“It's classified,” Ghost says.

“Ooooooooooooh,” you draw out, nodding. “You're military, aren't ya?” When the man doesn’t answer, you make a clicking sound with your teeth. “Right. Classified.”

“I could be a murderer,” the man says suddenly.

“I mean, so could I,” you say, just as cryptically as he did. “Besides. If you really are in the military like I totally think you are, you probably have killed people so, you’re probably right that you’re a murderer. But I’m also not a soldier so if you did kill me that would be like, some sort of violation of something, right? If not totally illegal,” you ramble, using your one free arm to gesture wildly as you talk.

“Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” Ghost asks finally after you take a pause.

You stare at him, taken aback by the question before saying, “Uh, aha… you could say that my will to live is currently… wilted, at the moment.”

Ghost stares at you for a long moment, for several moments even, and you fidget underneath his gaze. When you glance at his eyes, you see they’re a deep brown, almost black, ringed with black eye makeup to conceal anything that could give away his identity, you guess.

When he finally speaks again, he says, “Maybe you could use a friend right now.”

You stare at him blankly, and say, “Yes, I want the masked soldier man who broke through my window to be my friend…”

“Do you have much of a choice otherwise?” Ghost asks and your mouth clicks shut with a clack of your teeth. You look away, dropping the hand with the ice and wrapping your arms around your body.

“Why are you doing this to me?” you ask, finally raising your eyes and catching Ghost’s stare.

“Because I’ve been you,” he states plainly. “You’re better off alive than dead.”

The way he says it so plainly, in a way you’ve never heard before, it makes your heart thud in your chest, like it hasn't beat for so long that no it finally is, it has to work in overdrive to pump blood through your veins. You've gotten the pitying glances, you’ve felt the patronising slaps on the shoulder, and you’ve heard the infuriating “It will get better soon” speeches.

But this six foot, masked, most likely military, stranger, telling you he was just like you? Somehow, that's what makes you have a little hope. Because he’s still here.

“There must be something wrong with you to want to be friends with someone whose window you just crashed through,” you judge, putting the ice back against your head.

Ghost sighs but gets up, going to your oven and grabbing the tea towel. He walks back over to you and gently pries the baggie of ice from your hand, wrapping it up in the towel and placing it back on the back of your head, moving your hand, so it’s placed on top of his before he slips his hand out from under yours. “I think there’s always been something a little wrong with me,” he says, and you look up at him standing over you, that white skull with brown eyes looking down and through you. You expect him to say something serious, but instead he says, “I’m wearing a fuckin’ mask, there’s obviously something wrong with me.”

You stare at him for a moment before bursting out laughing, wrapping your free arm around your stomach as you howl out laughter, probably more laughter than the situation required, but you just can’t stop. Eventually you suck in large lungfuls of air, hiccuping as you try and catch your breath, wiping your eyes for the second time today, but this time for a different reason.

When you catch your breath, you look over at Ghost who has sat down again, and you see his eyes are crinkled and his shoulders and bouncing up and down, and you realise he’s laughing as well.

You watch as he laughs, realising he’s been tense since the moment he got here. Now, he seems relaxed and open. You can see the laughter in his eyes before he closes them and throws his head back in bliss. This, human connection, laughing with someone else, just being near someone who doesn’t hate you, you think it could help fix you. Maybe not entirely, you’ll need more help for that, therapy and maybe some drugs, but having someone else, it could really help you.

And you don’t want to lose that.

“Will you come back?” you ask while Ghost is still laughing. He takes a moment to catch his breath, steadying himself again.

“When I’m in town, I’ll stop by,” he says, his voice sounding inhumanly steady after laughing so hard for so long. The control he has over himself makes him even more alluring.

You smile and nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.” You feel your eyes begin to get heavy, and you ask, “Is it okay for me to sleep?”

Ghost nods. “You don’t have a concussion. But I’ll stay until I have to go.”

“No one’s going to follow you here, right?” you ask, laying your head down on the table and placing the towel-wrapped bag of ice on the table next to your face.

Ghost chuckles guiltily. “No, I think before I smashed through your window, I lost them.”

“Why did you crash through my window?” you ask, fading off to sleep.

“I slipped,” you hear Ghost’s low voice mumble as it lulls you to sleep.

When you wake up the next morning, Ghost is gone. In his place there’s a small sticky note like the ones in a drawer in your kitchen, a pen that looks like it’s from that drawer as well. Probably because it is from that drawer, you realise as you rub your eyes to try and get them to work again. When they finally clear a little more, you see that the sticky note is a lot bigger than it should be. Grabbing it and pulling it towards you, you see there’s money folded neatly underneath it. Unfolding it, you see a couple hundred dollars, and on the note it says, “Sorry for your window.”

Looking over at the window, you see Ghost has patched up the window temporarily with a rubbish bag and some tape. You have no idea how he could have slipped and fallen into your seventh story flat, but you also don’t really care. You clutch the note to your chest with a smile, the first real smile you’ve felt in years.

#my work #my writing #reader insert #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost #cod ghost #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x gender neutral reader #simon ghost riley x gender neutral reader #breaking and entering series

[lacroixwh0r3]

Watch me, Touch me (part 2)

Neighbor!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You've been avoiding Bucky after that night, but he isn't ready to let you go yet.

Part 1

Warnings: SMUT!!!, unprotected sex, creampie, spit, orgasm denial, dry humping, clothes ripping, alcohol usage, petnames (doll, honey, etc.), rough sex, mentions of exhibitionism/voyeurism, and teasing

Song inspo (feel free to listen if you want):

A/N: I am sooo freaking sorry for being gone for so long...I barely had a break this summer because I was taking classes and this is my final year in college (thank god!). But I will definitely try to write more when I can. Also I am so sorry about the errors in the first part...I did not read over it but I'll fix any errors when I get a chance lol. Anyway, ENJOY<3

"God, how long is this going to take?" I asked myself out loud as I impatiently waited for the papers to come out of the printer so that I could get home before the storm started. I'll be damned if I have to walk home during a storm in a skirt and heels.

Once my papers were done printing, I sped to my desk with my head down to avoid anyone speaking to me. That was until I felt my phone vibrate in my hand. I stop to check it and see that it's Bucky, once again asking if he did anything wrong.

I just sigh and shut off my phone before heading to my desk again.

It's been weeks since Bucky and I last spoke to each other.

After that night, we only spoke for a week until I realized I was getting too attached to him. I didn't want to end up with a broken heart because he seemed like an amazing guy, handsome, and his dick was like, really big.

I dropped the papers off at my desk, slipped on my jacket, and ran to the elevator. Once I was finally in, I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the elevator walls, feeling exhausted. I wanted to do nothing more than just go to sleep right now.

I hear the elevator ding, indicating that it was going to stop for someone else. As it comes to a complete stop, I hear the sound of the doors opening, and someone walks on.

"Hello," a familiar voice says to me, causing my eyes to shoot open and me to jerk my head to where the familiar voice came from. Right in front of me was Bucky. He went to press the button for the floor he wanted, but I guess we were going to the same place.

Once he noticed that I was looking at him, he looked back at me, and his eyes widened at the sight of me in front of him.

"Y-y/n? "You work here?" He inquired, surprised that I was present.I break eye contact with him and look at the front of the elevator.

"Uh, yeah, I do," I simply reply, not wanting to look at him right now.For a moment, it was awkward, and for the next 40 seconds, which felt like hours, we both made it to the lobby of the building.

As soon as the doors opened, I dashed out of the elevator as I heard the sound of Bucky behind me. "Hey, Y/n! "Wait a minute, can we talk?" Bucky pleaded with me. The two doormen open the large doors as I quickly run out of the lobby, bidding them a quick "thank you" and "see you later" as I ignore Bucky.

As soon as I make it out the door, the rain instantly blinds me, causing me to almost run into a jogger. However, Bucky's vibranium hand quickly grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his body before I could run into the person. "You need to watch out," Bucky says to me as we both stand in the rain, pressed against each other. "You could've gotten hurt badly, y/n." He whispered. Just hearing the way he said my name made me weak in the knees.

"Sorry..." I mumble as I try to avoid his hard gaze.

"How about I take you--"

"NO!" I said this before he could even finish his sentence. I can't be alone with him.

"It's raining, yes," he pleads with me. "I know you're avoiding me right now, but please let me take you home?" I let out a sigh and looked at him only to find him already staring at me with large, hopeful eyes.

"Please?" He begs again.

I finally give in, not wanting to leave him hanging even more.

"Fine," I say to him. I really hope I don't regret this.

"Thank you, my car is just up the street. We should start walking fast." He tugs at my arm as he begins to walk in the direction of the car. He was still tugging on my arm as I tried to keep up with him, but due to the wet clothes on my body and my uncomfortable heels, it was too hard.

Finally, we make it to what I assume is his car. He lets go of my arm to dig into his back pocket to get the keys to the car. I reach out my arm to open the door, but he beats me to it and opens it for me.I just shake my head and give him a look of disapproval.

