#and this scene popped into my head and refused to leave.

[zylphiacrowley]

non-local thalassophobe does not take well to attempted drowning.

[non-cannon]

“God I love you”

“You love God?”

“No, I was saying I love you. If there was a comma in there it should have gone before the you and not after the God. I used God for emphasis.”

“So you were taking the lord’s name in vain?”

“I don’t think God is his name, I think it’s more like a title. I think his true name was lost or Yahweh or something.”

“You’re not supposed to use that name outside of teaching purposes.”

“...I’m starting to regret loving you.”

[catiuskaa]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬.

[ synopsis. ]: you have stayed behind. it’s a bitter truth you come to realize, as you stand surrounded by friends who feel distant, the feeling cracking inside you like a small spark that threatens to become a big flame when exposed to oxygen. everyone had partners, plans for the future, a life together, and you were hopelessly alone and melancholically lonely, with a myriad of comments that were meant to help, but only managed to suffocate you. changbin, always attentive, lost in an inferno of heat, had also stayed behind. he had heard on the radio that someone was missing, and as a fireman, he couldn't help but return to the burning building. he found you in your flat, distorted in smoke and tears, and found himself physically unable to separate from you, because, as a firefighter, even if changbin was aware that fire leaves scars, what he didn’t know was that though the scars you left in his skin tore him open just a little, they would end up teaching him a lot about love.

[ word count. ]: 60k!

[ status. ] FINISHED.

firefighter!changbin x fem!victim.

[ full warnings. ] content! language, alcohol, hyunin is mentioned. angst! language, alcohol, fire and rescue situations, hospitals, mild emotional damage, trauma recovery, mild violence (action-heavy stuff), miscommunication (not with changbin but she had to be here guys i’m sorry). fluff! teasing and banter, they’re in love your honour, slow-burn romance? (at least I hope I pulled it off). smut! kisses, kisses, kisses, markings, protected piv sex (yes), and i think that’s all, folks!

[ also! ] available on AO3!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

EP1: smoke and sparks. (20.7k)

syn. trapped in a devastating fire, you’re rescued by firefighter Seo Changbin, and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something more—either way, neither of you is walking away from this unshaken.

EP2: seven floors under ash. (17.4k)

syn. a drunk call brings a certain Seo Changbin back into your life, and an argument follows—sharp, charged, and laced with something neither of you is ready to name—, things is, the line between comfort and something more —desire?— has already begun to blur.

EP3: fire hazard. (10.6k)

syn. as much as he’d like to deny it —he wouldn’t, but still—, no one in the fire station will let him escape from the truth, but with you across the table, laughter on your lips, and something warm beneath the surface, it’s hard to refuse the truth.

EP4: tears, sweat, skin, flames (11.3k)

syn. a strained reunion with old friends helps set things clear—but a quiet visit to the fire station sparks inside both you and Changbin a flicker of something warmer. Wait until night, until he opens the door—then, that flicker catches fire.

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

[ a/n. ] ok first of all HIII i’m back from the dead with a REQUEST! by my baby @palindrome969 but I just have to say i’m sorry, I had started writing the first scenes and like mapping the fire and all in my head and then i texted @lyramundana and my wifey @knowbites (that btw y’all thank em’ bc they were a massive help beta reading, 10/10 moral support, and my wifey helped me with the synopsis) and I was like “girly pops help i’m at 5k and barely anything happened compared to my usual writing” but they loved it so much, specially marsy, so this is ALSO planned to (hopefully) be done (or i’ll publish the second episode at least) in her b-day!! everyone say yippie mars!! in the comments if you read this. but yeah! that’s why this is so long, because of my wifey’s support (hell yeah) but also probably because i’ve been reading too much from my darlin eff @seospicybin and the way i don’t even realize the amout of words i devour in each work of hers, just omg, total inspiration, as much as @leeknowsallyoursecrets who was another inspo for this post’s style and the sneak peaks and all bc i just reread one of her works and i’m so in love bc c’mon i’m just surrounded by awesome talented mooties like what can I do except show off 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️‼️ anyways this is a long author's note, but yeah, if you do plan to read this, i love you so much already 🎀 hope you like!!

[ permanent taglist! ] @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @/lyramundana @/cheeksung

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who’s excited to publish all of it already, and even more excited to be back!! 🙂‍↕️‼️💗

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

[gilverrwrites]

Best friends to lovers, but it's Dick Grayson.

≈1.3K words, CWs: F!Reader, cunnilingus, dirty talk. Pet-names: Princess, baby girl, pretty girl. Rating: 18+ MINOR DNI

Your best friend Dick Grayson has no boundaries.

He helps himself to your food, swapping and changing dumplings for noodles, carrots for celery, dips his fries in your milkshake, without even asking.  

He leaves his dirty clothes in your washing hamper, ‘borrows’ your lotions, and leaves his streaming services logged in on all your devices. In the winter he puts his cold hands under your shirt, stealing your warmth, and laughs when you flinch. “But you’re so hot!” He whines, hugging you tighter, “Let me hold you a while longer, please.”

In the summer he struts around your apartment, shirtless and sheening with sweat, eating your ice cream, pumping up the AC so he and Haley can chill out post-run. Not that you mind, it’s just that ‘oh, no, he’s my best friend’ is a hard sell when you bring dates home.

At random hours of the early morning, he wakes you up by crawling into bed with you, clings to the over-sized shirt you're sleeping in that is clearly his and makes fun of your tattered old underwear. “They’re comfy!” “They’re… something...” He trails off, all dreamy and quiet, refusing to expand before falling asleep, and is gone by the time you wake up.  

Your best friend Dick Grayson brings you gifts from all over the world. Chocolates from that one mom-and-pop you once mentioned in Keystone, jewellery, and perfume he probably paid way too much for from market vendors in cities like Paris and Istanbul, risqué pieces of underwear from Milan.

On late nights, he rests his head on your tummy, settled between your thighs as you watch your favourite film series for the nth time, smiling to himself as you babble on about your favourite scenes, about facts he already knows because you already told him, but he wants to hear you say it again anyway. When you start falling asleep on the couch, he lifts you, bridal style with ease, and carries you to the bedroom. “Come on then princess, let’s get you to bed.” “I can do it myself.” “You can’t even keep your eyes open, let me.”

He brushes stray pieces of hair out of your face when you’re too engrossed in something to do it yourself, when your hands are too full to reach, or when he wants to get a better look at you, just because he loves looking at your face.

“Um, what are you doing?” He nonchalantly hooks his finger into the waistband of your trousers, disappointed when he gets a not-too-subtle peek at neither your endearing threadbare usuals, nor the lacey Italian ones he’d bought for you.

Your best friend Dick Grayson flirts with you blatant and publicly;

“The red or the blue?” “Neither.” “I have to wear something!” “I’d love to see you wearing nothing.” “Wear the blue, always the blue.” Jason would never let it go otherwise.   “What do you want?” “You.” “I meant to eat.” “Same answer.” “I could never be you.” “What? Why?” “Must be tiring, being that cute.”

He texts you when you’re not together. “Good morning pretty girl” “saw this and thought of you.” “What are you wearing?”

One day you text back a picture, a mirror selfie from behind, your skirt hiked up, showing off the tiny navy-blue thong and he doesn’t text back. You worry that you’ve taken it too far, overstepped a line. 

Until your best friend Dick Grayson is waiting for you when you arrive home, sporting a nasty black eye and a smile the size of titan tower. In actuality, that image was exactly what he’d been hoping for every time he messaged. That image had been ingrained in his mind since you sent it, and it was one thousand times better than he’d imagined. That image was his hook, time to reel you in.

“Sorry I didn’t text back, I was speechless. No really, I got this” he points to the purple bruise forming around his eye “because I was distracted, thinking about you.”

“It’s cool, you didn’t have to say anything.” You lie. “Not like you haven’t seen it all before.” 

“Can I see it again?”

In the middle of your cramped kitchen, your best friend Dick Grayson lifts your skirt above your waist and drops to his knees, brazenly eying your folds. On request, you take the skirt from his hands, holding it up, exposing yourself as you do a little twirl for him, letting him see the full picture. 

When he lands a playful smack on your ass-cheek he grins, thrilled by the playfully petulant look you fire at him over your shoulder. When he runs a finger over your clothed slit, he’s even more delighted by the way your body shivers, by the hint of wetness he can feel seeping through the thin piece of fabric.   

You don’t stop him when he hooks a finger in the crotch, pulling the obstructing lace to the side, or when he runs his fingers through your now exposed lips. Deft fingers tease you, ghosting over your clit with no real fiction, making your pussy clench around nothing. 

“Want something?” The sight of him at your feet, watching you through defiant eyes has you weak.  

“Yes, touch me.” The sight of you, spread and writhing has him near feral, but he wants something more. 

“I’m already touching you, Princess.” He laughs, his warm breath against your slick tingles. If his breath is enough to make you quiver, he can’t wait to find out what his tongue will do to you. “Ask for something else. Nicely.”

You’re not sure exactly what he wants you to say, so you stammer the first words that come to mind; “Please Dick, stop teasing. Just do whatever you want to do, I want it too.” 

It’s enough. 

Your best friend Dick Grayson lifts you by your knees, setting you on the counter and securing your thighs over his shoulders as he descends on your folds. He’s messy and desperate, unable to get enough of your sweetness, darting his tongue in every direction until he finds the select few motions that have your fingers curling in his hair, have you panting his name between loose lips.

When you start to roll your hips, using his mouth for your own pleasure he can’t help but moan, the reverb sending further vibrations through your body that has your toes curling. He’s rock hard, itching to palm his cock, to grind it against the closest surface, but that’s an afterthought. He won’t get off until he’s lapped up your climax at least once. 

“Are you gonna cum for me?” His words are slurred, muffled between your legs, unwilling to pull away long enough to get his words out cohesively. “I want you to cum all over my face, okay baby girl?”

If he wasn’t already salivating against you, Dick’s mouth would water at the sight of you. Your body begins to jerk, your back arching, head thrown back as your orgasm hits you, his firm hands tighten around your legs, locking your lower body in place until all your tension is gone, and his face is soaked with your fluids. 

As you come down from your high, he savours the flavour, occasionally licking up stray droplets from your skin. He admires the way you look, head lolled to the side, eyes static under heavy lids, jaw slack, until it’s too much, until he needs to see you high on his doing once more. Without warning he lifts you. The collar of his shirt is damp, his cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable for round two.” Your best friend Dick Grayson says as he cradles your body in his arms. 

[spicymambaae]

The story is a continuation of Karina Moans II

----

Giselle stepped into their dorm, the cool air greeting her as she stepped out of her gym shoes. She was drenched in sweat, her muscles aching pleasantly from the day's workout. With a contented sigh, she made her way to the bathroom, ready to wash away the remnants of her exertion.

She stepped into the shower, the hot water instantly soothing her tired muscles after an intense workout at the gym. As the warm droplets cascaded down her body, her mind, still buzzing from the endorphin rush, inevitably wandered back to Karina and Winter. She couldn’t get the image out of her head—the video she had accidentally seen on Karina's tablet earlier that week.

Her thoughts drifted to the explicit video, the sounds of Karina's moans and gasps echoing in her mind. She recalled the sight of Winter, strap-on harness snugly fitted around her hips, dominating Karina with confident thrusts. Giselle's breath quickened as she pictured Karina's breasts jiggling with each thrust, her erect nipples begging for attention. The contrast of Winter's strong, purposeful motions and Karina's yielding, pleasure-filled responses sent a jolt through Giselle's body.

As she lathered her hair, her hands moved sensually over her own breasts, her fingers gently pinching her erect nipples. Her mind replayed the scene of Winter's tongue swirling and sucking on Karina’s breasts. Giselle's own breath quickened as she fantasized about being the recipient of such passionate oral devotion.

Her hands slowly traveled downward, her fingers gently brushing against her flat stomach and dangerously close to her core. She remembered the way Winter's fingers had danced up and down Karina's slit, making her shudder with anticipation. Giselle's thighs clenched involuntarily as she contemplated touching herself, her fingers itching to explore her own sensitive folds.

But suddenly, a wave of guilt washed over her, dousing the flames of desire that had threatened to consume her. "What am I doing?" she thought, her heart pounding. "They're my group members and my friends. This is so wrong. I shouldn't be fantasizing about them like this." She repeated the mantra to herself, trying to extinguish the fire that had ignited within her. “They’re my friends… they’re my friends… AND THEY ARE FUCKING EACH OTHER!?”

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Giselle turned off the shower, stepping out and wrapping herself in a towel. She stood in front of the mirror, towel-drying her hair, her mind in turmoil. The image of Karina and Winter, locked in a passionate embrace, their bodies intertwined, refused to leave her mind. She tried to make sense of it all, her thoughts a jumble of arousal, confusion, and a hint of anger.

“They're my friends and freakin adults”, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. “If they want to fuck each other's brains out, it's their business. I shouldn't let it affect me like this.” She attempted to rationalize their actions, thinking of them as two grown women with healthy sexual appetites. “Horny asses”, she thought with a mix of amusement and frustration “can't even keep their panties on.”

But the fact that they were members of one of the biggest a K-pop groups together added a layer of complexity to the situation. Giselle knew the industry was filled with strict rules and expectations, and the thought of her group members breaking those rules aroused and angered her simultaneously.