"Thanks, Bucky," I say to him as I slip into the expensive car. As soon as he closed the passenger door, I looked around the spotless car and noticed the clean leather seats, cringing at the fact that they were probably going to be ruined now because of our wet clothes. Bucky finally gets in the car and instantly presses the button to start it up.

It was silent as Bucky made his way towards our apartment. I decided to speak up and lessen the awkward silence by saying, "I am so freaking sorry about messing up your nice seats." I say to him as I look over at him with a guilty look. He looked so good while driving with that concentrated look on his beautiful face that it made me clench my legs even harder.

"No, it's fine," she says.He takes his eyes off the road for a slight moment and looks into my eyes and down at my legs as my skirt goes farther up my thighs, but he quickly looks back at the road and clears his throat.

I swear, for a split second, there was a look in his eyes that could bring any person to their knees. In order to contain myself, I bite my bottom lip and look out the window. I was afraid I might say or do something I'd regret later. My mind then starts to drift off to the first time I "met" Bucky.

I soon snapped out of my daydreaming when I realized that we were sitting in the slightly dark parking garage at our apartment complex and Bucky was calling my name.

"Y/n? "Are you okay?" Bucky asked me with a concerned look on his face once I snapped my head towards him. I just nodded my head, still not trusting myself to speak.

"Are you sure, doll?"  "You were squirming in your seat for a while," he said, making my face flush with embarrassment. He was watching me get turned on the entire time I was thinking about the time we both watched each other through the window.

"Um yeah, I was just thinking about something—work!" "You know how work gets." I let out an awkward laugh, trying to get off the topic quickly. Bucky lets out a small hum and chuckles a bit as he looks at me and turns the car off, almost like he knows what I am actually thinking about.

He most definitely knew what I was thinking about, but I would never admit it out loud.

We both get out of the car and begin walking to the elevator. "Thanks for the ride, Bucky," I say softly as I give him a weak smile, causing him to smile back and brush his fingers through his long locks.

"Anytime, sweet girl," our stroll returned to silence, but not before he asked me a question."Do you want to come over for a drink?"

When he noticed my hesitation, he quickly clarified that it was only one drink and I was free to say no if I didn't want to. Even though I knew I should've said no, I still agreed.

Soon, we arrive at the door of his apartment. He quickly scrambles for his keys, unlocks the door, and pushes the door open. He allows me to go first and closes the door behind himself. Surprisingly enough, the apartment was one of the cleanest places I've been to.

"Your place is so clean, Bucky, I'm a little shocked," I say to him jokingly as I look around the apartment that was slightly the same as mine. I see him snap his head towards me as he drops his keys on the countertop.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, Y/N?" Bucky lets out a laugh.

"I'm kidding," I reassured him. "Your place is one of the cleanest places I've ever seen."

He lets out a hum in response.

"So, I have red wine or some whiskey. Which one do you want?" He asks me as he looks into my eyes and leans against his arms on the countertop.

The dim light and the way he looked at me right now made me want to climb up and let him have his way with me, but I resisted the urge.

"Hmm, you pick." He bites his lip and turns around to grab the glasses. He grabs one wine glass and another short glass for the whiskey, which I would assume is for him. He sits them down and begins to pour the drinks for them.

"Here you go, sweetheart," he says to me as he hands me the wine glass. I felt my heart beat out of my chest due to the nickname and our fingertips touching as he handed me the glass.

"Thank you, Buck." I spoke to him softly.

"Of course," he says before taking a quick sip of his whiskey. "How about we have a seat, hmm?" Bucky leads me to the couch.

I put my drink down and plopped down on the couch so that I was facing him. We both sat there for a minute just looking at each other until a smile slowly crept onto his face, causing us both to laugh.

After a couple of seconds, we both begin to cool down, and he immediately asks me the question I've been avoiding. "Why haven't you answered my calls or texts, Y/N?" His face was now laced with concern.

"Was it something I did?" He followed up.

"Bucky, "It was nothing you did that caused me to stop responding," I sighed."I just didn't want to get attached in case you didn't want anything to do with me."

I look down, but he quickly grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Y/n, I would never lead you on." He reassures me as he searches my face and strokes my chin with his thumb.

"After that first night with you, I knew I needed to have more of you." He bites his lip once more, which causes my eyes to focus on his lips.

"Do you understand me?" Bucky asked me sternly. I just let out a hum, but I guess that wasn't enough for him because his grip on my chin got more firm. "Words baby."

"Yes, Bucky," I whisper back to him. At this point, I wanted to climb into his lap and fuck him into oblivion. I needed him.

"Good girl." He was now looking at my lips as his thumb swiped across my bottom lip.

The sexual tension was out of control, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to control myself much longer.

He suddenly pulls me onto his lap, causing me to let out a yelp. I could feel his cock pushing against my pussy through my tights as I was sitting right on top of it. I knew he could feel the warmth of my pussy due to his cock stirring in his pants and his thighs slightly flexing as he pushed his hips against me to get more friction.

"Did I do this to you, Bucky?" I whisper in his ear as my breathing gets heavier. I feel his lips slowly ghosting down my neck.

"Fuck yes, Y/n." He lets out a breathy whisper, causing me to shiver. I feel his hands move down my back and stop on my ass.

He pushes me down farther as he grinds against me. I could feel my puss pulsing. I needed him right now. I've been craving him, and now that I have him, I'm not sure I can let go.

He kisses my neck softly as we both let out gentle low moans and dry hummed each other like teenagers.

"Bucky-shit—I need you in me right now, baby," I whined out to him as I threw my head back in euphoria.

"Yeah? "Are you going to be a fucking good girl for me?" He grunted as he left his hand up and quickly brought it down to spank my ass.

"Ye-oh, my god!"

"What was that doll?" He spanks my ass once more as he waits for my reply.

"Fuck, yes, Bucky!" I moan out loudly. "I'll be your good girl, only for you."

"Only for me?" Bucky whispers in my ear, causing me to push my pussy down on him more and to clench around nothing.

"Only you, Bucky." I say as I bite down harshly on my lip. He grabs the back of my neck and pushes down on my ass as he flips us over so I'm laying on my back on the sofa and he's sitting between my legs.

Bucky bunches my skirt up some more so that he has better access to my pussy. He then rips my thin tights and rips my underwear, which were apparently too flimsy.

"Bucky!" I let out a gasp, getting ready to scold him because he ripped my underwear, but I was quickly interrupted by my own moans as he brought his rough yet soft fingers down on my clit and slowly began to rub it in small, gentle circles.

"I'm sorry, baby, I needed to get to this pretty little pussy fast." Bucky says as he leans in for a rough kiss. All I could do was moan into his mouth.

However, he suddenly pulls away from the kiss and removes his fingers from my clit. I let out a small whine out of frustration.

"I'm sorry, baby, I know you're wet already, but I'm going to need to get you even more wet." He says this as he brings his fingers up to his mouth and spits onto the tips of his fingers. Bucky then rubs the spit-covered fingers onto my clit as I let out a loud sob of pleasure. I know I'm loud right now, but I couldn't help it.

"You like this, huh?" He looks up at me with his beautiful eyes as he keeps himself up with a metal arm. "You like it when I please you like this, darling?"

"Fuck, Buck. Yes more!" I let out a groan.

"I'll give you more doll, but can you take them?" He teased me as he continued to play with me. I whine again as I pull his head close to my chest.

"Who am I kidding? I know you can, my little whore, isn't that right?" All I could do was just nod my head. I couldn't even form words at this very moment.

He suddenly stops once again and says, "Bucky." I moan loudly, becoming more and more frustrated as he teases me. This time, he jumps off the couch and stands on top of me, unbuckling his pants.I could now see the outline of his thick, erect cock through his boxers.

Bucky then pulls down his boxers too. His cock springs out as it is released, causing me to gasp. Even though I had seen it before, touched it, sucked it, and had it in me, I was still shocked by his size. He chuckles at my reaction.

"Oh, baby, don't be shocked now. I know you can take it just like the other times, right?" He chuckles and lets out another beautiful moan as he begins to stroke it slowly. The way his arm flexed as his hand moved back and forth on his cock while his metal arm stroked his torso made me even more wet.

"Buck baby, please—I need you in me now," I beg him as my hands inch down to my pussy. The ache inside me only grew stronger and stronger, and I had to relieve it somehow.

"Fine, baby, since you've been good." Bucky says as he spits on his plump, pink lips.He climbs between my legs and pushes my legs open so that I am exposed to him. I could feel his thick, warm cock rub against my pussy. We both let out loud moans.

"You're getting me so wet already, baby, and I'm not even inside you yet." As he continues to thrust his tongue between my lips, he says. "Do you like it when I do this, hmm, doll?" Bucky looked at me before lifting his shirt and biting his lip at the lewd view. I decided to look down too and was met with the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Oh Bucky, look at us, baby." I breathe out. He moans in response and continues his thrust, but once he goes back, I decide to reach between us and guide his cock into me. We both let out loud, sharp gasps once he thrust in again. I felt myself stretch around his length.

"Holy fuck!" He moans as he slowly thrusts into and out of me.Bucky decides to lift both of my legs and push them up as his strokes begin to go faster.

"Oh my god, Bucky," I almost yelled out. "You feel so fucking good, so fucking deep inside me!" This only encouraged him to go even faster. I felt as though his balls slapped against my ass, causing a loud sound of our skin meeting together. He bent down and attacked my lips with his. Both of our tongues moved against each other as he let out a few grunts here and there in the kiss as I whimpered.

I sucked at his bottom lip, but he jerked back, looking down, and pulled up his sweatshirt, which had felt down his chiseled abs. His once perfectly slicked back hair was now unkempt. I had begun to feel my pussy clench down on him tighter as that familiar feeling that we both were chasing got closer. I was ready to release.

"Baby, I'm about to come!" I moan out as I throw my arms above my head, unsure of what to do with them at that moment.

"Yeah? You're going to cum for me, good girl?" He asked me teasingly.

"Yes-Fuck Bucky!" I moan and close my eyes, ready to release, but I guess Bucky had other plans because he pulled out of me before I could even complain.

This dirty motherfucker

"Hmm, I'm not so sure, dirty girl..." He lets out the sexiest laugh as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock. He pushes my legs up again with his metal arm and begins to flick the tip of his cock against my clitoral. I was becoming overwhelmed by the feeling.

"Bucky, what are you doing to me? Oh my god!" I moan. I reached around my thighs as I tried to get him to slow down his fast motions. He then pushed inside of me again, but this time he had gripped the back of my thighs as he roughly gripped me. I couldn't even breathe at this point—all of my senses were overwhelmed.

Bucky was concentrated as he thrust into me hard, never making a single sound as he looked deeply into my eyes. The loud clapping sounds could be heard throughout the whole apartment, most likely in the hallway too. The thought of someone hearing us only turned me on more.

I opened my mouth to let out a moan, but nothing came out. His thrust never slowed down, causing beads of sweat to begin to form and roll down the side of his face.

This was a different side of Bucky I had ever seen; there was almost something animalistic about him right now. That didn't frighten me though...I only wanted more.

His grip on my thighs tightened as he got closer to coming. "Are you going to cum for me, big boy? Hmm?" I moaned. He didn't respond to me, but he began to let out deep moans. His thrusts started to get sloppy as his orgasm got closer.

He lets go of my thighs and leans his body onto mine so he can kiss my neck. The sensation of his breath hitting my next, his cock repeatedly hitting my spot...I knew that I was going to cum. As he came inside me hard, he let out the loudest moan I've ever heard from him. This caused my orgasm to hit me like a truck.

"Oh my god, I'm fucking cumming Bucky," I moan as I pull him closer to me by his hair.

"You're cumming all over me, pretty girl." He moans into my ear. We were both cumming together at this point and loudly moaning. I feel his hot soup begin to fill me up. His body shook and hardened against mine as he reached his release. My pussy clenched even tighter around his cock.

"Do you like cumming around this cock as I feel you up?" Yeah?" He kissed my neck some more as he was coming down from his orgasm. I just whimpered and nodded my head as I was coming down from my orgasm too. I couldn't speak even if I tried. His hips were now slowly moving until he decided to stop and just lay on top of me.

We both sat there in silence for a little bit, as his cock was still in me. Bucky then finally decided to pull out, causing us both to gasp, and he looked down at my pussy as his cum slowly leaked out of me.

"Doll, look at you. My messy cum is leaking out of that beautiful pussy." He almost coos at me as his finger tips gently swipe the cum back inside me.

I decided to sit up and stare at the handsome man in front of me. I felt like I was glowing, like I could be whatever with Bucky.

He looks up at me as I stare at him, causing him to tilt his head like a lost puppy. "Are you okay, honey?" He asked me with a concerned look on his face.

"Of course I am Buck; I was just looking at how handsome you are." I smile at him sweetly wanting to do nothing more than sit there and cuddle with him on his comfy couch. His cheeks began to get red as he blushed and looked back at me with a shy look.

I made Bucky flustered. This causes my heart to flutter against my chest.

"Aww, thank you, honey. You look amazing right now too." Bucky tells me as he leans forward to kiss my head and pinches my cheek afterwards.

"Come on, let's go get in the shower and get some food after. Does that sound good to you?" He asked me as he climbed off the couch and reached for my hand.

"That sounds great, handsome." I grab his hand, and he begins to lead us to his bathroom.

#bucky barnes smut #winter soldier smut #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x f!reader #smut #bucky fanfic #the winter soldier #female reader #civil war! bucky #reader insert #sebastian stan #Spotify

[anonymous-dentist]

Day Seven - Soulmates

-

Soulmates, as everyone knows, share each other's pain. Bruises, scrapes, broken bones. Fevers, infections. Anything, everything. Nothing physical is left behind, just. Pain.

Roier kinda thinks it's all bullshit. There's all sorts of philosophy attached to it, like the idea that sharing pain is supposed to bring you and your soulmate together, but that idea doesn't really matter when you don't even know who your soulmate is. It's just pain for the sake of pain, and it's absolutely ridiculous, and he kinda hates it.

...But maybe Roier is biased, just a little. His soulmate, whoever they are, is either the most accident-prone person on the planet, or they've been a soldier since Roier was still in middle school. After years and years of constant aches and pains and bruises and fucking stab wounds right through the stomach and gunshots fired through the shoulder and the throat, Roier's tired.

Roier doesn't hate his soulmate. He probably loves them, actually; he started working out in middle school just so he could grow up into a strong enough man to be able to protect his soulmate the way they deserved. He just also thinks it's kind of bullshit that he and his soulmate have to share this much without not knowing who each other is.

"It's just kind of ridiculous, you know?" he asks.

"I guess," Cellbit hesitantly agrees.

Cellbit, unlike Roier, seems pretty into the whole soulmate thing. He doesn't think he has one, but he likes the idea of people being able to find someone special just for them that they can love and who will love them back. Sharing pain, to Cellbit, is the same as sharing a warm cup of coffee on a cold winter's morning: it's just something that people who love each other do.

Roier sighs, but he doesn't say anything else, mostly because he's decided he kinda likes Cellbit and he doesn't want to lose him before he can work up the nerve to ask him over for, like. Dinner. Or sex.

Tonight, they're side-by-side in sleeping bags on the deck of their newly-claimed Base Guapita. The kids are asleep inside, and Cellbit's hands are rough and red from an afternoon spent putting up the communications tower. He's half asleep, but Roier is wide awake and staring at the stars and trying to connect them into something meaningful.

Cellbit is... nice. He's nice. Him and Roier got off on the wrong foot, and he kinda super needs to shower more often, but he's sweet, and he has a cute smile when he deigns to show it. His eyes are breathtaking. His hands are big. His arms are covered in too many scars to count, and so is what little of his chest and neck he shows beneath his button-up and vest.

(Roier remembers waking up screaming a week or so ago and immediately checking his arms to make sure he wasn't the one getting fucking shredded with- with something. Bobby ran downstairs to check on him, and he got to the bottom floor just in time to watch Roier pass out as his soulmate died and had to respawn.

The day after that, Roier idly watched as Cellbit and Felps argued in the corner of his garden. He couldn't catch much of what they were saying, but the scars on Cellbit's arms were new, maybe.

Maybe...)

In the end, it's Cellbit who continues the conversation:

"If I do have a soulmate," he murmurs, voice slurred from exhaustion and muffled slightly by his pillow, "I kind of feel bad for them."

"Mm?"

Absently, Cellbit rolls onto his back, his arms falling on top of the sleeping bag's outer layer. One hand brushes along the largest of the opposite arm's scars.

Ah.

"Nah, it's probably fine," Roier says. He adjusts himself so that he's laying on his side facing Cellbit with his hand propping his head up. "Aren't you the guy who thinks sharing pain is romantic and stuff?"

"It isn't romantic," Cellbit scoffs. "It's pain. Nobody should have to go through it."

"Or maybe nobody should have to go through it alone. Isn't that what all this soulmate shit is about?"

Cellbit glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "I thought you didn't believe in soulmates."

"What?" Roier gasps, dramatically offended. "No! Of course I do! I just don't get all that philosophical stuff. Like, what's the point of sharing pain if you don't know who you're sharing with, you know?"

"Because it's what people who love each other do."

Roier snaps with a grin. "There you go! You and your soulmate love each other, so you want to share each other's pain. Right?"

Cellbit hums, "Or maybe he just wants to stop it."

Oh. "'He'? Do you-"

Cellbit cuts him off with a shake of the head: "No, I don't. I just know he would be a he. I'm not, ah..."

Oh, shit.

Roier knows Cellbit well enough by now to know when he doesn't want to elaborate on something, so he offers a cheerful, "Cool!", before going quiet again.

Then:

"I hope you find him, man," Roier says. He sits up and pats Cellbit on the shoulder with a smaller, more genuine smile. "I know he's out there."

Cellbit watches him warily. "I'm not even sure if he exists."