“When did this even start?” she wondered. “How long have they been sneaking around behind everyone's backs?” She wanted answers, but a part of her also feared the potential consequences of digging too deep.

As she dressed, her movements were mechanical, her mind still reeling. Giselle's eyes drifted shut as she imagined Winter's tongue teasing Karina's clit, the sounds of their moans and gasps filling the room. She bit her lip, her breath quickening. "Damn it," she muttered, opening her eyes and shaking her head. "Snap out of it, Giselle. This is getting out of hand." She tried to push the thoughts aside, focusing on the upcoming rehearsals and promotions. But the image of Karina's tablet, hidden beneath the pillow, kept flashing in her mind, a constant reminder of the secret she now shared with her group members.

Giselle took a deep breath, she knew that ignoring the situation wasn't an option. The curiosity was eating away at her, and she needed to understand the dynamics between Karina and Winter. Maybe they're just exploring their sexuality, she thought. Maybe it's a one-time thing.

The rationalization brought her a moment of calm, but deep down, she knew that the truth might be more complicated. Giselle felt trapped between her loyalty to her friends and her desire to uncover their secrets. The thought of them together, their moans echoing in her mind, only added fuel to her conflicting emotions.

With a sigh, she ran her hands through her hair, accepting the inevitable. “I can’t believe this; I must be losing my mind.” She began to question her own sanity. “I need to see it again.”

Giselle stood at the threshold of her room. The clashing emotions battled inside her, but her desire to uncover the truth was winning.

She took a step back, leaning against the door frame, her mind racing. “I need to know more”, she thought. “I need to see it with my own eyes again.” The thought of witnessing her friends fucking both excited and scared her, but the pull was too strong to resist.

With a determined stride, Giselle entered her room and made her way to her bed. She knelt down and reached beneath the pillow, her heart pounding. Her fingers closed around the smooth surface of Karina's tablet, and she drew it out.

Holding the device in her hands, Giselle hesitated for a moment. “Am I really going to do this?” she asked herself. “What if they find out?” But the temptation was too great, and she swiped her finger across the screen, unlocking it with the password she had seen Karina enter.

She navigated to the hidden folder, her breath quickening as she recalled the explicit content within. Her thumb hovered over the play button, her heart racing as if she were about to uncover a forbidden treasure.

Giselle closed her eyes for a brief moment, steeling herself for what she was about to witness. Then, with a click, she pressed play.

The scene began with Karina setting the camera on a cabinet, the lens capturing the hotel room and the bed in the center. Karina plunged onto the bed, her legs dangling off the side, her back facing the camera.

As the camera focused on Karina, Giselle's breath caught in her throat. There, walking into the frame, was Winter, clad only in her panties, her perky breasts on full display as she towel-dried her hair. Giselle's eyes widened further, taking in the sight of Winter's toned body and the mischievous grin on her face.

"I can't believe we convinced Giselle to share a room with NingNing," Winter said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. As she slowly walked between Karina's legs, the camera captured the playful seduction unfolding. Karina let out a low laugh and agreed, "Especially knowing there's no bathtub in their room."

At this, Giselle scoffed. "You fucking bitches," she muttered under her breath. "I didn't get the bathtub because you two wanted to fuck?!?!"

Giselle's eyes narrowed, her curiosity battling within her. She watched, transfixed, as Karina made a move to slowly get up, her hands reaching for Winter’s waist. But Winter had other plans. She pushed Karina back down onto the bed and slowly climbed over her body, her movements deliberate and teasing.

"Ya, ya, ya" Karina gasped, her voice breathy as Winter settled comfortably on top of her.

Winter's grin widened as she looked down at Karina, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, come on," she purred, her voice a low, sultry murmur. "You didn't think I'd let you off that easy, did you?"

Karina's hands instinctively rested on Winter's hips, her fingers brushing against her thighs. "And what exactly do you have in mind?" she asked, her voice a mix of playful curiosity and genuine affection.

Winter's fingers traced light, teasing patterns along Karina's breasts, slightly squeezing. "You already forgot what you told me on the plane?" she teased, her eyes locked with Karina's.

Karina's breath caught in her throat, "Why don't you remind me?" she challenged.

Giselle's heart raced as she watched the flirtatious exchange, feeling like a voyeur to a private moment between her friends. She found herself leaning forward, her eyes glued to the screen, eager to hear Winter's response.

And Winter delivered. With a playful grin, she climbed up Karina's body until her clothed pussy was positioned directly over Karina's face. Giselle gasped at the bold move, her eyes widening as Winter slowly lowered herself, sitting on her friend’s face.

Karina didn't hesitate. Giselle heard her moans as her tongue teased the fabric of Winter's panties. Winter pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Do you remember now?" she asked, her voice thick with arousal.

Karina nodded eagerly, her hands reaching up to grasp Winter's waist. Without breaking eye contact, Winter hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slid them aside, fully exposing herself to Karina's waiting mouth.

Giselle bit her lip, holding her breath as Karina flicked out her tongue to taste Winter. But Winter quickly pulled back, denying her the pleasure. With a firm grip on Karina's chin, she asked again, "I didn’t hear you. Do you remember what you told me?"

Karina's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I remember," she said, "I remember telling you that I want you to cum all over my face and scream my name."

Giselle's breath caught in her throat as she listened to Karina's confession. She couldn’t believe the words coming from her friend’s mouth. She could feel the raw, unfiltered desire radiating from the video, and it sent a jolt of arousal through her own body.

Winter moaned as she lowered herself, feeling Karina's tongue flick against her clit. "Fuck, yes," she gasped, her hips rocking involuntarily. Without warning, Karina sucked Winter's clit into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it expertly.

Winter cried out, her hands tangling in Karina's hair as she pulled her closer. "Make me cum all over your pretty face," she panted, her body arching towards Karina's eager mouth. “Come on, taste me, baby.”

Karina moaned in response, the vibrations sending shivers through Minjeong's body. "You taste so fucking good," she mumbled between licks and sucks. "I could eat this sweet pussy forever."

The contrast between their public personas and their private lives was staggering, and Giselle found herself intrigued, aroused, and more curious than ever.

Giselle watched in disbelief, her eyes widening as the angle of the video suddenly changed. The scene now unfolded from Winter's point of view, as she held a camera in one hand while riding Karina's face. She couldn’t believe her eyes—the filthiness of her friends knew no bounds.

She felt a throb between her legs as she witnessed Karina's eyes staring directly into the camera, her tongue parting Winter's folds, lapping eagerly at her clit.

"You look so pretty with your lips wrapped around my pussy," Winter cooed, "Look at me while you eat me out." Giselle heard the lust in Winter's voice, the command laced with need.

Winter held Karina's head gently, guiding her movements. She started rocking her hips, gliding her wetness over Karina's mouth, the camera capturing the lewd sight of Karina's tongue flicking and teasing her clit.

"Look at me," Winter insisted, her hips moving in a slow, sensual grind. "Watch me as you make me cum." Karina obediently locked her gaze with Winter’s as she continued to pleasure her.

Giselle could hear the lewd, wet sounds of Karina sucking on Winter's pussy, the slurping noises filling her ears. The sight of Karina's tongue probing, delving, and the glistening wetness of Winter's folds was almost too much for Giselle to bear.

Winter moaned, her body convulsing in sheer pleasure. "Yes, baby, don’t stop," she breathed, her hips moving faster, grinding against Karina's mouth with abandon. "Suck my clit," she pleaded.

The camera, still held in Winter's hand, captured the moment in exquisite detail. Giselle watched as Karina swirled her tongue around Winter's engorged clit.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Karina parted her lips and sucked Winter's clit into her mouth, gently tugging and releasing it with a soft pop. Giselle could swear she could feel the suction.

Karina's tongue then ventured lower, nibbling on Winter's puffy pussy lips, her clit twitching and throbbing for attention.

Again, Karina wrapped her lips around Winter's clit, sucking gently while her tongue swirled relentlessly. Giselle could hear the wet sounds of Karina's tongue swirling and lapping at Winter's clit, the camera shaking slightly as Winter struggled to maintain her grip. Karina slowly pulled away, releasing it with another wet pop that made Winter gasp and arch her back.

Winter slightly pulled away, the overwhelming sensation causing her to catch her breath.

The angle of the video switched back to the original view, showing Karina stretching her neck, her tongue darting out to taste Winter once more. "I want more," Karina whined, her hands gripping Winter's thighs. Winter's eyes darkened with lust, her gaze fixed on Karina's eager face. "Are you ready?" she asked, her voice low and sultry.

Karina nodded eagerly, her heart racing. "Yes," she breathed, her eyes fixed on Winter's glistening pussy. "Please."

Winter slowly lowered herself, her eyes never leaving Karina's. "I'm going to smother you with my pussy, baby," she purred, her voice dripping with promise.

Karina's breath quickened as she felt Winter's weight settle on her face, her nostrils filled with the intoxicating scent of Winter's arousal. She moaned, the vibrations sending shivers through Winter's body.

"One," Winter started counting, her voice strained as she held her position, savoring the sensation of control. "You like being my pussy slut, don't you?" Winter continued, her hips rocking gently. "Being at the mercy of my pussy?"

Karina nodded, her mouth muffled by Winter's soft, swollen pussy. She moaned again, her tongue flicking against Winter's sensitive clit.

"Two," Winter whispered, her hips moving in a slow, sensual grind. "You want more, don't you, baby? You want me to fuck your mouth?" Karina whimpered in response, her body arching slightly, inviting Winter to take control.

Her tongue darted out, lapping at Winter's juices, tasting the sweet nectar that flowed freely. Winter pressed down harder, her pussy covering Karina's mouth and nose, depriving her of oxygen.

"Three," Winter breathed, her hips rocking faster, gliding her wet pussy over Karina’s mouth.

"Four," Winter continued, her breath quickening as the pleasure intensified. "I own your mouth, baby. It's mine to do with as I please." She kept riding Karina's face, her hips moving faster and faster.

Karina moaned in response, her tongue never slowing as she lapped at Winter's pussy.

"Five," Winter counted, her voice strained as the pleasure built. "Fuck, your mouth feels so damn good.”

Winter's body trembled as she relished the sensations, her hips moving faster, fucking Karina's mouth with abandon. "Fuck, yes," she gasped, her hands tangling in Karina's hair. "Keep licking, keep sucking. Make me yours."

Karina whimpered, her tongue never slowing, her hands caressing Winter's ass, urging her on. She tongue-fucked Winter's pussy, feeling the tight walls clench around her tongue. Winter's body started convulsing, her pussy trapped in the vice of Karina's mouth.

With a soft moan, Winter slowly lifted herself, allowing Karina a brief moment to catch her breath and savor the taste of Winter's essence on her tongue. "Good job, baby," Winter cooed, stroking Karina's hair. “You always eat my pussy so good.”

Karina's eyes fluttered open, her face flushed and her lips swollen from the passionate pussy-eating she had bestowed upon Winter.

"Please, don't stop," she begged, her voice hoarse and filled with need. "I need to taste you again, feel you, devour you…make you cum."

Winter smirked, her power over Karina intoxicating. She lowered herself again, her pussy covering Karina's mouth.

"One..." she started counting again, her voice shaking as she felt her own arousal building to a crescendo. "Make me cum, Karina. Put your fucking tongue inside my pussy and drink my juices."

Giselle was so engrossed in the scene, her breath coming in short gasps, that the sudden notification pop-up startled her. She cussed under her breath, frustrated that she never got to see the moment of Winter cumming. Just as she never got to see Karina cumming the last time. Then, she cussed again, realizing how absurd she sounded, getting annoyed about not fulfilling her voyeuristic desires.

"Jesus," she muttered, shaking her head as she tried to assimilate what she had just watched…AGAIN…ON HER OWN WILL. But the notifications kept popping up on the screen, distracting her from her thoughts. It was Winter, sending messages to Karina.

The notifications kept coming, and Giselle's fingers hovered over the screen, unsure what to do. But before she could decide, her phone suddenly started to ring. It was Winter. Giselle's heart stopped, her fingers frozen above the screen, contemplating whether to pick up. “These two are gonna give me have a heart attack.”

Little did she know that Karina and Winter were behind the door all this time, listening to her involuntary moans, smirks on their faces as they knew exactly what Giselle had just watched. They had staged this whole scenario, leaving the tablet for Giselle to find, knowing her curiosity would get the better of her.

---

Winter Moans I Karina Moans I Karina Moans II

[revelboo]

Soooo I did a little spending spree on myself, and fiance got me the pop as an early bday gift and did a dramatic scene with them.

Never have I ever thought that i would be doing this just from reading your stories. Thank you for this motivation you've been giving us! Motivated a lot of folks here just from your content. We appreciate your work, and I hope that you're having a good day! 😁💜💜💜

Nice! 🤣 I’m corrupting everyone

Everything Is Alright Pt 159

Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Glancing over at Megatron as the warlord cradles the protoform in the crook of an arm, you feel the weight of Starscream’s accusation hanging in the air between you. But they’re talking. Something you’re not sure they really do without Megatron trying to murder Star for contradicting him. “You recruit us, name us your commanders, and then ignore our advice,” Starscream mutters into the silence. “We believed in you, but you never believed in us, did you?”

• Toying with those little servos, Megatron’s aware of that little, somnolent spark nestled inside his own. That it’s not his even if it feels like it is. And he can’t help but love that fragile life, wanting to feel those little servos grip his. To hold their warmth and weight in his hands, hear them laugh. None of it meant to be his. “Betrayal leaves scars,” he growls, touching the curve of its cheek. “I learned to do what ever I had to in order to survive in a world that saw me as expendable. Worthless. I wasn’t after power for power’s sake, though.”

• Bristling at the accusation, Starscream’s wings flare, trembling in outrage. And hating that there’s some truth in those words. “Maybe I wanted power as much as I wanted change,” he admits, hesitating when you lay a cheek on his servo, looking up at him. Calming him. “But you became blinded by your obsession with the Prime.” Freezing at the soft ‘so I did’ from the other mech, he’s not sure he’s ever heard any admission of wrongdoing from Megatron.

• This is good. Talking without trying to murder each other. And okay, they’re refusing to look at each other, but it’s a start. “Maybe this little one will be my successor, a little mining frame like their sire,” Megatron adds to make Starscream drop you on your butt on the desk, knocking his chair over with a snarl. So much for no fighting. Glaring at Megatron as he offers you a crooked smile, because he couldn’t resist being a jerk for one whole, serious conversation?

• “Just because you stole my new spark from my mate doesn’t mean you’re the sire!” Starscream snarls at him, wings trembling with outrage and Megatron clears his vents with a chuckle up until you just shake your head looking disgusted to make him feel guilty. ‘Your mate gave me the new spark. Trusted me,’ Megatron counters, ignoring the Seeker completely to tuck the protoform closer to his frame. Because this little one will never suffer through what he has. He’s going to make sure of that.

Previous

[taelortot]

The Sun and the Moon

blurb Zero One 1.5

Walk with me for a second, yeah? So I was thinking, which is always a bad idea (according to my mother).

College student Megumi and his bimbo girlfriend would be a perfect match. At first It definitely threw his friends and passerby’s through a loop. He’s wearing all black with his little scene haircut, resting bitch face, looking angry at the world. While his dressed in all pink, short skirt, crop top, 5 inch heels girlfriend holds his hand, skipping down the campus sidewalk. She’s talking his ear off in that high pitched voice, a voice that megumi refuses to say he’s in love with. She giggles and bounces, making her tits nearly pop out of her top. She would smack her bubblegum and blow obnoxiously large bubbles just because she can. Begging her boyfriend for iced coffee with a “pleeaaseee gumiiiii” a small pout on her lips “I neeeed it” and who is he to say no to that cute little face? Those glossy pouty lips that he loves to kiss, tasting her cherry flavored lipgloss.

And he would never ever admit it, but god he nearly melts like a popsicle on a summer day when she calls him “Gumi”. He wouldn’t even make a noise as he nod his head, pulling out his wallet and paying for her daily coffee. A slight upturn to one side of his lips as he listens to her squeal with excitement.

The attitude was a different story. Megumi had his own way of dealing with her attitude, and y/n would love it. Always pushing his buttons to see how much she could get away with. Megumi didn’t mind it as much as his friends thought he would. Simply giving a a single look would put her in her place. A look that said “shut the fuck up before I make you”. A single look that y/n knew, she knew if she didn’t stop whatever she was doing, there would be a punishment waiting for her when they got back home. And as much as y/n loves punishments, she loved to be praised more. But!!!! On the off day that she was feeling a little risky, she would ignore Megumis look. Pushing his buttons, doing anything she could to get a reaction from him.

But our dear gumi would didn’t care who was watching, not one bit. Taking his thick, large hand and wrapping it around his small girlfriend’s pretty little neck. Giving her enough of a squeeze, along with a deadly look in his eyes, to stop whatever antagonizing behavior his little girl was doing. “You want to continue, baby?” He would ask, his voice low and full of threats he would most definitely follow through with. A small whimper would fall from those pretty little lips, testing every little bit of control the man has. A small shake to her head was enough to appease him, tightening his grip for just a second before releasing her. He would turn back to whatever he was doing as if he just didn’t do the most dominating thing he could to his girlfriend right in front of his friends.

It would leave y/n a little pouty (and a little damp), but that wasn’t anything megumi couldn’t fix with a chaste kiss to her lips… and her other pretty little lips.

“Where’s that attitude now, baby? Huh?” He would ask in a teasing voice, hands kneading the delicious fat of her thighs. “M’sorry gumi” she would whine, pushing her hips up, trying to get him where she needed him. But the action would earn her pretty little clit a slap. Two maybe.

“I don’t think you’re that sorry, pretty girl.” “M’sorry m’sorrryy pleaseee please gumi” he knew she was sorry, he knows his baby hates punishments. Always wanting him to worship the ground she walks on, which he does most days.

“Good girl, now lay back and let me do my thing, yeah baby?” His eyes locked with hers, waiting for that desperate little nod she does when she is begging for him to please her. Which he does, devouring her pussy like it’s his last meal. Growling into her as he tastes that sweet little cunt. It’s probably his favorite thing to do, getting on his knees, letting his tongue fuck her cute little hole. Sucking gently on her clit, because his girl is sensitive. Listening to her cute pathetic whines as she pulls his black hair, guiding him. Which he lets her do, allowing her to take all the control she thinks she has. It would be so sloppy, his tongue making lazy, languid circles around her tiny clit. Juices coating his face, nose to chin. Spit mixing with her arousal as he moans into her pussy, because this is also a treat for him. The pad of his fingers playing with her puckered hole, because one day “m’gonna stretch this pretty little ass.”

But don’t get it twisted, Megumi Fushiguro, is absolutely whipped for his pretty little bimbo girlfriend. Kissing the ground where she walks, carrying her favorite bubblegum around just in case she forgets hers. And he would never have an issue with all the guys on campus ogling his girl. Only because he’s heard y/n say “my boyfriends gonna kick your ass” to several guys who hit on her, which he does do. Megumi knows for a fact that his pretty girlfriend is so in love with him, so he has no insecurities when it comes to her. Grabbing a handful of tits when he sees a frat dude looking at her chest. Sitting her in his lap to makeout in the library when she’s supposed to be studying. Being so in love with this girl he didn’t even know a year ago.

He thanks his friend Satoru Gojo for fumbling this bad bitch, every single day. It’s not really gojo fault though, he tried to hit on her… but y/n likes the silently cocky bad boys. And Megumi is just that.

But Megumi would absolutely die if anyone found out he paints her toenails for her, giving soft kisses to the tops of her feet when he’s done. Only to hear that pretty little giggle he loves so much.

I want to write a whole fic about this. Something you’ll learn about me is that I LOVE LOVE LOVE to write y/n as a dumb bimbo. And that I shall do :)

Taglist

@vellichor01 @loveyislost

[rottenpumpkin13]

picture the scene: they (AGSZC + Turks and Rufus) wake up find BUNNIES EVERYWHERE AND ALL OVER THE SHINRA BUILDING.

Angeal: Sees the chaos of everyone playing with bunnies and immediately climbs onto a high surface. Spends the next hour giving a stern lecture on responsible pet ownership and proper rabbit handling, using one confused bunny as a live demonstration model.

Sephiroth: Too awkward and scared to pick one up at first, terrified he'll hurt it. But one hops into his lap and refuses to leave. Now he's sitting stiffly with it curled up on him like it's royalty. "I don't know what it wants, but it's chosen me." Already has three tabs open comparing bunny toys, habitat pens and organic hay brands.

Genesis: Knew immediately this would descend into chaos. Grew up with rabbits in the Rhapsodos orchard and is now bunny-proofing his office. Seen dragging a box of loose cables while scolding a bunny he's befriended: "Friedrich, do NOT eat industrial-grade insulation. We've talked about this."

Zack: The second he saw a bunny he vanished and returned wearing a magician cape and holding a top hat. Is now going around performing "magic," dramatically pulling the same bunny out of the same hat over and over.

Cloud: Sitting stiffly on the couch with six bunnies hopping across his lap. Doesn't know how to get up. "Help. Please. Zack. Zack. Zack, I can't feel my legs. They won't stop judging me. ZACK."

Reno: Should be arrested. Has already collected five into a Shinra shipping crate. On the phone with someone shady: "Bro, these things go for 500 gil a pop in Wall Market. I'm about to retire."

Rude: Already built a containment pen and somehow corralled twenty into perfect rows. Feeding them hay in complete silence. One bunny is perched on his bald head. He allows it.

Rufus: Initially stood on a chair in disgust. "Vermin. I demand extermination." But the second he saw Darkstar barking at one, he immediately panicked. Now being dragged down the hallway by the leash, screaming, "DEE, DO NOT HARASS THEM. THEY ARE FRIENDS."

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Dating my best friend?

summary: Where the internet thinks y/n and arthur are dating

It started as a joke. At least, I thought it was a joke.

But then it spiraled into something else entirely.

One random morning, I woke up to my phone buzzing non-stop. I groggily reached for it, squinting at the brightness of my screen.

And then I saw the notifications.

Twitter: @F1Edits posted a video of you! Twitter: @F1FanPage mentioned you in a tweet! Twitter: Your name is trending!

My stomach dropped. That was never a good sign.

I clicked on the first notification and was immediately met with an edit—a full-blown, cinematic edit—of me and Arthur, backed by some ridiculously romantic music.

My jaw dropped.

The video was a compilation of every moment Arthur and I had ever been caught on camera together—hugging, laughing, him slinging an arm around my shoulder, me fixing his hair, him carrying me on his back at the paddock once, the way we always leaned into each other during interviews.

And the caption?

"How are they not in love?"

I sat up so fast I nearly fell out of bed.

"What the—"

I scrolled through the comments.

"No, because I refuse to believe they're not together." "They HAVE to be dating. No way they're just 'best friends.'" "The way Arthur looks at her. Please." "If they ever say they're just friends, I'm calling them liars." "Charles, blink twice if you're third-wheeling."

I groaned, rubbing my temples.

This had to be a joke. Right?

Wrong.

Because as I kept scrolling, I realized it wasn't just one edit. It was everywhere.

Fan accounts were obsessed with the idea that Arthur and I were secretly in love.

There were threads analyzing our "body language." Slow-motion videos of us laughing together with captions like "soulmates." A clip of us playfully arguing with the caption "they act like a married couple." Even a damn photo collage comparing our hugs to the way couples in movies held each other.

I felt my soul leave my body.

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, my phone buzzed again.

Arthur: DUDE WHAT IS TWITTER RN LMAO

I groaned and immediately FaceTimed him.

The second he answered, he was grinning. "y/n," he said dramatically. "It's time to tell Charles the truth."

I glared at him. "Arthur, shut up."

He cackled. "No, because I am living for this. People really think we're dating."

"Yes, and it's a problem!" I huffed. "You know Charles is gonna see this, right?"

Arthur smirked. "You think he's jealous?"

I groaned. "Arthur, I swear—"

Just then, another call popped up on my screen.

Charles.

I stared at it. Arthur saw it too and immediately lost it.

"Ohhh, you're in trouble," he teased.

I sighed. "I hate you."

I switched to Charles' call, bracing myself.

The second he picked up, he wasted no time. "Why is the internet trying to marry you and Arthur?"

I groaned. "Charles, I have no idea."

He was quiet for a second. "...I don't like it."

A smile tugged at my lips. "Are you jealous?"

He scoffed. "No."

I raised an eyebrow.

"...Okay, maybe a little," he admitted.

I laughed, shaking my head. "Well, don't worry. Arthur is definitely not my type."

Charles hummed. "Good."

Before I could say anything else, Arthur texted me again.

Arthur: so when's the wedding or what??

I sighed.

This was never going away.

The entire Leclerc family and y/n was gathered at Pascale's house for dinner when the Twitter chaos reached its peak.

I was sitting between Arthur and Charles at the dining table, trying desperately to act normal. But it was hard when Arthur kept snickering under his breath every time our phones buzzed with another notification.

Lorenzo, who had been scrolling through his phone, suddenly furrowed his brows. "Uh... y/n?"

I froze mid-bite. "...Yes?"

He turned his phone around, showing me the worst possible thing he could have found.

An edit. Again.

But this time, it was a full two-minute montage of Arthur and me, with dramatic transitions, soft slow-motion clips, and—oh my God, was that a wedding scene from a movie edited to make it look like us?!

Arthur lost it.

He nearly fell out of his chair, laughing so hard that he had to clutch his stomach.

Pascale, confused, looked between us. "What's so funny?"

Charles, who had been quietly suffering this whole time, groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Maman, don't ask."

Lorenzo, still trying to understand, read the comments under the edit out loud.

"They are literally endgame." "I don't care what they say, they're in love." "The chemistry is insane. They can deny it all they want, but we see it."

Pascale blinked. "Wait... they think Arthur and y/n are together?"

Arthur wheezed. "YES."

I groaned, dropping my head onto the table. "I hate the internet."

Charles, still visibly annoyed, muttered, "Me too."

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. "How did this even start?"

Arthur grinned. "Oh, you know, just years of being the best-looking duo in F1 history."

Charles shot him a glare. "Arthur."

Arthur held up his hands. "Hey, don't blame me. I told you guys to go public sooner, but noooo, you wanted to keep it a secret." He smirked at Charles. "Look where that got you."

Pascale, clearly trying not to laugh, patted Charles' arm. "Mon chéri, I don't think you have anything to worry about."

Charles sighed dramatically, crossing his arms. "I know that. But it's annoying."

Arthur smirked, nudging me. "So, babe, when are we making it official?"

Charles kicked him under the table.