"Nah, he does. And I'd better get to be your best man, okay? If not, I'm stealing your husband."

Cellbit snorts quietly, lips quirking up into a half-smile. "Of course, guapito."

"Good." Roier nods, and he settles back into his sleeping bag. His bones, as usual, are aching. His hands burn, and he doesn't know what the hell his soulmate has been up to today, but he's going to make them start wearing gloves when he finds them.

He flops onto his opposite side, and then he screeches as his arm impales itself on the pointy end of an exposed screw.

"Chinga su madre-" he swears, scrambling out of his sleeping bag to dig up the hammer he and Cellbit were using earlier when they were renovating the airship.

Cellbit sits up, eyes wide. "Guapito? What happened?"

Roier slams his hammer into the screw in response with an irritated, pained, "Fucking nail got me in the arm, what the fuck?"

He turns his attention back to the floorboards, turning his sleeping bag over to inspect the rest of the floor for any loose nails.

(He does not notice Cellbit's face pale as he raises a shaky hand to his own arm, right where the screw had hit Roier. He looks from Roier's bleeding arm to his own, and a faint, excited, surprised, terrified smile crosses his face, and a blush paints itself across his nose and cheeks, and he has to cover his mouth to keep himself from letting out the happiest little squeal possible.)

#a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose. #spiderbit #guapoduo

[alphabetboyluvr]

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

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #jk ff #jungkook masterlist #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook smut #bts fanfic #boxer!jungkook #mafia!jungkook #throttle #byholly #jungkook fluff #angst #smut #jungkook x y/n

[slocumjoe]

I've said before that the synth thing would work better with a McCarthyism allegory, but for Danse specifically, its so similar to autism that it has to be intentional??

Like. The thing that really solidified that Danse in particular is just straight up about autism is Piper's line in Blind Betrayal. Paraphrased, it goes something like, "I mean...yeah, of course he's a synth. It was kind of obvious, wasn't it? I mean, have you heard him talk?"

The autism accent is a concept that seems to be popping up more recently, but its a real thing, and in my own experience, everyone in my life has been able to clock that there was something different about me from my speech. People thought it was weird that I used "adult" words as a kid, and was very technical and exact when speaking. I was often mistaken as being from places like Brooklyn because I had a weird affectation to my voice.

And there's just. This fucking line. "Have you heard him talk?". Piper is also the person who clicked McDonough as a synth. It's worth noting that McDonough and Danse both use words like "rabble".

But seriously.

Danse goes through his life being respected for his work ethic, intelligence, and strong sense of duty and morals, but he never really bonds with anyone, he doesn't make friends. He's respected, not liked. People want to work with him, but the best they have to say about him is about his work. He makes one single friend in his entire life, and never tries again after that guy dies. And no one tries to befriend him. He's their brother. He's not their friend. And he takes his job too seriously as a commanding officer to attempt emotional connection. He apologizes for overstepping on the few occasions he does.

He talks like a thesaurus, and no one is sure if its to sound smarter, or if that's just genuinely how he thinks. It's strongly implied to be the latter. He's incredibly knowledgeable and passionate about various topics. He sounds like a kid on Christmas when you risk life and limb cracking open a vault that's supposed to have riches, but instead, just has some historical items. He throws his Brotherhood prejudice away the moment he finds a farm run by ghouls that uses pre-war structures in a creative way, and scolds you if you do the Brotherhood thing and insult them. He also seemingly forgets that he's in the Brotherhood when meeting a child ghoul, that kid's parents, a shy, insecure ghoul who clings to children's media (despite Danse finding children's entertainment stupid and a waste of time), and Daisy.

And then there's the synth thing.

Danse has always been Danse, but one little word gets attached to him and his life turns upside down. His work ethic is no longer a work ethic, it's viewed as a perversion. His intelligence and manner of speech are no longer of his own merit and education he had to have given himself, they become inevitable, things he had no say in. His existence is both erased and explained by one word, and anything else is irrelevant or in question. People who once respected him want nothing to do with him, because this one word puts him in a context they find unnatural, corrupted, inhuman. There's even something there with the Institute. Autism is (incorrectly) associated with vaccines, the government, science gone wrong. It's a man-made horror.

And then you have the people he gets lumped in with, after being thrown out for this one word. They take schadenfreude in it. This is comeuppance, this is deserved. This one word, something they take pride in or have sympathy for and want to protect, suddenly becomes weaponized. It's a source of pride for others, but for this one person, we're going to use it as punishment. You weren't with us from the start, so now you really are on your own. It's not that there isn't a right way to be this one word, it's just that there's a wrong way, and even if you change accordingly, you will never belong with the rest of us.

Its. Autism is about exclusion, from everyone and everything. Always being an outsider, often too polite or nervous or jaded to even bother looking in. And at every point in Danse's life he didn't belong. He was a rogue synth, so he didn't belong in the Institute. He naturally thrives as a soldier, so he didn't belong as a junk seller in Rivet City. He was a synth and considerably more kind and compassionate than the rest of the BOS, so he didn't belong there. And because he was a BOS soldier and is still working out some bad traits after his exile, he isn't welcomed by the people who he was thrown to. Everywhere he goes, there's a big neon sign over his head that changes to whatever word will ward off everyone around him and he's so used to it, the thing that makes him angriest about being a synth is that he doesn't even have parents. He doesn't even have that connection to the world, of being born into it. There is nothing he can connect himself to beyond the Institute (which he hates) and the Brotherhood (which, if he continues to connect himself to, will drive him to suicide out of sense of duty, and he already agreed to not do that)

Its just. His entire story is one of absolute isolation and the final dickpunch of "You've always hated yourself, right? Good news, here's a reason to kill yourself that's professional and won't illicit pity from your peers, so no one will judge you for doing it or grieve you."

#fallout 4 #fo4 #paladin danse #gettin emosh with the babygirl this fine evening #always sobbing about how Hancock hates Danses fucking guts but not as much as he hates Danse laying down and accepting death #theyre such similar people its just that Hancock has finished his first arc of bettering himself. he just hasnt worked thru the guilt #and self hatred #meanwhile danse only gets the realization hes been an ass and needs to change. he never hits act 2 or 3 #because of shit writing

[peterman-spideyparker]

my tears ricochet (Matt Murdock x fem!Reader) 3/5

Author’s Note: Hi! This part is more angst, I’m sorry. I promise things will turn up eventually! I wouldn't put everyone through all this angst for nothing! Enjoy!

Summary: You're alive, but barely. Matt blames himself.

Warnings: Angst, unresolved feelings, canon-typical violence, vague wound descriptions/unconsciousness, friends arguing, post-season two/pre-Defenders era Matt, swearing

Other Characters: Foggy Nelson

Word Count: 1,193

Matt’s thankful for every beep on the monitor that he hears, but he can’t help but hate it. The robotic, cold monotone mocks him. It announces his shortcomings, his failures. He wasn’t strong enough, fast enough, good enough to save you or Elektra that night. Elektra’s dead, and the doctors aren’t exactly sure where you stand. You made it through surgery, a long surgery, but there was a lot of trauma and blood loss. A waiting game, they said. He’s always hated that phrase. Nothing attached to those words has ever been fun, only painful. And now it’s attached to you and your life. 

He remembers when he first met you at Columbia. You had walked by him in the hall, your pomegranate and honey shampoo catching his attention. When he went into his next class about a half hour later, you were there, second row to the front, just off center to the right. Matt’s feet led him to the open seat next to you, using his cane to push the guy with the expensive cologne away from the coveted free seat to your right. He gave you a small smile as he sat down, and he could tell you did the same, softly introducing yourself and making small talk until class began. It took you a while to tell him about your family and your background, and he could tell that you were nervous as you did, waiting for some kind of shoe to drop when you finished—maybe that you expected him to ask for money or if you could help him get a job somewhere. You didn’t expect him to appreciate you for you, only what you could potentially do for him. When he gave you a smile and cracked a joke, saying that he still wouldn’t let you pay for ice cream next time you guys walked through Central Park, you let out a little laugh. His heart skipped a beat when he heard that, how your posture relaxed, and when he sensed how you smiled back at him. After that, it was always you, him, and Foggy, and if Foggy wasn't around, Matt would manage to find his way to your side—it was a pace he never wanted to leave. A place that felt like home. Something he hadn’t really felt since his dad died.

But when Matt met Elektra, everything changed and he pushed you away. Part of Matt always thought you’d be there for him—you’re his friend through thick and thin, why wouldn’t you still be there for him? But when that relationship went up in flames and Matt needed refuge to lick his wounds and work through his feelings, you were long gone, tired of waiting for him to come around, hurt by the last person—the only person—that you thought you could really, truly trust. And now you’re here, barely hanging on because you re-entered his life at the wrong time.

He's a real fucking lucky charm, isn't he?

Matt leans back in the uncomfortable hospital chair, letting out a long breath as he lets a new wave of shame roll over him. Foggy puts a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“Two people I love are hurt because of me,” Matt croaks, hanging his head. “Elektra is dead, and (Y/N/N) is barely hanging on.”