Arthur yelped, rubbing his shin. "Merde! Okay, okay, I'll stop."

Lorenzo, shaking his head, muttered, "I can't believe this is what the internet is talking about."

Pascale, still amused, looked at me. "y/n, maybe you should post something to clear it up?"

I sighed. "Yeah, I probably should."

Arthur leaned over my shoulder. "Make sure to say that you're heartbroken that I rejected you."

Charles kicked him again.

And for the rest of the night, Arthur milked the situation for all it was worth, much to Charles' growing frustration.

Arthur was thriving.

The entire dinner, he kept finding new ways to bring up the Twitter chaos, fully enjoying Charles' irritation.

At one point, he turned to Pascale and, with the most serious expression ever, said, "Maman, I think it's time we start planning the wedding."

Charles snapped his head up so fast I thought he might get whiplash. "Arthur."

Arthur smirked. "What? The people have spoken. y/n and I have undeniable chemistry."

I groaned. "Arthur, I swear—"

He ignored me completely, turning to Lorenzo. "You'll be my best man, right?"

Lorenzo played along, nodding thoughtfully. "Of course. Someone has to keep Charles from throwing a tantrum during the vows."

Charles scowled. "This is not funny."

Pascale, now full-on laughing, patted his hand. "Oh, mon chéri, it's a little funny."

Arthur grinned. "See? Even Maman thinks so." He turned back to me. "So, y/n, first dance song? I'm thinking something dramatic."

Charles shoved Arthur so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

I buried my face in my hands. "I hate you both."

Arthur, still laughing, sat up straight again. "Oh, don't worry, y/n. I promise I'll let you down easy."

Charles shot him the deadliest glare I'd ever seen. "Arthur, I swear to God—"

Arthur just winked.

Pascale shook her head, still smiling. "y/n, ma chérie, I do think you should post something to clear it up. Or else this will never end."

I groaned. "You're right."

Arthur leaned over again, grinning. "Make sure to write that I'm the love of your life."

Charles grabbed his fork and pointed it at him. "I will stab you."

Lorenzo sighed, sipping his wine. "This is the most entertaining dinner we've had in a while."

I pulled out my phone and quickly typed out a tweet:

"As much as I love Arthur, he is unfortunately my best friend and NOT my boyfriend. Please stop making wedding edits before Charles actually murders him."

I hit send, sighing in relief. "There. Cleared up."

Arthur pouted. "You could've been nicer about it."

Charles smirked. "Oh no, I think it was perfect."

Arthur dramatically crossed his arms. "Fine. But when I do get a girlfriend, I expect the same level of effort from the internet."

Lorenzo chuckled. "I don't think they'll care as much."

Arthur gasped. "How dare you?"

Pascale laughed softly. "I love all of you, but I think I need some wine before this conversation gets even worse."

And just like that, the teasing finally started to die down.

Well, at least for that night.

Because the next morning, I woke up to another tweet from Arthur.

"Heartbroken. Betrayed. Stabbed in the back. I was ready to give y/n the world, but alas... Charles won. Stay strong, my fellow shippers. 💔"

I nearly threw my phone at the wall.

Charles, reading over my shoulder, groaned. "I'm going to kill him."

Arthur, standing in the doorway, just smirked. "If I can't have her, no one can."

I launched a pillow at his head.

The internet lost its mind.

After my tweet officially clearing things up, people didn't just accept it and move on. Oh, no. Instead, they shifted their focus entirely—to me and Charles.

Within minutes, our names were trending, and fans were freaking out.

"WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. If she's NOT dating Arthur... THEN WHO IS SHE DATING??"

"Guys. GUYS. WHAT IF IT'S CHARLES???"

"Now I need to know who y/n's real boyfriend is. I'm INVESTED."

Then someone, some cursed individual, dug up old photos of me and Charles—us standing just a little too close, smiling at each other when we thought no one was looking, him pulling me aside in the paddock, moments that definitely looked suspicious when taken out of context.

And suddenly, a new theory was born:

"What if y/n was dating Charles this entire time and that's why Arthur was so comfortable joking about it??"

I groaned so loudly Charles turned to look at me from the other side of the couch. "Now what?"

I just wordlessly turned my phone to show him the absolute chaos online. His eyes scanned the tweets, his expression shifting from confusion to realization to pure horror.

He muttered, "Merde."

I sighed. "Yeah. Merde."

And then Arthur made things so much worse.

He retweeted one of the tweets theorizing that I was secretly dating Charles and captioned it:

"Who's to say?" 👀

CHARLES NEARLY THREW HIS PHONE.

"ARTHUR!" he shouted, already reaching for his own phone to yell at him.

I buried my face in my hands. "I hate him so much."

Arthur, from his own apartment, immediately FaceTimed us, laughing his ass off.

The second Charles answered, Arthur gasped dramatically. "WAIT. Are you guys together right now? Oh, this just gets better and better!"

Charles glared. "Arthur, why did you do that?"

Arthur was still grinning. "Because it's funny. You should see Twitter right now."

We both checked.

It was a disaster.

"WHY WOULD ARTHUR RETWEET THIS IF IT WASN'T TRUE???" "Guys, we were looking at the wrong Leclerc this whole time." "This man just soft launched his brother's relationship, and I respect that."

Charles let out a long, long sigh, rubbing his temples. "This is not how I wanted this to happen."

I groaned. "Do we just... confirm it now?"

Arthur perked up. "Oh, do it in the cutest way possible. I need something to make up for the heartbreak of losing you."

Charles and I both shot him a glare.

Arthur just smirked. "Too soon?"

Charles sighed. "I hate you."

Arthur grinned. "No, you don't. You love me. Almost as much as you love y/n."

And because Charles was already done with the whole situation, he just... ended the call.

I stared at him. "Wow."

He exhaled. "I refuse to let him make this worse."

But it was already worse.

Because Arthur, the menace, was already tweeting again.

"Can't believe I lost my best friend AND my sister-in-law on the same day. Stay strong, warriors. 💔"

Charles threw his phone onto the couch. "I give up."

I sighed, shaking my head. "Arthur is never going to let us live this down."

Charles groaned, rubbing his face. "I know."

And sure enough, the next morning, Arthur had another tweet waiting for us.

"Seeing y/n and Charles together is so hard for me. But if they're happy, I guess I'll cope." 😔💔

He was having the time of his life.

Charles and I? Not so much.

By the next day, our relationship was basically confirmed—not because we said anything, but because Arthur wouldn't stop talking about it.

At this point, he had taken his self-assigned role as Heartbroken Brother and Former Love Interest way too seriously.

His tweets were out of control:

Arthur Leclerc (@Arthur_Leclerc): "Can't believe I was just a placeholder. 😔💔"

Arthur Leclerc (@Arthur_Leclerc): "Somewhere in another universe, it's me and y/n against the world. Not in this one, though. In this one, I am merely a side character."

Arthur Leclerc (@Arthur_Leclerc): "Wishing my ex-best friend and ex-fake-girlfriend all the best. Even though this betrayal will haunt me forever."

The comments were insane.

"THIS MAN IS SO DRAMATIC I CAN'T." "Arthur, PLEASE, they're literally just dating." "You are acting like Charles stole your childhood sweetheart." "Arthur is the biggest shipper of Charles and y/n and the biggest hater at the same time."

And then, just when I thought Arthur had finally run out of ways to be annoying, he took it to Instagram.

I was sitting with Charles in his apartment when I got the notification. I opened it and immediately groaned.

"No way."

Charles looked over. "What now?"

I turned my phone around.

Arthur had posted a black-and-white photo of us. It was an old picture of me fixing his hair before a karting race, and underneath it, he had captioned it:

"Once upon a time. 💔"

Charles let out a long, suffering sigh. "I hate him."

Arthur, who somehow knew we were both looking at the post, called us immediately.

The second I picked up, he sighed dramatically. "I just needed a moment to grieve."

Charles scowled. "Arthur—"

But Arthur wasn't done.

"Do you know how hard this is for me?" he continued. "I mean, I was the one who had to sit back and watch while my fake soulmate fell for my own brother."

I rolled my eyes. "Arthur—"

"I was the one who had to suffer in silence while you two snuck around, living your secret romance while I was out here looking like a fool."

Charles, completely done, said, "I'm hanging up."

Arthur gasped. "CHARLES, HOW DARE YOU. I am pouring my heart out, and you—"

Click.

Charles ended the call.

I stared at him. "Wow."

Charles groaned, falling back onto the couch. "He deserved it."

I checked my phone again and sighed. "You do realize he's never going to stop, right?"

Charles covered his face with his hands. "I know."

And, of course, Arthur did not stop.

By the next morning, he had posted a TikTok of himself sitting alone at a café, sad music playing in the background, with the caption:

"POV: You lost your fake girlfriend and your brother won."

I nearly died laughing.

Charles? He just groaned and muttered, "I need a break from the internet."

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 63

part 1 | part 62 | tumblr masterlist | ao3

cw: references to canonical horror. short update today while i restructure some stuff in the next scene <3

“I’m staying with him,” Steve says, toeing a weed in the soft soil. Testing the give. Thinks maybe he’ll be doing that for the rest of his life. 

“Uh,” Robin objects. They’re at the top of the hill again, halfway to the car — everyone but Eddie, who refused to leave the boathouse after telling them in horrific detail how a cheerleader floated up to the ceiling and popped like a cheap balloon, and whose pale, frightened face Steve can see staring at them through a grimy window, two black dots hardly daring to blink. 

“Steve.”

“Huh?” 

Max calls him a total space-case.

Robin groans up at the sky. "As much as we would all love to have a spooky sleepover with you two under a tarp—”

“Mm, would we love that?” Dustin wonders. 

“—I'm not so sure our parents would be too thrilled about us not coming home when there's a freaky evil killer magician on the loose!"

Max snorts at that; mutters under her breath. “My mom probably wouldn’t mind.”

Dustin whines, “Mine would!”

Three people turn in unison to lay into him for being a dick, but he’s already holding up his hands in surrender, cringing so hard it folds his face like crumpled paper. “Sorry,” he winces. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“Yep,” Max agrees with a flat smack of her lips.

Eddie's still waiting by the window.

Steve just nods at them — arms folded, shoulders broad. "Dustin’s right.” He turns to Robin. “You both are.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, the sound long and airy, sweet with relief that he's seen reason.

She takes a wide step toward the car.

Steve says, “Which is why I'm staying here, and you're all going home."

Her foot falls back down to the ground; legs stretched in a standing split, shoes slipping on wet grass. “Oh, my god." This sigh is sour. "Oh, my god, of course you are.”

“We’re not leaving you,” says Dustin.

“Wasn’t asking,” Steve replies.

Robin lets out a strangled noise of frustration and shimmies herself upright. "Steve, please!" She marches over. "I know you’re all” —her hands come up around her head, voice warbling; wooOoo-ooh— “about your boyfriend-slash-not-boyfriend-slash-whatever being in danger, and I get that, babe, I really do, but I don't! Know how! To drive!"

Steve turns to Max. 

She’s looking right at them, mouth pinched in a flat line over the laugh she's holding back. Restrained as ever, but Steve can see the glimmer of excitement at the edge of her expression — the subtle twitch of her nostrils, the muscle jumping in her jaw. 

I've driven it before. 

"...Do not," he warns as he presses his keys into her palm; closes her fist around the metal, "fuck this up."

—

part 64

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[carriesthewind]

Hi, I’m sorry if this isn’t the kind of question you can answer, but I’m having a hard time finding sources that don’t just skip over this (that might be on me)- if you’re in police custody and being questioned, what happens between saying “I am invoking my right to an attorney” and the lawyer actually showing up? Like I know you then proceed to shut the fuck up, but besides that. Do you have to call the attorney (and presumably then have to know their phone number) or do they just. Show up somehow? Does that change if you can in theory afford an attorney but don’t have one off the top of your head? Most of the sources I read say to invoke your rights and then don’t say anything else until your lawyer shows up but seem to skip over the part in the middle.

This is a bit tricky to answer, because the reality is less, "what happens between," than, 'what happens after you invoke your right to an attorney.' I think this is one of things that people have an image of from police procedurals - the suspect is in the interrogation room, they assert their right to an attorney, and then the scene changes and we cut back to them sitting with an attorney in the interrogation room. Despite how common this scenario is in media, this is very much not the normal process.

After you invoke your right to remain silent, and your right to an attorney, the following should (should) happen:

The interrogation stops (the police stop asking you questions)

The rest will depend on the specifics of your circumstances:

If you are being detained, but not arrested, the police will have to let you leave. The time frame they can detain you will very much depend on the circumstances (there isn't a hard line rule), but you are generally talking minutes to hours.

If you have been arrested, you can be kept in custody until you are charged, arraigned, and either been released pending trial or had a bail hearing (the specifics on all of these - timing, process, etc. - will depend on the jurisdiction). If you cannot afford a lawyer, you should be appointed one before your first hearing.

There is no obligation on the part of the state to ensure you get access to an attorney earlier than your first hearing so that they can continue to question you. The police just have the obligation to stop questioning you. (And they know that once you have an attorney, that attorney will almost certainly advise you to not answer any questions. The police are not questioning you to help you clear your name, nor to get to the real truth of the matter.)