“We’d be in worse trouble if you didn’t do any of what you did on the rooftop,” Foggy tries to console him. Matt’s still surprised he’s in the same room as him after how he has treated his best friend and partner. 

“I ruin everything I touch, huh?” He angrily wipes away a tear.

“Matt, this was beyond anything anyone could have imagined. It—.”

“It’s the best if I stay out of all your lives. That way, no one else gets hurt. I won’t let anyone else down.”

“Matt, don’t be obtuse, that’s ridiculous.”

“But it’d be effective.” He sniffles and stands, putting his glasses back on. “It’s the way it has to be. It’s the only way I can keep people safe.”

“So what’s gonna happen when (Y/N/N) wakes up and wants to talk to you? ‘Sorry, he’s ghosting everyone because he’s going full Batman broody.’ She’ll need you—you were with her that night, you’re the only person who knows what kind of trauma she went through—.”

“And that’s exactly why I should leave!” he snaps. “You heard the doctor—she barely had enough blood in her to keep her organs in salvageable when she got here, and the blade absolutely shredded her internally. It barely missed her spinal column. She could have been paralyzed if it was a half inch over. It’s better for everyone if I disappear. She doesn’t have to see me and remember anything from that rooftop or remember everything I’ve done to her.”

“You don’t think she’d think about that without seeing you? And what about when she sees her scars? What about when she needs to talk to someone, to have a shoulder to cry on, because everything from that night haunts her? Who’s she gonna call when she has nightmares? No one knows what she went through but her and you. You can’t leave her alone again.”

“I didn’t leave her the first time.”

“Bullshit. You left. You chose not to stay. You cut her out cold. You weren’t around to see it, but that’s when she changed. That’s when she closed herself off, started to do everything her parents wanted. That’s when she lost herself. It was heartbreaking to watch that, Matt, but you wouldn’t know, because even after Elektra, you didn’t care enough to rebuild that bridge and see the damage you did.”

Matt’s voice is cold and low when he speaks next: “You have no idea how much I cared.”

“You say you care, but you’re so ready to let her suffer alone.”

“You don’t have a goddamn right to say shit like that. She didn’t want to see me.”

“How do you know? Did you try?”

“Foggy—.”

“There was still half of the school year left for you to fix things. You didn’t even try to—.”

“We’re done talking about this.”

“Right. Walking away because it’s easier and because it didn’t go your way. God forbid you actually have to address your feelings!”

“Excuse me?”

“You couldn’t juggle school and Elektra, so you were ready to throw it all away. Hell, you almost did. This time, you couldn't juggle your job and Elektra, so you walked away from the people who needed and relied on you. Now, when that fell apart even further, you’re walking away from the consequences and once more, the people that need you most." Foggy scoffs, venom dripping from his words. "You know what? It is probably best that you’re not here when she wakes up, because if you’re not even the person I called my best friend for years, you’re sure as shit not who she loved in college.” Foggy grabs his things as he walks toward the door, leaving Matt alone with his consequences that weigh him down like cement bricks in the Hudson.

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[kaicubus]

Dating Wayne Headcanons

☆.｡.:*

warnings : violence, physical violence ((not towards reader)), protective wayne, blood, mentions of weapons like knives and guns, mentions of an abusive ex, cursing, sex mentions but nothing explicit.

pairing : fem!reader x wayne mccullough

authors note : STREAM WAYNE ON AMAZON PRIME PLEASE I LOVE THIS EMO BAD BOY WITH MY ENTIRE HEART!!!!!!!

☆.｡.:*

- It really wasn't supposed to go further than a few dates, but after he took you to multiple run down diners and nights spent in vacant parking lots on the curbs with strawberry and vanilla milkshakes, you started developing feelings towards him. Genuine ones.

♡ Before you met him, Wayne had never kissed anyone. You're his first girlfriend so he’s kinda lost when it comes to anything intimate. All he really knows is he wants to be around you constantly and wants to protect you, and that you tend to look cute 10/10 times without fail. Before you came along, no girl would ever think once about getting with Wayne, so he’s also kinda caught off guard when you awkwardly slide your hand into his.

“What are you doing?” He instinctively retracts his hand out of unfamiliarity.

“Holding your hand?” You say.

“What is this — a boyfriend girlfriend thing or a Y/n thing?”

“Both??”

Eventually, he gets the hang of it and really enjoys holding your hand to the point where he forgets that sometimes you're attached to him and will swing his arm inhumanly strong, causing you to practically fly into the air.

With kissing too, he quickly grows fond of the feeling. Once he’s hooked, he can never go back. Even if it’s when you two are hanging out doing nothing, Wayne sneaks a few kisses here and there but it always ends in a full blown make out session to fulfill his attention needs.

♡ Without fail, when Wayne gets in fights, you're there to clean his wounds. Since he doesn't care until you start to worry, you've become accustomed to bringing a few band-aids and alcohol wipes at least on you wherever you go.

“You don't have to do this shit, Y/n.”

You wrap his knuckles with bandages , “Just stay still, ok? I have to clean your face next.”

((He secretly likes it a lot, keep doing it.))

♡ When it comes to showing affection in private, he prefers kissing your lips more than anything; pressing soft kisses against the corners of your mouth, working his way to the middle of your lips like it’s a reward. He also really loves touching the back of your neck and feeling all the wispy baby hairs that hug your skin.

♡ Wayne’s big on physical touch, so much so that if you ever don't give him his daily dose of hugs he gets visibly sluggish, upset, and less tolerant of everybody’s bullshit. In fact if he sees you with someone else touching their arm or hugging them goodbye before you give him a big ol’ smoochie, he’ll walk over and get it himself.

♡ Speaking of jealousy, there’s no way this boy isn't a jealous person. Especially when it comes to you, his literal saving grace, his girlfriend, he sees everyone as a threat. Classmates at school, club members in your after school club, your guy friends, and random people on the street; no one escapes Wayne without getting a death stare or three. If they try anything though, that’s when all hell breaks loose, as well as someones arm.

♡ He’s not an outwardly jealous person though; he won’t throw tantrums and explode on you if he feels insecure about your relationship with a guy. Instead, If Wayne sees a guy flirting with you, he just automatically assumes he doesn't know his place in your life. So without of making a scene, he’ll walk up to you and smugly wrap an arm around your shoulder and stare bullets into the guy before you give him the time of day and pay attention to him.

“Yeah, Wayne?”

“Hm? Oh, nothin’. Who’s this?”

He tries to act intimidating in social settings, but he doesn't have to try hard at all. If anything he’s more of a silent jealous type where he just observes the person and analyzes them completely before knocking their teeth out.

♡ If you show ANY ounce of fear around someone, especially someone doing business with Wayne, his eyes harden and he changes into a human weapon complete with a totally non-lethal bat with nails hammered into it!! He has aimbot.

♡ Even if he is A Wayne, he’s still A guy and is pretty awkward with certain things. Dude will smash a guy’s head out any given time of day on command but gets nervous when he has to buy you pads or tampons because there's just so many of them. Occasionally, he subconsciously cracks a few dirty jokes in between his sentences in hopes he’ll impress you, basically saying ‘hey I  can be funny too, I’m not totally spooky.’ but regardless, you laugh at his jokes which makes him really happy.

♡ Wayne is also like, painfully sweet. He’s trying his best, since it’s all new to him, and you can see that.

“I got you these.” He holds up a small flower bouquet.

“Wayne, these are daisy weeds, fleabane, and white clovers wrapped in wrinkled caution tape. I think there’s a dead bee on this one here.” You stare at the mixture of weeds in his hands.

“Do you like them? I can get you more if you want.”

♡ There’s not a single moment of his day where thinking of you doesn't cross his mind. Wayne will smile, completely smitten with your eyes, your hair and your body. Remember when I said he’s a Wayne but he’s also a guy? Yeah. When he’s not deathly injured or when the two of you aren't running from someone with a gun, free time is spent in the back of a car or on your bed in a heated make out moment.

♡ During sex, his hands are ALL over your body. Mostly your hips and thighs, but he’d be lying if he said he didn't like touching your boobs too.

♡ He has a tendency to ‘accidentally’ leave articles of clothing in your possession in hopes of seeing you wear his shirt or his flannel or his denim jacket throughout the week. Sometimes you find half your closet just stuffed with random t-shirts that weren't there before only to find out they're all Wayne’s. 

♡ Wayne has this really cute habit of spinning you around like you're dancing even if there's no music playing and out of the blue. He thinks that the way your hair sways when you spin is just really pretty and he can’t help but say it too.

“Why do you always spin me around?” You chuckle and rest your arms over his shoulders.

“I just think you look really pretty today.” He grins ear to ear.

“How come you say that every day then?

He shrugs, “How can you be so pretty every day, Y/n?”