You should be given the opportunity to make phone calls after your arrest. If you call your attorney, you should be given privacy in making that call and the state can't eavesdrop. If you don't have an attorney (or don't know their phone number), you can contact other people outside to help you contact/retain counsel. But note, the police and prosecutors can and will listen to every single phone call you make other than calls to your attorney. (Tangent: if, as part of your arrest and charges, you are told that you are not supposed to contact someone, or that contacting that person is part of why you are being charged, please for the love of god do not call that person. Yes, even if the charges and conditions are bullshit. Yes, even if you 100% know for a fact that the person wants you and expects you to contact them and will be angry or upset that you didn't. Yes, even if the piece of paper says not contacting that person is one of your "conditions of release" but you are still in jail.)

The point I will end on is this: the sense that you might have, based on media and pop culture, is that by refusing to speak until you have an attorney might, in some way, make the police keep you longer. (The police may even suggest, imply, or outright tell you this as well.) In reality, if the police don't already have enough evidence to arrest you before you talk to them, they (legally) have to release you, and cannot (legally) hold you for longer because you are waiting for an attorney. And if they already have enough to arrest and charge you (or threaten to arrest or charge you, or even if they don't have enough evidence but they arrest and charge you anyway, or just illegally detain you without charging you, or whatever), they can and will keep holding you anyway. You are not going to talk yourself into a better position. (Again, they are not questioning you to help you clear your name, or even to get to the truth of the matter. Everything you say can and will be used against you.)

[erodasfishtacos]

Somethin’ Unholy (sexclubowner!hxengaged!yn)

prompt: YN and Arthur have to adjust their arrangement. The first scene leaves YN hopeless and wondering if she should even come back to the club.

word count: 9.7k+

warnings: emotional infidelity (kinda, it’s complicated), d/s dynamics, mean Harry

author’s note: next part is posted on patreon & continuing to be updated this week💕 this is the last part that will be posted on tumblr.

to get access to the rest of this trope as well as 300+ other exclusive writings - you can join for $3USD! -> HERE <-

PART ONEk

+•+•+•+•+•+•+•+•+•

YN isn’t above this.

Actually, this is exactly where she wants to be.

Her arms are akin to jello as she slowly starts to move across the floor, the hardwood was rough on her knees, and she had to complain.

YN sits back on her heels, eyes sparkling and challenging, she was going to make Harry prove himself as a good dominant.

Harry raises an eyebrow, questioning but unmoving from where he stands.

“Hurts my knees, sir,” YN tells him, the ‘sir’ was patronizing and not obedient in the way it was intended to be used when he demanded it from her.

“The funny thing is…” Harry tilts his head, eyes tracing over every inch of her, “I didn’t fucking ask if it hurt. Crawl to me now.”

YN huffs, putting her palms flat again and moving towards him.

“Slower. Move slower. I really want you to feel that ache you were bitching about in your knees,” Harry tells her, his voice was so calm and monotone that it was making her want to get him mad.

YN does as he says but to the extreme, going so entirely slow that she’s barely moving any bit forward.

Her face is towards the floor and suddenly, there is a pair of leather boots in her line of vision, standing in front of her.

A hand weaves into her hair, twirling the strands between slender fingers, and pulling upwards without mercy.

YN lets out a high-pitched squeak at the pain prickling on her scalp, forcing her neck to tilt upwards to look at Harry who’s now squatting in front of her.

“Is that too rough?” Arthur echos from behind her.

YN shouldn’t feel annoyance, this is a learning experience for both of them but she wants him to just sit there quietly.

The way Harry looks up towards Arthur was downright terrifying.

A sharp, mean smile spreads wide enough on Harry’s face that his dimples pop in both of his cheeks, and then he tugs her hair until her head is turned a an uncomfortable angle, looking towards her fiancé.

“S’it too rough for the lil’ angel?” Harry asks in a mocking tone, his grip hasn’t relented and YN had missed this type of pain so much she could cry.

“N-no, it’s good,” YN manages to get out between clenched teeth before focusing her eyes back on Harry.

She didn’t want to remember that Arthur was here.

“It’s good, sir,” Harry lets his blunt fingernails tease at her scalp, “You’re being so awful already. It’s making it hard for me to want to play with you.”

If YN wasn’t in a headspace like this, she could logically identify that he was saying this to get under her skin, making her insecure.

But because her rational thinking isn’t as present as it normally is, it makes her chest ache, and her voice sounds small when she says, “I’ll be good, sir.”

Harry’s laugh is loud enough that she jumps, his hand loosens and unweaves from her hair as she blinks up at him.

He was ethereal under the dim light, all of his sharp features were defined, like they were from renaissance times, and he’d be unreal but YN was witnessing him with her own eyes.

“Did that spark a nerve, pet?” He teases as he stands up, leaving her on hands and knees.

YN only folds her lips inward, refusing to give him an answer because she wanted to get the biggest reaction possibly out of him.

When he realizes that she’s not going to reply, he runs his tongue over his teeth, “Right now, I wish you were really my sub. This would end so fuckin’ poorly for such a defiant slut.”

“Whoa, I don’t know if you should call her that,” Arthur interrupts with an affronted tone, like he’s trying to stand up for YN.

YN feels the irritation of his interrupting itching at the back of her teeth, she wanted him to just sit there and stop.

YN doesn’t realize that she lets out a spoiled noise of impatience, of annoyance at her fiancé.

It causes Harry to take a step forward, lightly pressing the bottom sole of his shoe on her splayed fingers, warning.

“This is a learning experience,” Harry scolds her, pressing down just enough to add pressure on her knuckles, “ He’s allowed to ask questions and voice limits. If you have an issue with that, there is no purpose to this session. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” YN replies quietly because she did not want this session to end.

It had only just begun and she felt such a spark that had never been there before.

This was visceral, different than any experience that she had had with Klein before they broke up.

The atmosphere, the way that Harry held himself with such knowledge and confidence was unmatched.

“Good girl,” Harry murmurs lowly, almost as if he didn’t want Arthur to hear, and he moves his boot away from her fingers.

The praise felt fucking addictive.

She wanted more of it.

But at the same time, she wanted to create mayhem too.

“Is that a limit for you? Yellow?” Harry asks Arthur, checking in like a responsible dom would do during a lesson.

YN hated that it took his attention away from her.

“Er, not necessarily. I’m…this is all just new. I didn’t know whether she liked being called that or not is all,” Arthur trails off unsurely but he doesn’t sound like he’s distressed, he definitely is a mixture of curiosity and arousal.

He liked this.

“Arthur,” Harry replies in a conversational tone, he nudges his foot against YN to signal her to stand up, “You will learn that it doesn’t matter what YN likes because she likes to be disobedient and insubordinate. It only matters if she uses her colors. If she doesn’t like something enough to stop, she will either use ‘yellow’ or ‘red’.”

YN stands, feeling awkward in how overdressed she is as Harry provides education to her fiance, this was such a weird situation, and she wanted Arthur to stop bringing her out of her floaty headspace.

“Right, slut?” Harry smirks wickedly, he stands with his hands behind his back, and pointedly not trying to touch her in any way.

She could tell that in this weird dynamic, Harry was trying to be respectful that he was instructing and not taking ownership of her as her dominant, despite her body screaming at him that that is exactly what she wants from him.

“Yes,” YN agrees, purposely leaving out the ‘sir’.

The smile drops from his face, he had thought he’d broken her, and it wasn’t that easy by just some hair-pulling and name-calling, it would take so much more, and he would learn her threshold for pain tolerances is high.

Harry’s lips press into a firm line and he steps forward, grip firm on her wrist as he jerks her forward, making her stumble into his chest, and he whispers into her ear, “God, if you were mine you would be broken.”

It was only loud enough for YN to hear.

But he takes a step back, letting go of her wrist, and an odd emotion she can’t read crosses his face before he announces to them both, “This is an instructional session as I’ve stated before. That was an example of power play but now I will move onto the next portion of learning.”

And something has switched, YN doesn’t know how to put her finger on it but Harry had suddenly become more formal with her.

More of a teacher, less of a dominant like how he was acting in the beginning.

She wanted the latter to come back out, a hollowness started in her chest when he walked away from her to sit down on a tufted leather bench, and a completely uninterested expression on his face.

“Strip down to your bra and underwear,” Harry replies in almost a robotic tone, none of the teasing and lift was there anymore.

YN is shaky as she rids herself off her trousers, the structured corset bodysuit she had put on, and she was down to her strapless bra and seamless thong.

YN wasn’t self-conscious, she loved her body and was proud to show it off but there was something about Harry’s demeanor that made an inkling of self-doubt creep in as she stood in the middle of the room where he had left him.

When she subconsciously goes to wrap her arm around her chest, as if to give herself any type of modesty, Harry clicks his tongue at her and shakes her head.

Without having to speak, YN puts her arm back down at her side and takes a deep breath, shaky on the exhale.

“Ask to come lay on my lap,” Harry tells her calmly, his legs spread enough to be obscene, a hand resting suggestively on his inner thigh, much too close to his groin to be appropriate in any other setting.

“May I come sit on your lap, sir,” YN repeats as steadily as possible, she wanted to be good, and she wanted to earn his interest back.

Harry is surprised by her compliance, definitely not expecting her to follow his instructions without a fight.

“Come here, now,” His voice is tighter, lip between his teeth as he watches her carefully.

“Ho-how, sir?” YN swallows because she doesn’t want to get scolded again.

“How do you walk? That's a silly question, are you a dumb pup?” Harry asks as if she just asked the most outlandish question ever, “Walk with your two feet unless that’s too much brainpower for you, pet.”

“YN,” Arthur speaks from behind her, still sitting but YN’s back is turned to him.

She knows she should look, this is a lesson for them, to learn how to do this, to model the play, to communicate better.

She knows they’re here as a couple and Harry is simply an instructor.

But she doesn't want to turn to look at him.

YN keeps her eyes on Harry, in an almost pleading to have him help, to speak to Arthur for her because her fiance kept dragging her out of the fuzzy headspace she was desperately trying to sink into.

Harry doesn’t let anything show if he’s annoyed by Arthur.

He probably isn’t because this is a lesson for him, he isn’t really playing.

YN was and that was the issue.

“Yea-yeah?” YN manages to reply after blinking a few times, almost like snapping out of a trance, and she turns to make eye contact with her partner.

Arthur was visibly flushed, his hand was strategically placed over his lap to hide what YN is guessing is evidence that this situation is turning him on, even though he doesn’t need to hide that because that’s mostly the point of all this.

“Is…Um, color? I just didn’t know you liked being talked to that way or…ordered around like that…” Arthur still doesn’t sound upset or necessarily bothered by the revelation, just maybe a bit surprised.

“Green. I like it,” YN nods because she wants to snap at him, tell him that she’s been trying to communicate that she likes this for ages and he hasn’t caught on whatsoever, but she doesn’t want to ruin the scene so she simplifies it down to that.

“Ask him his color,” Harry reminds her from behind, “You need to check in with him too.”

I don’t want to check-in with him.

“What’s your color?” YN tries to keep interests in her tone but these interactions with Arthur are taking any semblance of an actual scene out of her mind which she knows that wasn’t the goal but she had made it her own at some point when this started.

“Green. You look amazing right now and I -,” Arthur smiles so sweetly at her, genuine and honest.

It makes her feel guilty.

YN was pretty sure in this moment that Arthur would never have the ability to be mean to her in the way she needs, in the way that Harry can provide, and that leaves her with a sinking feeling.

“Get your ass over here now,” Harry cuts Arthur off mid-sentence, irritation finally settling in on his features.

YN walks as gracefully as she can over to him, standing between his spread legs, and he reaches out to run his fingertips over the curve of her hip.

It’s surprisingly gentle until he pinches her, enough to sting, and says, “Kneel.”

YN obliges, her knees were already going to be bruised from the hardfloor beneath her but by this point, she was welcoming the aches that were going to last for days after, to remind her of Harry.

“Let’s keep simple today, shall we?” Harry asks her as he runs his open palm across her collarbone, getting closer to her chest.

Right now, she’s blatantly aware that they haven’t done anything inherently sexual which she be lying if she said that it’s not clawing at the pits of arousal in her stomach.

YN doesn’t know if she’s ever been as attracted to someone sexually as she was with Harry.

She knew these instructional sessions weren’t for his pleasure but fuck, she wishes that she got to see him in action - real, in scene action, not this only sliver of what he actually has to offer.

YN nods in response to him, trying to be on her best behavior because her disobedience really hadn’t made him more prone to play with her further than teaching.

“Open,” Harry commands as he withdraws his fingers, thumb now moving to tug on her bottom lip sharply as she complies. As soon as it was, he pressed down on her tongue, with enough pressure that she had to swallow harshly not to gag.

Harry laughs as he watches her, never taking his eyes off of her, “You can’t even handle my thumb but you want to have the attitude of a girl who can take me all the way down their throat.”

YN can’t speak, can’t tell him that she can and she can show him.

Instead, her brattiness that she’d been trying to tamper down flares right back up as she sinks her teeth into the skin of his hand in a clear way to convey she didn’t like what he had just said.

It takes Harry by surprise, his features twitching just the slightest before he’s steadying them again, and pushes down further on her tongue until she actually does gag. Before he’s pulling his spit-soaked thumb out and dragging it across her cheek, surely smearing the meticulously applied foundation and bronzer.

There’s a conflict, YN can tell Harry is debating on what his next course of action is and he seems to be arguing with himself internally before he’s gripping her jaw and making their eyes meet.

“Cut the brat shit. I’m not your dom, this is a lesson. Stop getting so far into it. Save it for your fiance,” Harry’s voice is cold, mean but not in a teasing way, almost a dismissive way and it doesn’t feel like they’re playing anymore.

It seems like he’s actually scolding her even though she sure he probably just thinks he’s giving her a reminder so that there’s no hard feelings between her and Arthur after this but it felt like a knife in her chest.

YN feels any of the feistiness leave her body, it would probably be a responsible time to use her colors, and let him know that she’s bordering on ‘yellow’ because she realizes she’s misinterpreting this whole scene.

He was never going to get into the full headspace with her.

Of course, he wasn’t.

This was fully for teaching.

And YN was trying to fall into her subspace that she would with her actual dom.

But the text messages, in particular, made her confused.

Why would he have goaded her over text like that?

“Let’s get this over with,” Harry presses his tongue to his cheek, looking frustrated as he signals for YN to stand right back up.

“Alright, I’m going to demonstrate how to properly spank. We’ll do five, alright?” Harry tells her as he reaches for her wrist, tugging her until he can position her over his lap, face-down.

But you said fifteen in the text.

Harry is now talking to Arthur directly as he lands the smacks, informing him on the proper amount of pressure, placement, repetition, and timing that all make a difference to how the scene goes.

YN can’t even focus on the words, her fingertips gripping at the leather bench in front of her, and the hits weren’t hard, they barely stung but she felt disappointment at this whole experience sink into her bones.

After the five, Harry pulls her into a sitting position next to him before standing up.

“No comment then? Want to be a brat the whole time but when you actually get a spanking, you’re dead silent?” Harry questions, hands on his hips, and he just overall seemed…unhappy.

“I wouldn’t call that a spanking,” YN scoffs in annoyance but it no longer had any playfulness in it, “Is this scene done? I’m ready to go.”

Arthur is oblivious to the intense tension between the two, standing up and straightening out his trousers, wiping the legs off, and smiling widely, “That was pretty awesome. I liked it more than I thought.”

YN embarrassingly enough feels like crying.

“Arthur,” Harry’s eyes haven’t left YN’s, “Can you leave YN and I for a second? To discuss before you head out.”

“Absolutely, I’ll be at the bar,” Arthur agrees easily, trusting as he excuses himself from the room with a kiss to YN’s cheek.

YN moves to pick up her clothes, bunching them in her arms, and refusing to acknowledge Harry’s existence as she lays them out of the bench to try to organize them in order to put them back on.

“Look at me.”

YN refuses, shaking her head, and clutching her shirt in her fist.

She felt embarrassed, let down, disappointed.

YN doesn’t hear Harry move but jumps when his hand snakes around her waist, physically turning her around to face him, and god, why the fuck are there tears streaming down her face right now?

“Why are you crying?” Harry asks bluntly, his hand leaves her hip and that makes the tears fall harder.

She’s crying over a fucking stranger who sent her a few flirty messages.

“It doesn’t matter,” YN tries to keep her gaze on her feet but the finger under her chin doesn’t allow it.

“It does matter,” Harry argues, exasperation through each word.

“I…It just wasn’t what I expected,” YN replies honestly because Harry can see straight through her lies anyways, “I’m just disappointed but that’s on me for my expectations, it’s not your nor Arthur’s fault.”

“What were your expectations?” Harry seems hesitant to ask like they both know that the honest answer isn’t appropriate for YN being in a relationship, engaged to be married type of commitment.

YN squeezes her eyes shut, the words are stuck in her throat until his hand comes back to her hip, very cautiously rubbing a circle on her hip, “I…I know you made it very clear that this was instructional. It’s not your fault for my expectations. I just….wanted….I just wanted a scene with you. A real scene.”

“You should want that with your fiance,” Harry sighs as watches her, voice low, “You should want to do a scene with him, not me.”

“I get that you don’t want that with me, that’s okay-”

“I didn’t fucking say that, did I?” Harry cuts her off, a defensiveness that she hadn’t heard before in his tone, his thumb pressing in a bit harder to her hip, pressing against the bone and purposefully.

“It seemed like there were a few moments in the scene where you were into it but then…you went back to…” YN trails off because she doesn’t know the best way to put it into words.

“I went back to teaching because I shouldn’t have let myself get like that in the first place,” Harry bites out, his lip twitching as it furls downward, “It was unprofessional. This was strictly educational.”

“Do you often get lost for a moment in the scene when you’re doing instruction?” YN asks timidly, unsure of whether she wants to know the answer and if she’s trying to make this more special than it was to him.

“Never has happened before,” Harry tells her, his gaze unfaltering, “I’ve never struggled not to fall into an instructional scene before tonight.”

“This isn’t in my head,” YN swallows, feeling a bit braver in what she believes, “There is…a compatibility between the two of this. In this setting.”

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t matter,” Harry’s words are tight, strained, “You are in a relationship, working on these issues between the two of you. So that Arthur can provide you with what you want.”

“Tell me honestly, sir,” YN lets the name roll off her tongue thickly, smiling to herself when his hand squeezes at her again, pressing and pressing into her skin, “Do you think that Arthur will be able to tame me? You can’t even do it.”

Finally, that familiar wicked smile spread over his tense features, his eyes twinkling under the dim light.

Because just like her, he loves a challenge.

“I could break you, over and over,” Harry steps further into her space, she was suddenly very aware of how undressed she was in comparison to him, “Make you into the sweetest little sub that I would never get sick of using.”

“That-that doesn’t answer my question,” YN’s breath was picking up, he could tell, and he moves to cup the side of her neck, thumb laying over her pulse point.

“The question of whether Arthur will be able to learn how to handle you? In the way you need?” Harry clarifies as his eyes dart down to watch the way his fingertips dimple the skin underneath them.

YN nods.

“You and I both know the answer to that,” Harry scoffs with a shake of his head, the smiling fading a bit, “No, I do not think your fiance will be able to give you what you need. He doesn’t seem like the type to suddenly be able to dom.”

YN wants to kiss him, drop her kneels in front of him, beg him for anything he’s willing to give her.

And yet, she’s engaged.

The ring had never felt good on her finger but right now, it felt like a fucking trapped life sentence.

Harry moves to take a step back which has YN reaching out to grip her wrist, “Please.”

He lets her hold him but sighs, “We probably shouldn’t do another lesson together. I don’t think that I can do another scene with you acting like such a fuckin’….a brat and try to keep it as a learning experience. I can set you two up with another instructor-”

“Why didn’t you set us up with a different instructor in the first place?” YN throws the question at him, “Raven said you didn’t play here anymore or teach. But you-”

“You know why,” Harry cuts her off, not willing to lay it out any clearer for her, “You know why and I can admit it was a bad idea. I should have thought it through and I shouldn’t have offered myself.”

“It’s because you want me,” YN lets a smile creep onto her face, arrogance filtering throug her veins and she takes his hand, bringing it to her hip once again, “You wanted to play with me. You wanted a chance-”

“And I shouldn’t have given into it,” Harry won’t let her finish a sentence, “I know from your paperwork that you aren’t in an open relationship. You need to go the fuck out there to your fiance and forget about this.”

YN doesn’t like that answer.

Of course she doesn’t.

But he’s absolutely right.

What she was doing was borderline cheating, by just engaging in their conversations that she wouldn’t have had if Arthur was in the room with them.

YN had never once thought about cheating on Arthur or any of her partner’s in the past.

She judged people who cheated on their signficant others.

And now all she can think about is how much she wants Harry.

She was royally fucked and she knows it.

“Fine,” YN bites back, her guard completely up and she turns her back to him.

She can sense his hesitation before he’s cursing under his breathe and slamming the door on his way out.

++

They don’t talk about the lesson.

Not on the way home, not before bed, not the next day.

Arthur doesn’t try to initiate any type of power play when they have sex that night when they get home from playing.

YN doesn’t see a world where they’re going to go back to The Body Factory because the lack of interest from Arthur about domming was blatantly obvious in his actions following their arrival home.

YN notices Arthur being much more distant after that night, just for the following few days as he was much more quiet, reserved than he normally was, and overall seemed lost in his thoughts.

She starts to worry that this all was just such a poor idea, for both of them.

“What is going on?” YN finally asks one night while they sit at the dinner table, across from each other in silence leading up to this, “You’ve barely spoken to me all week. If it’s about what happened on Saturday night, just say it.”

Arthur puts down his fork and knife, wiping his mouth with his napkine before sighing, “I’m sorry, sweetie pie. There’s just been…a lot on my mind and a lot to process after this weekend.”

“You could have just talked to me about it. I thought we were supposed to have positive communication about all of this while we figured it out,” YN lets her fork clatter loudly, showing her irritation but to be fair, she was much more on edge later than normal.

“You’re right,” Arthur agrees, his expression is soft and apologetic like it always was, never wanting to argue, “I…I needed to figure some things out for myself and kind of…process. I worry that I’m going to upset you with what I want to talk about and I guess I was just trying to find the right time.”

YN braces herself for what she knows is coming, they’re not going back to that club, she’ll never see Harry again.

“Just say it, Arthur,” YN sighs, rubbing a hand over her eyes and she knows her shoulders have slumped slightly.

There’s a pause.

“I dont think I can be what you need, in terms of dominant,” Arthur’s voice is cautious, “But I discovered that I, uh, I liked watching you with Harry. Like….I really enjoyed it and have been thinking about it a lot.”

YN’s eyebrows raise to the ceiling.

That was not how she expected this conversation to go.

++

Harry asks YN and Arthur to come into the club on a weekday night to discuss what they are asking from him.

They weren’t able to get a hold of them and the secretary was able to set up an appointment to talk about their membership.

YN and Arthur are sat in his office, dark with the green undertones accented throughout the room, matte and deep oak wood.

The door opens behind them, YN feels herself tense and Arthur must feel it too because he gives her a reassuring squeeze on the hand he’s holding of hers.

“If you’re here to cancel your membership, you’re still charge for the entirety of the year. You already signed a contractual agreement,” Harry’s voice is disinterested, dull as he rounds his desk and sits down in front of them.

“No, that’s not why we asked for a meeting,” Arthur is a bit flustered, eyes darting away like he can’t quite look directly at Harry.

“I’m not interested in doing instructional sessions. It wasn’t a good match and I offered you other educators we have here.”

YN feels like it’s purposeful that Harry hasn’t made eye contact with her once when he typical couldn’t take his gaze off of her.

Arthur’s hand is clammy on hers, making her want to pull away but she was in all honesty feeling the nerves of this meeting too.

She didn’t know how she would handle a rejection from Harry.

Even though she knew there was a much higher likelihood that he would reject the proposition than accept.

Raven had given Arthur a bit of information last weekend when YN and Harry were along in in play room still.

She had told Arthur that Harry hadn’t had a sub in the eight years that he hadn’t played at his own club.

Raven wouldn’t disclose what happened that made him stop partcipating and only faciliating, as it obvious didn’t take his interest out of this world or his ability to be a good dominate.

This was a shot in the dark.

”I am busy. Let’s speed this up,” Harry makes a point of glancing down at the very-expensive looking gold watch on his wrist as if he has a meeting with the queen after this.

”Of course, my apologizes,” Arthur instantly responds, submissive without even realizing it, something that makes YN’s skin crawl, “After the instructional session last week. My fiancée and I discussed our thoughts and where we wanted to go from there.”

Harry just blinks at him, heavily like he’s losing interest.

”And er, I definitely realized that I don’t have the capacity to be what YN needs in that aspect nor is it really my interest. However, seeing YN act like….”

”A spoiled brat?” Harry fills in, running his tongue over the front of his teeth.

He was so intimidating, just by the way he held himself, shoulders broad, head held high to show off the defineition of his jawline, and his faux calm demeanor like nothing in this world bothers him.

Artuhur chuckles, squeezing YN’s hand again, “I was going to say that she was acting so differently, free, and yes, bratty. It was unlike anything I’ve seen from her before and I do not want to be the one to dull that light for her. However, I still want to experience it with her…from more of a onlooker perspective like last week.”

Again, cue a twitch of guilt because Arthur was a good guy and he cared about YN very much but it didn’t stop her from the craving for something from Harry as it should.

”There are plenty of open doms here or doms that will have more than one sub at a time,” Harry’s teeth are gritted now, it was subtle but YN notices that way his fingers are gripping a pen in his hand.

”That’s not what YN is interested in,” Arthur’s has seemed to calm down a little bit, his voice more conversational, “We talked about it extensively and the reason we are here is because we would specifically like you to consider being YN’s dominant. It’s something we’ve both discussed and both feel comfortable with. If it is something that you would think about.”

Harry cannot hide the surprise, his eyebrow raises before he’s steeling his expression again, giving Arthur a bored blink, and he doesn’t respond right away.

YN just wants him to fucking look at her.

“You put clearly in your paperwork that you are not interested in other partners,” Harry settles on stating after leaning back in his chair, hand dragging through his curls.

”Well, I discovered uh…” Arthur starts to become flush.

”It’s fine, Art,” YN finally says, patting his knee, “Everyone has something there. This is literally the place for it. What you like isn’t unusual.”

“I like watching YN with someone else,” Arthur admits, looking down at his hands and trying not to become even more embarrassed, “And I feel comfortable with her being with you. I trust that you would take good care of her but also give her what I cannot.”