#wayne mccullough #wayne #dating wayne #wayne x reader #wayne series #wayne mccullough x reader #wayne headcanons #wayne amazon #wayne mccullough imagine #kaicubus

[akoyaxs]

Dangerous Games - III ✮ Pairing: Aonung x Tayrangi/Omotikaya fem reader (possible Neteyam x reader as well) ✮ Tags: Reader POV, friends with benefits, p in v, aftercare, fluffy fluff fluff, Aonung x Reader, slight Neteyam x reader, reader has intimacy issues (childhood traumaᵕ̈), jealous Aonung, jealous Neteyam <3 ✮ Word Count: 5.4 k PART 1 HERE | PART 2 HERE Note: this (backstory and character dynamic) is heavily based of my wattpad fanfiction "Dangerous Game", it's just a little more mature than I would post on my WP so I'm doing a Aonung x reader part now instead of the Aonung x OC in the fanfiction ˙ᵕ˙

You didn't exactly make a mistake, you know that, yet it's not the best position to be in. On one hand, there's a massive, obnoxiously hot skxawng that is obsessed with you, happy to do anything you like, but on the other, the principal for not giving in to his endless and amused attempts at seduction has dismally failed.

Yet every few days different encounter isn't exactly making you regret your acceptance of his "friends with benefits" offer.

You might get hot from training, or Aonung might be frustrated with his unsuccessful attempts at ikran taming, and suddenly you're finding his head buried hungrily between your legs, or bent over as he's balls deep and roughly thrusting, all the while smoothing your hair and whispering his moaned praise.

You're always careful to not get attached, to never pay too much attention to the sincerity of his words and his surprising gentleness with you when you aren't in the middle of one of your "benefits", but you can never miss it.

It's starting to worry you, the way you're now starting to like the tender touches, the way he brushes your hair out of your face and tells you how well you're doing.

No one has ever been this careful with you, bothered to try at look after you like this. You know it's your fault that you push everyone away, but Aonung is the first to refuse to be pushed away.

He cares, for some inexplicable reason that makes no sense to you. He's infuriatingly stubborn, just like you are.

So weeks after the arrangement began, you begin to notice the other things, things that only mean one thing.

"He really likes you, you know."

"What?" you say, snapping out of your daze and looking up at Kiri, who smiles, her eyes darting to where yours had just been watching Aonung with Rotxo in the river.

You, the three metkayina and the Sullys had taken the day to go to the river so Rotxo, Tsireya and Aonung could swim.

Neteyam looks up from besides you as you frown at Kiri.

"What are you talking about?" you clarify.

"Aonung is obviously down fucking bad for you," Kiri grins. "I mean, he can't ever pull his eyes away from you, and when you aren't around him, he's always looking around to see where you are."

"No he's not," you scoff. "He-"

"Loves you," Neteyam finishes, his face blank and bored, as though he's pointing out the fucking obvious.

"No," you shake your head. "He just had a little thing for me at the start that-"

"Has grown into an unbearable love?" Kiri suggests. "The only question is if that love is unrequited or reciprocated."

"No!" you exclaim, covering your face. "We're just... friends. ish. Friendish."

"Right..." Neteyam says, raising his brows at you. "So you don't fuck."

"That's - that's- no- well, yeah but- I mean NO-"

"Oh Eywa," Kiri says, her incredulous laugh interrupting your awkward, desperate stammers. "You totally do!"

"That's not a big deal," you snap. "He's attractive and it doesn't mean anything, we're just... helping each other out, I guess."

Kiri mouths the words helping each other out, before turning and shooting her brother a disbelieving look. Neteyam's gaze is still and expressionless, flicking between your flushed face and Aonung in the river. 

You follow his gaze to see Aonung staring at you, and you quickly turn away, grabbing Neteyam to do the same.

"It's just sex, nothing else," you say strictly.

"Yes," Kiri sighs. "But you're old enough to have more. You could find a mate. Besides, you deserve to be happy-"

"You don't have a mate," you say defensively.

"She has Rotxo," Neteyam points out. "Lo'ak and Tsireya have each other. You're the only one who-"

"You don't have a mate either," you protest.

"Well that's different," Neteyam sighs. "I'm the next Olo'eyktan, remember? I can't just pick anyone for my mate, and besides, who I want-"

"WHO?" you say excitedly. "Is there someone else?!"

Neteyam doesn't answer, and you tackle him to the floor excitedly, shaking his shoulders and demanding he tells you who. Neteyam reluctantly opens his mouth to speak, but then he looks over your shoulder and quickly closes it.

Aonung is standing there, so massive that you have to crane your neck to look up at him. You have to admit that it's hard to not stare too hard- his paler smooth teal skin is glittering with little gleaming droplets of river water, and when you're this low besides him, you're kneeling for a very different task.

You don't need him to speak to understand what he's thinking about, but it's a question of why. However you just slide off of Neteyam who was still pinned underneath you and stand up.

Neteyam's face hardens as he watches you face Aonung, brows raised and waiting for him to speak.

"Can I speak to you?" Aonung asks dully.

Kiri is gaping, Rotxo and Lo'ak are laughing to themselves whilst Tsireya is adorably oblivious, and Neteyam is watching silently and emotionlessly as you nod and follow Aonung through the trees. You can feel his cold golden gaze burning into your back until you slip between the trees, and even when you know he couldn't see you any longer, you can feel the ghost of his inexplicable gaze between your shoulder-blades.

"Yes?" you ask, once you pause a little while away.

"Is there something between you and Neteyam?" Aonung asks, frowning down at you.

You blink confusedly back. You weren't expecting him to speak- expecting more of the usual quick fuck so you could both release some tension then head back to the others.

"What do you mean, something between me and Tey?"

"You call him Tey, for one thing," Aonung points out. "And you're with him a lot-"

"Funny," you say, folding your arms. "Because he says the exact same thing about you."

"But we're actually fucking," Aonung says, without any pretence of a smile in his blunt, deep voice. 

"What are you trying to say," you ask with narrowed eyes.

"Do you- uh -have any other friends," he asks, arms folded and blue eyes fixed challengingly in your golden-amber ones.

"What does that matter?"

"Because I want to know what I have to share," Aonung growls.

There's a strange, almost possessive glint in those ocean eyes now. Share. He thinks that he needs to share you.

"Why would it matter," you whisper. "We're not anything, this is just an arrangement. You're free to do whatever you like too."

You think for a moment that you broke Aonung. He is completely still, glaring so irately down at you with those blazing, large blue eyes as you try to guess what he's going to do next. But he still manages to surprise you when he leans forward and crashes his lips onto yours.

Everything has always been tentative, frightened to cross the barrier that would be too much for the other, but Aonung just doesn't seem to give a damn right now.

His mouth is warm and hungry, fangs lightly nipping your soft lips, hands roaming and grabbing and caressing with careless oblivion in a way that makes your skin ache afterwards in a welcome sting and bruise.

Then suddenly you're lifted up and you're on your knees right there on the forest floor. You can feel Aonung's breath hot and heavy as he nips at your neck, folded over your much smaller, arched body and sliding your tewngs away with quick hands.

"Is this-"

"Yes it's fine," you say, gasping a little as you feel yourself being stretched open, small stings of pain shooting through you as you drop your forehead to the ground and grunt. This is different to before, bent completely over with your face pillowed against the ground.

When he starts to move, it completely knocks your breath out, so you're left gasping for air you never manage to catch as he thrusts again. His grip on your waist is bordering on strangling, yet you find yourself unconsciously following him, pulling yourself back to meet each one of your thrusts with a choked moan.

His sudden roughness and hunger and desire is startling yet undoubtedly welcome. So this is what it's like when he's unrestrained, hot and animalistic, rutting fast and hard, pushing you into a further arch while his sharp teeth nip at the back of your neck and shoulders.

It's starting to get too much, the coil in your stomach growing too close too soon, and your moans are starting to border on lewd whines and whimpers as you sink your teeth into the flesh of your arms.

You're clutching the ground for dear damn life, arms attempting to pillow your face as your whole body rocks forward with each rough, almost ruthless thrust.

"I'm going to-" You gasp, your thighs trembling as you sob against the floor. "Oh, god, oh fuck, oh shit, I'm going to-"

You can feel him twitch inside of you, and you moan at a particularly hard thrust. Each rock of his hips knocks every breath, every thought out of you until your heart is pounding in rhythm with each increasingly rough, deep, animalistic thrust of his cock rutting between your legs.

"Wa- wait," you gasp, as another thought occurs to you. "Aonung, the others."

"What about them," he grunts, not slowing down for a second, hand absent-mindedly moving to your shoulder-blades to push you into an even deeper arch.

Between choked whines, you manage to say, "They're right over there. They're going to hear!"

"Guess you're just going to have to be more quiet," he says carelessly, no doubt knowing that there wasn't a fucking chance of that happening.

You just bury your face deeper into your arms, hoping that they'll be enough to hide the moans knocked out of you with each of his deep thrusts.

He has you pinned firmly beneath him, yet it feels snug and comforting despite the pain of his grip. It feels like he's fucking everything into you, even his scent, so each thrust is enveloping you in his warm, tropical scent.

Then finally with a loud cry that you tried so hard to stifle and kill, your entire body pulses as your orgasm blazes through you like fire as Aonung continues to fuck you through the quivers of your release.