Harry narrows his eyes, “You realize what you saw this past weekend was nothing in comparison to what actual scenes look like, right? You’re agreeing that you're open to me doing whatever I please with her, break her, and it won’t be pretty much of the time. At least to the outside onlooker…”

”I know, I’ve done my research recently,” Arthur nods, he starts twisting his wrists between his other fingers as he always did in an anxious habit.

”I cannot give you an answer tonight. It’s something that I will have to think about,” Harry decides, sitting up straighter and tugging at his suit jacket to adjust it.

”Are you going to even acknowledge my existence tonight?” YN blurts out because she cannot take it anymore, he won’t even make eye contact with her, and she knows it's purposeful.

“Did the kitty need attention? Can’t go a minute without it, huh?” Harry chuckles as he slowly rolls his gaze over to her, eyes finally glancing up and down her body before meeting her stare once again.

YN bites her lip, refusing to give into his teasing if this isn’t going to have the end result she wants because the fire building in her belly is already back with a vengeance.

“I just think you’re being rude,” YN shrugs defiantly, crossing her leg over the other and bouncing it like she was impatient to leave, giving him a reminder that he does want to play with her - he’s said it himself.

That fucking smile spreads on his face.

The one when he’s challenged and he knows he’s going to win.

”I think you’re being a greedy slut but I wasn’t going to say anything,” Harry’s voice sounds curiously fond, enamored by her, and it makes her preen at the unspoken praise of his reaction.

YN scowls but when Arthur touches her bouncing leg, it drags her out of any floatiness that she was going to drift to, and it was probably for the best anyways in this moment.

“I’ll have an answer for you by tomorrow,” Harry tells them, standing up and motioning towards the door, and Arthur thanks him more than once before starting to trail out.

As Arthur starts to head down the hallway, a hand reaches out and wraps around her wrist, stopping her for a moment, and causing her to look back at the person who grabbed it.

Harry’s eyes are back to the intensed, lock-in almost predatory stare.

”Do you think this is a good idea?” Harry asks quietly, so even though her fiancé is oblivious, he doesn’t hear.

”I can’t think of a better one,” YN responds honestly, “If I’m being selfish, yes. This is a good idea.”

“And if you’re actually thinking about your fiancé?” Harry prompts, eyebrow raised and truly questioning her.

”He liked watching,” YN acts like she doesn’t know what the underlying question that he’s asking is, “I think this is a good idea for both of us. We’re adults who are consenting and both talked this through at lengths.”

Harry nods, lip tucked under his teeth, worrying it until it’s puffy.

YN feels a pit of despair at his reaction, it didn’t seem positive, and it doesn’t seem like this is something he will agree to which he has every right to do but the feelings must flash across YN’s face.

”Hey,” Harry’s voice is softer, his thumb comes up to tug at her bottom lip, “Everything will be fine, okay? I’ll reach out tomorrow.”

”Okay,” YN sighs, leaning into his touch more than she hold because it was definetly inappropriate, “Just…please think about it.”

Harry nods, letting her go, and starting to close the door.

YN can’t be one hundred percent certain but she’s nearly confident that she heard Harry mutter something under his breath as he closed the door that sure sounded a lot like…

”Don’t think I’ll ever be able to say no to you. M’fucked.”

++

YN checks her phone all day during work.

Nothing from Harry.

It makes her even more anxious when she gets a text from Arthur saying that Harry reached out to him and would like to meet privately that night.

YN patiently waits for her confirmation of whether he’s on board or not but the text doesn’t come in until after Arthur’s stopped at the club after work and they talked.

YN realizes that it was all very intentional when at right near midnight sends a simple text.

Harry [11:59PM]: After talking to your fiancé, I’ve decided that I will agree to be your dominant. However, that is contingent on how our meeting goes.

Harry [12:00 AM]: When your shift is done tonight, meet me at the club. We will need to have a meeting to establish further boundaries, limits, and expectations.

Harry [12:01 AM]: Understood?

YN is tired and insanely happy which makes her feel rather pliant and sweet.

YN [12:03 AM]: Yes sir.

Harry [12:08 AM]: Good girl for me already? Get some rest, kitty. I will see you tomorrow.

YN sleeps like a fucking baby.

++

The club is surprisingly busy for a Thursday night.

YN’s shift was in the evening and when she walked into the club, there were people playing in the free play area - very much already into their scenes.

YN knew she didn’t look her absolute best.

She had changed out of her scrubs, into a flowy dress that had been easy to throw on, and purposefully forgoing a bra.

YN had taken her hair out of her claw clip, smudged on some tinted lip balm, and swiped on a coat of mascara hurriedly in the hospital locker room before making her way here.

It had been all she could think about all day and now that she’s in the darken, moody atmosphere it was feeling very real.

YN doesn’t see Harry monitoring the free play from his usual spot, in fact, he’s not in the main room at all.

YN decides to go over to the bar, always in the mood for a Shirley temple, reminding her of her childhood a bit.

Raven was there, as always, looking radiant and unbothered as she greets her happily, “Hey! It’s so great to see you again. I wasn’t sure if I was after last week's session. I swear Harry had been in an awful mood after that and it only got better once you and Arthur came in for a meeting.”

That was…interesting.

“Did he say anything?” YN can’t help but ask.

“Uh,” Raven’s eyes dart to the side, shifty and avoidant.

“No, no worries,” YN soothes easily, not meaning to put her on the spot, “It was an experience. It wasn’t what I -“

“Hello there, beautiful,” A deep voice interrupts their conversation, a hand brazenly sliding onto her bare shoulder.

It wasn’t Harry.

The man was attractive, above average but held no light to Harry.

He was muscular, in a way that wasn’t YN’s type.

His muscles were bulging, like they didn’t have enough room until his skin, and he was making it obvious that he was flexing his biceps.

“I just saw you walk in alone. God, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. Your tits are -“ The man begins to compliment.

Raven snaps her fingers, making a motion across her lips to the man to be quiet.

However, someone clears their throat, and all three turn their heads to Harry who was now standing behind them with a displeased frown.

“Hands off of her,” Harry murmurs, his voice is level, non-aggressive but still incredibly domineering that it wasn’t a recommendation.

It was an order.

The man removes his hand like he’d been burned, stepping back, and instantly apologizing the owner, “I-I didn’t know-“

Harry ignores him, glancing at Raven, “From here on out, please inform the guests that my submissive is off-fucking limits. Clear?”

“Yes,” Raven agrees with wide eyes.

The possessiveness as he puts his hand on her lower back was quite possibly the hottest thing that YN had experienced in her life.

The man disappears back into the group but is clearly passing on the message, whispered surprise as Harry guides her towards his office.

YN can hear bits and pieces of hushed conversation.

“What do you mean that’s his submissive?”

“He’s never once done that before. When he used to play, nearly a decade ago, he always shared his submissive.” “He must be down bad for her.”

“I tried to get him for ages to play with me. She’s been here once.”

“Well yeah but look at her.”

That’s all she can gather before they’re out of earshot.

“You’re off limits. They won’t bother you again,” Harry assures her as he guides her into his office, motioning to a seat before walking to his desk.

YN nodded, her heart was pounding, and she had definitely lost a bit of bravery.

Harry opens a folder, YN notices her handwriting, and realizes it’s all of the questionnaires and paperwork.

“This paperwork is fine for casual play but we need to establish more before I feel comfortable getting started,” Harry tells her as his eyes trace over the information.

“Your hard limits…” Harry trails off as he skims, “We have a few similar ones. Neither of us are into body fluid play other than come. As well as we both do not like temperature play, well hot wax in particular.”

“Allergic reaction made my bum cheek swell up like I got stung by fifty bees,” YN smiles shyly, it was so nerve-wracking, she was intimidated and he wasn’t even trying at that moment.

Harry lets out a laugh, a genuine one, a sound she hasn’t heard before and it was beautiful like the rest of him.

“I also had an allergic reaction. I thought my cock was going to be permanently damaged,” Harry’s smile is softer, the dimple still appearing.

“I still have a scar on my ass,” YN giggles, he’d find it soon enough but now he knows why she has it.

“Any other limits not mentioned?”

“No, I mean I haven’t tried everything but those things are definite no-gos,” YN tells him, her nails digging into her thighs unconsciously almost.

“And we will find out other things you don’t like along the way. Hopefully, we find more things that you enjoy,” Harry's voice is gentle, like he can sense her nervousness and is trying to ease it.

“Things you know you like,” Harry prompts, looking back down towards her papers.

“I like to be a…brat as you know. I really love the dynamic of pushing and pushing until I give in. I love making my dom frustrated and annoyed. However, if the aftercare isn’t sweet and extremely gentle than it ruins the experience for me.”

The smile had naturally faded off if his face, eyes intent on her, “You want me to wear you down? Until you’re crying for me to be nice to you but even then I’ll give you more. After we wrap up, you want praise, compliments, and affection.”

YN nods in agreement, “Exactly.”

“Was this what your previous dom gave you?”

“Sorta? We were younger and he was still really learning. He wasn’t as mean as I wanted but he struggled with that part. He was definitely a softer dom than what I wanted. He could only handle so much of me being a brat, it was a fine line because he would start to actually get angry with me and it was hard for me to tell. I never fully felt like I was able to push as much as I wanted.”

“You will be able to push as far as you want with me. If you think you can go hard, I promise you I will give it back a hundred times worse,” Harry's words are threatening but she knows he’ll make good on it.

“We’ll see,” YN pokes the side of her cheek with her tongue in an act of indifference

Harry glances at her from under his eyelashes, gaze darting down to her chest for a moment before her lips then her eyes again.

YN knows her nipples are outlined against the thin fabric, ready to be played with, and teasing right in front him.

“As for Arthur,” Harry’s voice gets serious again, “I already laid out to him all of his rules and expectations. I do not share in scene.”

“I heard other members saying you did share your submissives,” YN isn’t arguing, just curious.

Harry pauses, lip twitching before blinking slowly and very distinctly says, “I will not share you in a scene. Is that an issue?”

“No, I don’t want that either. I just didn’t know what made me different,” YN responds, picking at her thumb on her lap.

“A lot of things make you different,” Harry replies cryptically, he doesn’t elaborate nor does YN ask because he continues speaking.

“He will not participate. He will not speak. And he will leave the room when I’m providing aftercare,” Harry tells her firmly, fingers drumming against the dark cherry oak.

“And he was okay with that?”

“He was hesitant at first but aftercare is very important to provide. I should be the one taking care of you afterwards, at least immediately afterwards, and I take it very seriously.”

“That all sounds fine.”

YN has to bite back saying ‘can you ask Arthur not to be in the room at all?’

“We will meet every Saturday night. At the start of hours. You will not socialize with others nor will you participate in free play. You will be fully dressed at all times in front of other members.”

YN tilts her head, leaning forward just the slightest so she knows there’s a gap in her top, flashing him his first sight of her breasts.

“Yes sir.”

Harry’s fingers roll tightly into a fist, exactly how she would hope he would have responded.

“I cannot wait to make you cry like the little disobident brat you are, fuckin’ starving for anything I’ll give you,” Harry tells her, voice dropping noticeably lower.

“I’ve been good all night. I’ve said sir,” YN makes sure to sound as innocent as possible, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

It’s crossing a boundary, surely.

Arthur isn’t here.

YN cannot find it in her to care.

“Then I guess our scenes will be mild, boring,” Harry shrugs, his cadence going slower, deeper into his accent, “Shame.”

He stands up, taking his time to round the desk, and reaches out his hand, “I will walk you out.”

YN raises her eyebrow, “In a minute. My legs are sore from running around all day.”

She gets the perfect response.

Frustration.

Harry’s jaw shifts under his skin, teeth together, and nostrils flaring, “Get the fuck up.”

“Jesus, someone has an attitude,” YN mutters under her breath but obviously loud enough that Harry would be able to hear her clear as day.

She pushes herself out of the seat and turns towards the door, the opposite side of where Harry is standing to bypass him.

As she walks towards the exit, a hand reaches from behind her, his chest suddenly flush against her back, and a hand cupping the sides of her neck.

He pulls her back into him with enough force that it knocks the wind out of her for a moment and she squeals in surprise, airway suddenly restricted slightly.

“You’re cute when you’re brave, kitty,” Harry whispers in her ear, teeth grazing her lone, and he bites her - enough to sting, “I’ll show you a fucking attitude. One you’ve never seen.”

His fingers tighten for a moment and YN doesn’t think before she’s pressing her bum back into the cradle of his hips.

He was thick, unsurprisingly big from what she could feel, and she was craving that inside her as soon as possible.

YN reaches for the hand on her throat and surprisingly, Harry lets her move if, down over her collarbones, down over her sternum, and guides him right to her chest.

Over the fabric, Harry finds her hard nipple with ease, and gives her the hardest tweak she’d ever experienced, gasping as she grinds backwards.

“Enough.”

Harry suddenly takes his hand, his body away, and is standing at a distance.

He shakes his head, “We can’t be doing things like this. You know that.”

YN bites her bottom lip, she knows why, and she knows Harry is just trying to respect her fiancé even when she can’t.

“Yeah,” YN agrees, trying to stop the tightness because she’s in over her head, how can she only have him once a week.

Why was she so fucking in to him when she barely knows him?

When she’s fucking engaged, with a date, a ring, and her father’s blessing to be wed.

YN crosses her arms over her chest, embarrassed because she almost feels like she’s being scolded for her actions.

As she should be.