You yelp as he speeds up now, brutal and animalistic as the last tenterhooks of his strained restraint snaps and he buries himself deep inside you.

You just give out, going slightly limp so he's holding you up as he comes, hair spilling over you as you just rest against the floor, breathing heavily in an attempt to steady yourself as you choke at the sensation of impossible fullness.

Then when he finally stops, he seems to return to himself, realising that you're just lax on the floor, only held up by his rough grip on your slightly bruised hips, flushed and slightly tear-streaked face hidden shamefully in your arms and curtained away by your long dark hair.

"Shit, are you okay?" Aonung asks, pulling out and lightly tilts your chin so he can see your face.

You just groan weakly and attempt to swat his hand away, a mortified little smile on your face as he sighs in relief and flops to the ground beside you.

"Feeling better?" you croak, wrinkling your nose at him.

Aonung exhales shakily with a small laugh. He turns to look at you, and there's a note of something in his eyes that you just don't understand- like he's trying to see if he would be able to get away with something.

Then he tentatively reaches out and tucks your hair away. When you don't protest or pull away, he lightly pulls you closer, so your head is resting between his shoulder and his neck, your arm draped tiredly across his chest and your body nestled cozily against his larger one.

You're tense. You've never done this, never cuddled, never allowed someone to be this fucking close. But then again, you've never fucked the same guy twice, and you've been in this arrangement with Aonung for weeks.

But this time was different, aggressive and desperate and hot and messy and overwhelming, and you're completely fucked out.

"Are you alright?" you ask Aonung quietly.

That's weird too, that you're asking Aonung about how he is. That you care how he is.

"What do you mean?" he asks gently, nuzzling closer into your neck. You try to ignore how comfortable it is having his lips resting warmly against your collarbone.

"Well," you say, with a bitter, shaky laugh, "it looked like you were a little... pent up."

 Aonung groans and buries his face deeper into your hair.

"Aonung," you say gently, turning so you can see him.

You are inches apart, nearly nose to nose as you rake your eyes over his face. He looks torn between mortified and as though he's trying to hide from you. You wonder if it's this frustrating for him when you hide like this.

"I just forgot about the arrangement," Aonung mumbles, not meeting your eyes. "I just- I..." Surprising yourself, you tentatively reach up to brush your fingertips against the soft teal skin of his flushed face. His eyes instantly flick to yours, and his lips part just enough for you to lightly touch them too. "I just... I didn't like seeing you with Neteyam."

"Oh," you says softly. You have no idea what to say to that- especially when its something that you always kind of knew, but never expected to be told. Especially when it never processes in your mind that you could be loved. "Neteyam's just a friend," you laugh lightly.

There's a slight crackle behind you like twigs snapping, but when you look up, there's nothing and no one there. You frown, but Aonung lightly guides your face back to his before you can think more about it.

You sit like that in silence for a little bit, but it surprises you how it's not awkward at all. It's comfortable and warm and quiet, pillowed against his muscular body with his head tucked gently beside yours, hands absentmindedly playing with your hair.

Usually you would never allow this, but you're frankly fucked out, and you doubt you'd be able to push him away even if you wanted to. So you just close your eyes and rest for a moment, until he speaks.

"So when do I get an ikran?" Aonung asks, shifting slightly so you're facing each other now, yet you're still close enough for him to hold you.

"Soon," you shrug. "You can ask Neteyam to-"

"What if I don't want Neteyam to take me," Aonung asks.

"Lo'ak or Kiri might be free," you shrug. "If you manage to pull them away from Tsireya or Rotxo."

"What if I don't want the Sullys?" he asks, eyes glittering with amusement and slight incredulous annoyance as though you were being stupid.

"Then who-" you start to say, a confused look on your face before Aonung cuts you off, rolling his eyes with a fond little grin, his hand gently snaking to tilt your face as he kisses you.

You have half a mind to snap at him, to remind him that kissing was a little too personal, too intimate for the agreement when you weren't actually fucking, to shout at him for cutting you off, before you realise you don't actually mind the intimacy of the kiss when you're nestled in his arms, his hands gently caressing your cheeks and holding you close, his heart beating warmly and comfortably against you. 

In fact, the thought of him pulling away seems worse than the actual closeness, tenderness and suggestiveness of the kiss, then suddenly he is, and you're frowning at the sudden, tiny, yet extremely unwelcome distance between his lips and yours.

"Can I kiss you," he asks, just a little late.

"Yes fine," you grumble impatiently, yet by his little, delighted smile, you know he took it for what it secretly meant, yeah you'd better kiss me skxawng.

"So you'll allow this?" he grins, inching closer. "It doesn't break the agreement?"

You have a strong temptation to smack that smug, delighted expression off his face, but you are just fucking exhausted, and his kisses are like coffee. But before he can lean back in and satiate you, there's stupidly familiar voices though the trees and you're panickingly staggering up to not get caught.

"Bro," Lo'ak says, looking you up and down before raising his weird hairy human eyebrows at Aonung. "Are you trying to mark her now?"

You flush deeply, only now noticing the little purple bruises his grip had roughly left, as well as the little nips and hickeys that now adorned your body. You feel even more aware of Aonung's marks when you look back up and meet Neteyam's gaze, his rich-golden eyes blazing bright as they trail over the bruises, hickeys and love bites before turning coldy on Aonung. 

Aonung returns Neteyam's golden gaze with his own icy blue one, and an unspoken challenge seems to be passed between the two boys. You expected Neteyam to react like the others, amused like Lo'ak or scandalised like Tsireya, but he remains cold and expressionless, not looking at you or returning your nervous smile. Instead of laughing off or denying Lo'ak's question, Aonung just smirks slightly and looks away, and Neteyam swallows hotly.

The walk back to the village is a strange one. There's some weird confusing tension between Neteyam and Aonung that you probably couldn't decipher in the best of times, let alone when you're so completely fucked dumb that you're putting all your best efforts into walking normally enough so the others don't know that you're whole body is turned to jelly.

Tsireya is laughing with Lo'ak at the front of the group, but Kiri and Rotxo seemed to have noticed your clumsy tiredness because Kiri links her arm with yours and gently leads you along and Rotxo distracts you with quiet, sweet conversation.

But you're hardly listening, because you can feel two gazes blazing straight into you from behind. Although no words are spoken between them, the weirdness between Aonung and Neteyam seems to radiate straight into you. 

Whatever, you'll figure it all out when you're back to normal, when you aren't so weak that you're susceptible to Aonung's tenderness and intimacy, when you aren't so fucked so dumb and stupid and reckless that you aren't wanting to kiss him again.

But there's no mistaking the intensity of the gazes on your back as you reenter the village. One blazing gold, the other icy blue.

In the next few days after that trip to the river, you're terrified. Terrified of what happened between you and Aonung.

Not of the sex, no that was doubtlessly the best you've ever had, but of what happened after. Of the cuddling and the kiss and the tenderness with which he cared for you and the fact that you let him be so tender and intimate.

So okay, maybe seeing your whole clan get murdered and destroyed by sky people at a young age could be traumatising, maybe even give you a few silly little intimacy issues, but your total aversion for intimate affection had always been uncomplicated.

No one could betray or hurt you if you never let anyone get close enough for you to care about them. No one could ever get hurt by you if they never cared for you in the first place. But Aonung has. Yes he's pussy-whipped, but he's liked you from the start and you knew that. No matter how hard you tried to discourage him or push him away, he's just as stubborn in liking you as you are in not liking him.

And now you don't know what you like. You think you know what it means that you trusted him to take care of you, that you let him get close in a way that wasn't just meaningless activity and was genuine care and intimacy. So you have to stay away from him.

Which is why for the past few days, you've only been in your kelku. You refuse to go out, knowing full well that no matter where you go, to the forest or around the village, Aonung will track you down and ask why you've been avoiding him, be all concerned and sweet and ARGH.

You groan and flop back down onto your woven bed. You're running out of things to do- stuck in your kelku. You've woven an obscene, unnecessary amount of jewellery, carved two new knives, beaded several new tops that you can only wear if you one day summon the courage to go outside and face the prospect to running into Aonung.

You're snarling with annoyance of being self-isolated in your kelku, hissing to yourself under your breath as you string together the beads of a new top when someone ducks into your kelku. Your body stiffens, but you quickly relax when you realise who it is.

"Hey Tey," you grin, as he smiles slightly back at you. "What are you doing here?"

"I haven't seen you in days," Neteyam says, frowning slightly at you. "I was getting worried- you seemed... off, that day by the river."

"I was tired," you say, brows furrowing at your friend. Usually Neteyam would be sitting with you talking about a guy, torn between slight protectiveness over you and slight amusement at your scornful attitude to intimacy. But now he's frowning, worried about you. "Aonung tired me out."

You expect him to grin, to joke, to maybe even make fun of you, but Neteyam isn't Lo'ak. Your close friendship with each of the Sullys is different, but you always considered yourself closest to the eldest, training with Neteyam, bonding over the struggles you both went to to prove yourselves.

Since you sought refuge with the Omotikaya at a young age, you and Neteyam had been the closest of friends. As you got older, he was busier with his various duties as not only a warrior, but the future Olo'eyktan of the clan. The two of you never really discussed it, but in the last few years, when you both started having 'experiences' with others, you grew apart slightly.

It's not like your relationship had ever been romantic, but there were certain elements of intimacy and jealousy you had always just assumed to be the closeness of your friendship. But now Aonung pointed it out, was even jealous of Neteyam himself, you have to wonder if there ever was more between you and the prince of the Omotikaya.

Then the Sully's had left for a bit to the reef, and when Neteyam came back, you had both grown. Even without any spoken elements of romance between the two of you, the obvious fact that both of you had had several if not many sexual and romantic experiences with others just seemed strange for a friendship forged in childhood.

You lower your beading and look up at him to find those golden eyes are fixed straight in your own, bright in the afternoon light filtering into your kelku from the gap in the weaving he left slightly ajar, his lips slightly parted as he tries to decide what to say. Fuck. No. Okay so maybe Aonung is getting in your head. Maybe Aonung is opening your eyes, because now Neteyam just looks... different.

Since the reef, Neteyam has gotten more muscular, more than the typical Omotikaya yet without the broad physique of Aonung. It's probably all the swimming or the diet of tropical fruits and fish or something, you suppose, but why did you never notice how he's just so... attractive, with his blazing golden eyes and smooth handsome features.

Sure, all you'd heard from other girls for years was how Neteyam was so handsome and hot and strong and a good lover, but that had all just been silliness because Neteyam was your friend nothing more, to either of you.

"Can I help you with something?" you ask, swallowing heavily, horribly aware that you had just spaced out and stared blankly at him for way too long.

"Are you okay?" he asks, frowning and moving closer to you, setting down a pile of stuff so he can get a better look at you. "You're acting weird."

"Am I?" you ask nervously, swallowing hard and blinking way too much. 

"Yes," Neteyam says slowly, crouching beside you and frowning deeper. "You've been in your kelku for days, you haven't seen anyone, talked to anyone, and everyone was starting to get worried. I was getting worried about you Rey."

His nickname for you, shortened from Reypaytun and meaning blood red, was one of the first things you ever shared with him as your first friend among the Omotikaya. It was a fond name he chose given the blood red war paint favoured by the Tayrangi that you never got the chance to wear, and ever since he called you Rey, the little warrior, the last Tayrangi.

He seems to notice the way you pause at the nickname Rey as a flood of memories from your childhood washes over you, and he places a comforting hand on your leg, saying, "It's me. You can tell me if something's going on. Is it Aonung?"

The sound of Aonung's name snaps you back. The one you've been having all these strange feelings for, the one that mentioned Neteyam having feelings for you. You swallow hotly again, and Neteyam frowns. Again.

"Yes," you say quietly. Instantly, he coldens, scowling and hissing protectively.

"Did he hurt you? You looked a little bruised but I didn't say anything because I thought maybe you-"

"No there's nothing wrong like that," you say quickly. "Aonung didn't hurt me, not at all. He's been... well I've been... um..."

Neteyam sighs, his ears drooping slightly as understanding dawns on his face, his hand sliding off your leg and dropping towards the ground. The absense of his touch feels like a sign, like your friend is slipping away just as his hand had. That the two of you are growing even further apart than ever.

"I know Rey," he says gently. "I mean, it was pretty fucking obvious from the start that he liked you. I tried to tell him that it wouldn't end well, that you never let anyone get close, but you proved me wrong like usual."

"What do you mean?" you ask quietly, your tail sweeping behind you. You miss your friend.

"For years I thought we were the only ones you'd let love you," he says, now looking slightly wistful. "I never thought it would be Aonung of all people that managed to get your heart, not when literally every guy ever is head over heels for you."

"You aren't," you point out, though even to yourself, your voice sounds unsure. "Right?" 

Neteyam doesn't reply, just smiling wistfully and sighing, his strong jaw clenching. You try to think of something to say, when the rest of his words clink into place in your brain, and you sit up quickly.

"What do you mean get my heart?" you ask sharply. "He hasn't- not-"

"Rey please," Neteyam says, not looking at you. "You literally let him cuddle you, take care of you, play with your hair. It goes beyond banter and pointless sex and you know it. You know it means more to him, and you know that it means more to you too."

You make to shake your head, but then you realise your body isn't moving, as though it refuses to say that Aonung means nothing. Fuck. 

"Fuck."

Neteyam laughs humourlessly as you sit up, face twisted in distress as the stupid damn truth of your friend's words sink in and you frown at him. Neteyam isn't looking at you, hiding his face from you, and your harboured suspicion that he's secretly laughing at you is immediately stomped out when you notice.

His ears are drooped all the way down, and his hands are lightly fiddling with his necklace. It's a small habit he only fell into when he was agitated or upset- you often found him fiddling with the beading of the traditional warrior necklace when he found expectations too much, when he got in trouble with his father, when he felt he wasn't enough.

"What's wrong Tey," you ask, lightly reaching out to touch your friend's head in a friendly pat. But it feels different now that you're both all grown up and grown apart- he feels too big, not like when you were inseparable children. 

Neteyam looks up, his face suddenly so large in your hand- no longer the adorably delighted childish face it once had been, now all chiselled and handsome and suddenly twisted with almost concealed, melancholy bitterness as he sighs and pulls away from you. It means something, that he pulled away.

"It's just weird," Neteyam says, with a poor attempt at a smile. "I always felt proud knowing that you let me close to you. That I could help you and protect you, that we would be so close forever. Then shit happened and I had to leave and we just grew apart slightly I guess. I just never thought that when we came back, Aonung would be the one to get you."

He swallows and looks away, obviously having said more than he meant to. You are about to reach out to your friend before remembering him pull away, his hand slipping away, his gaze somehow refusing to reach your own. But you're closer to understanding now more than ever, and being the ridiculously stubborn person you are, you can't just let it go now.

"What are you trying to say Tey?" you ask, frowning at him. "Aonung said... he said..."

"What?" Neteyam asks, now completely abandoning the pretence that he isn't annoyed and letting the confusing, uncalled for bitterness seep into his words. "What did your Aonung say about me?"

"That you..." you start to say, throat feeling dry under his suddenly blazing golden gaze. "He thought there was something going on between us."

With that, the last remaining light in Neteyam's face just snuffs itself out, and you feel your heart sink desperately. His tail stops flicking agitatedly behind him, thudding listless and dead on the floor behind him, his gaze dropping away somewhat as the fire in those blazing eyes dies, as though you put it out.

"I mean," you hastily say, trying to get him back to normal. It makes your heart ache in a terrible, painful sort of way to see Neteyam look so doleful and betrayed, makes your whole body shiver at the thought that you made the prince of the clan look so broken. "He thought you maybe liked me. But I told him- you only see me as a friend and I-"

"It's fine Rey," he says quietly, not meeting your gaze. "I get it."

"No!" you practically cry. "I don't even know what I'm trying to say- please stop! You don't need to get anything, Aonung was just being stupid and I don't even know what's going on."

"He wasn't stupid," Neteyam says quietly.

"What?"

"He wasn't stupid," Neteyam snaps, standing to leave. "He was right."

"About what?" you breathe, heart hammering uncomfortably in your chest. You know exactly what Neteyam is going to say next- but it just can't be true.

"That I liked you. Like you," he says angrily, taking a deep breath before rushing his next words. "But I know that you see me as a friend, and that you have your whole fucked up thing with Aonung going on."

You exhale shakily, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment and trying to think of what to say. When you open them again, Neteyam's blazing eyes are filled with fiery possessiveness again. It's everything you've always marked as friendship that is so clear in his gaze now, and you swallow heavily when he steps closer.

"But I know you Rey," he whispers, suddenly towering over you as he steps closer. "And I could be better than Aonung."

At that, you freeze. This is Neteyam, your friend Neteyam, the most desired man in the clan, the prince of the Omotikaya standing over you, blinking down at you with his large golden eyes and telling you he's better than the other boy you fuck, who's also his friend. What. The. Fuck. 

"What are you saying?" you whisper, hating how squeaky your voice sounds.

"Let me prove myself," Neteyam shrugs, now just a foot away.

You mouth wordlessly. On one hand, all you've heard for years is Neteyam's incredible talent with women, his amazing looks and bravery and size working wonders for every girl in the clan, but then again, Aonung was also completely and utterly satisfying and hot and muscular in himself. You aren't tied down though. Just because you had been having a good time with Aonung didn't mean you couldn't with anyone else.

But your friendship might not last with Neteyam if you took this step. Yet then again, it's already changed, even more so now he's told you he likes you, absolutely now he's offering what he's offering.

It seems a little as though he's stepping on Aonung's toes- along the same lines of impressing you, proving himself yadayadayada, but as you meet Neteyam's gaze, you can't seem to find a problem with anything.

He's staring down at you, inches away from your lips yet still a foot taller, blazing golden eyes staring straight into your own.

fuck.

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