His hand comes to her neck, cupping it gently this time as he sighs, shaking his head solemnly before their eyes meet, “This isn’t a good idea.”

YN’s heart rate spikes.

“You’re going to destroy me, aren’t you?”

And the way he says it isn’t teasing but isn’t accusatory either.

It’s like it’s a fact.

“I’ll try not to,” YN peeps up, swallowing harshly.

Harry laughs wistfully, thumbing over the center of her throat before stepping back, “S’a bit too late now, kitty.” ++

Friday cannot come quick enough.

YN is excited enough that the buzzing in her veins feels electric.

YN had sent Harry a picture earlier in the day of a hot pink lingerie set and then simpler black one next to it.

YN [11:03AM]: which one, sir? [photo attachment]

Harry [12:34PM]: It doesn’t matter. You’re stripping the minute you’re in the room.

Harry [1:01PM]: I am very rarely spontaneous. I have had this night planned since I first sat you in the club that first night.

YN [1:02PM]: when you were playing candy crush on your phone?

Harry [1:03PM]: I wasn’t playing candy crush. I was reviewing your file virtually to see if you were available for open play.

YN[1:04PM]: i thought you didn’t play in your club anymore

Harry[1:04PM]: I haven’t in nearly a decade.

YN’s hands were shaking, excitement, confusion, and curiosity.

YN[1:06PM]: what would you have done if i had been available?

Harry[1:13PM]: I would have fucked you so well that you wouldn’t have wanted to even look in your fiancé’s direction ever again. That you would have chased after me like a puppy after that instead of it being obvious how much I wanted you.

Harry[1:13PM]: I wanted you to only be able to think of me every time you slept with your fiancé.

Harry[1:14PM]: I’ve never been a possessive man but something in you has sparked it for me. I typically share without a problem. The one time I actually have to share, it’s going to be a struggle. I’m willing to try.

YN felt that Harry was actually being vulnerable with her for the first time and she didn’t know what all of this meant. There is warning signs that YN is blatantly ignoring because he just fed her everything she’d wanted to hear.

YN[1:23PM]: thank you for trying

Harry [1:39PM]: I will see you tonight, sweet girl.

Sweet girl.

It felt different than the sweetie pie that Arthur went with, a nickname that she never had liked but didn’t have the heart to tell him.

YN may have reread their texts a few times as she got ready for the night.

She was going to have to meet Arthur there as he was coming from a work dinner.

++

Arthur meets her outside the club, giving her a firm kiss which takes her by surprise, he murmurs, “I cannot wait to see you tonight in there.”

YN rubs his shoulder, stiff when he kisses at her neck, and grips her hip.

“We should probably go in,” YN whispers back, stepping out of his hold to motion towards the door.

“Okay, sweetie,” Arthur smiles brightly, oblivious to any tension that YN’s holding in her body as he keeps his hand on her waist and follows her in.

YN had forgotten to tell Arthur about the rule that Harry did not want her interacting with other members before a scene.

And Harry clearly hadn’t communicated that with him because when they walk through the free play room doors, he guides them towards a group.

Arthur had made friends with a few people and they wave at them when they walk in, encouraging them to come chat.

YN feels herself start to panic slightly, this wasn’t good, off the bat she wasn’t following instructions and she needed to speak up.

“Hey guys!” Arthur greets as he pulls her with him into the circle of people.

“No, Art. I can’t -“ YN starts to frantically whisper into his ear as his brows twist downward in confusion.

Suddenly, everyone in the group goes wide-eyed, and YN has a sinking feeling that she knows exactly why.

A hand wraps around her throat, similar to the other day, and applies practiced pressure on the sides where her blood flows as he yanks her backwards into his chest.

His lips to her ear and it’s not necessarily what he says but it’s the tone.

It’s the dominance, the aggression, and something about it seems borderline primal, rasp and deep as he speaks carefully.

“If you think this is going to work in your favor, you’re very fucking wrong,” Harry warns with another squeeze, firmer this time.

Everyone around them is quiet.

They’re almost in shock.

And YN knows it has nothing to do with her and everything to do with Harry being openly dominant when he hasn’t in nearly a decade.

Harry must look towards the crowd, “My stupid lil’ kitty seemed to forget her rules already. You are not to interact with her prior or during play hours. Afterwards, it is fine. However, she is off-limits in every fucking sense. Understood?”

“Yes.”

All in unison.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge Arthur’s existence.

The hand on her neck was possession, ownership, and making sure everyone knew that YN was his to play with only.

“Sir, I-“ YN begins to try to speak when he lets up slightly.

Harry leans back toward her ear, his voice noticeably softer and quiet enough no one else can hear, “Hush. No play in front of others, remember? S’just for us. Now let’s go.”

YN closes her mouth and nods, eyes downward to avoid making eye contact with anyone who was watching.

Harry releases his grip, hand coming to intertwine their fingers which seems like such a stark contrast from where he’d been applying pressure to her airways.

It’s a quiet trek down the hallway, YN keeps her head down even when Arthur exchanges pleasantries with Raven.

Once they’re in the room, YN feels like she’s quivering in a mixture of fear of the unknown and anticipated excitement.

Arthur goes to the chair in the far corner without prompting, silent as he should be.

YN doesn’t plan to look at him at all.

Imagining it’s just her and her dom.

Harry is hers.

Atleast on Fridays.

“Do you have any questions before we begin?” Harry rasps lowly, stepping in front of her and studying her face.

YN shakes her head.

“Speak the fuck up,” Harry’s voice is substantially louder, meaner, and his whole expression has changed into something darker, malicious.

“No,” YN shakes her head again, biting back with a little attitude.

The same smile, deviant and enthralled with her response spreads on his face, dimples carving into his cheeks.

“Then let’s start,” Harry rumbles as he steps back even further, sitting on the bench, “Strip. Everything off.” + 👀 please let me know your thoughts! They make my day

[wisterialagoon]

Alastor x Reader - Comfort Fic

Warnings: established relationship, probably ooc alastor, comfort, reader is grabbed (not by alastor) reader curses :P

Btw! Please do send in Hazbin requests, I do sfw and nsfw :)

You had been having a miserable day. You woke up in a sour mood, but the feeling only worsened when you realised you had woken up in bed alone.

Presumably your husband had left early to head to his broadcast studio. You then had several run-ins with the most insufferable sinners throughout your day, but this, this was ridiculous.

You had been standing in the lobby, by the check-in desk trying not to burst into stress tears as a rather tall intimidating demon stood there screaming his lungs out at you.

"I already told you sir, I cant get you a room unless you want to be redeemed, this isn't a normal hotel," you stress to the demon before you.

He unfortunately doesn't take the refusal well, gripping the collar of your favourite dress, ripping it slightly.

The demon has you in a strong hold pulling his face right up to yours, you grimace at his breath brushing your face. Your feet barely reaching the floor anymore.

"Sir you need to let go of me now!" you damn near shriek in fury. The commotion catches the attention of a few of the hotels residents, the demon finally drops you when he realises he's drawn a crowd, opting to leave before things went south for him.

"Y/N!" You hear Charlie's panicked yell as she comes up to you, helping you to your feet, "Are you okay? D-do you need anything, I'll have Vaggie deal with that demon don't worry!"

"Its alright Charlie," You steady yourself, taking a deep breath, "just give me the rest of the afternoon off, yeah?"

"Of course, please, go rest."

With that you head off to your room, you pull off your dress and get into your night gown. You inspect the collar of your dress to see it in tatters, this unfortunately was your tipping point.

You're now sitting in the middle of the bed crying your eyes out, clutching your dress. You're so in your feelings, you don't even notice Alastor has slipped in until hes sitting next to you and pulling you into his arms.

You still for a moment but ease into the embrace, soaking his shirt in your tears.

When you had calmed down a bit Alastor cups your face, making you look into his eyes, "Charlie told me what happened my dear, I do wonder why you didn't make that wretched sinner pay, hmm? You're more than capable." He tilts his head, a questioning look in his eyes.

"I didn't want to cause a scene and bring a bad reputation to the hotel, sinners should want to come here," you sniffle.

"Au contraire my dear, you shouldn't be afraid to kill those that wrong you, if demons fear you, it keeps them in their place! Anyhow, what's done is done, I'm more concerned with the fact that my, usually very dauntless wife is crying all on her own." Alastor taps your nose gently.

"Bad day, bad, terrible, awful day Al," tears begin to flood your eyes again just thinking about it.

Alastor chuchles softly as he pulls you to straddle his lap, softly running his fingers through your hair. "Oh you poor sweet thing," He listens carefully as you recount your day to him.

"And to top it off, t-that dickless bastard tore my favourite dress" you finish, words getting caught between your sobs.

"Oh don't you worry your pretty little head about that, I'll have it mended in a jiff, instead, worry about what you'll wear Tonight!"

You look up at him curiously, "Tonight?"

"Well of course I'm treating you to a perfect night out, I can't in good conscious let my sweet wife wallow in her sadness all night can I?"

You perk up at this. Your husband is a busy demon, its not often you get him all to yourself. "The whole night?" you say with big eyes.

"You'll have my complete undivided attention all night long my dear!"

You jump up at this, racing to find an outfit all while Alastor happily watches you showing him different dresses, shoes and jewellery.

He makes a mental note to quickly pop out and find the demon that laid his hands on you, Vaggie was so kind as to provide him with a description.

[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

[skythighs]

Calista's Dream: Mother

Overdue, but it's here. I got caught up writing my next story because my brain wouldn't let me wait until this was done. I appreciate all of your likes, comments, and shares. Thank you for being here it means a lot to me. The pictures are from Pinterest and linked in previous chapters.

Warnings: 18+ choking and sexual content.

Word count: 1.7k

Chapter 9

The arena was filled with raucous chants as Feyd bested the last standing opponent. The one that wasn’t drugged. He had even removed his shield before the battle. In doing so the crowd loved him even more than they did when he first walked out of those imposing double doors. He was immortal to them. A living God whom they would serve without question or complaint. The Baron beside me looked pleased like his long awaited plans had finally been completed. 

I was instructed to meet him in the same room as before. Where he killed the nameless slaves savagely testing his blade. My stomach churned a bit at the thought, but when I arrived there was no evidence of the gruesome scene. Their bodies had been cleaned up and the floor was shiny and new again. It seemed wrong, for their deaths to be swept away like they never existed. 

The room is eerily silent, before I detect the prowling footsteps of a graceful feline stalking me as I slowly peruse the room. As the footsteps get closer I turn to face the illusive hunter only to be met with emptiness. As confusion clouds my mind three pairs of hands caress me from behind. I jolt at the feel of their cold hands, but I don’t panic. Not even as they pull the veil from my head, or slowly begin unlacing my gown. Once my gown is discarded and my supple flesh meets the cool air they guide me to their perch in the corner of the room. 

It’s soft with cushions and many blankets beneath me as I’m pushed flat onto the surface. At the sound of Feyd Rautha’s footsteps they pull away and await the command from their master before they devour me. He doesn’t utter a single word as his eyes leave a burning trail on my skin. He looks me up and over and down again, almost like he’s stalling. 

“They want to taste you. Straight from the source, they’re tired of only tasting you on my cock.” 

He looks bored as he speaks, but he can’t fool me. I see the truth behind his eyes as I always do. He’s feral at the very idea of them touching me, but they are his pets and so am I.

The implications of his words don’t go unnoticed. I was no fool, I knew he still sought them out, frequently. He was insatiable and for my sake I’m glad they exist. I was content to share him with them, and them alone. It was a mutually beneficial ecosystem. They would not overstep and I would not begrudge them. We would exist harmoniously. 

“Eat.” He snarls, curling his lip.

Eat. One simple word, that is somehow the command they’ve been waiting for. A small bubble of fear pops inside of me, these are cannibalistic women. What if they- A moan is ripped from me, shutting down my train of thought. 

No time wasted as one of the lovely darlings finds her face between my thighs feasting upon my cunt mercilessly. Her tongue was so precise as she circles my bud before slithering down to my slit and back again. She was perfect, but the others refused to be outdone even if they were too slow for the sweetest treat. They each latch onto a brown nipple working them with tongue and cheek sucking and caressing with only their mouths. They worked as a team, perfectly synchronized as they ate me alive. 

I struggle to open my eyes, I want to find him. I want to see his reaction. No sooner do I open my eyes do I feel him grip my throat harshly. He is behind me on the platform, my head resting between his legs. I was so overcome I didn’t even notice him there. When I look up at him he’s looking down at me in awe, but he tightens his grip on my neck and the air I need to breathe is being withheld from me. 

I begin seeing black spots in my vision so I grab his wrist and claw at him frantically. He loosens his death grip a smidge and allows me to suck in small amounts of air. It’s enough to calm me but the spots in my vision are still there. I feel myself going limp before he lets go all together. I can see his rage simmering beneath his flesh. Why would he allow this if it enraged him so?

I gasp, choking on the air I needed so desperately. I close my eyes trying to calm my heart. 

“Don’t look away from me. That was your punishment, wife.” His gravel voice whispers to me as he starts stroking my loose hair. Hands deceivingly gentle knowing he had just been choking me seconds ago.

As he leans back, I find myself craning my neck to follow him and he smiles pleased with my clear understanding. 

“Obedience is necessary in any good pet. Don’t you agree?”

I nod my head slowly, feeling the pleasure return to me as the darlings continue their worship of my divine temple. My puckered hole was now being devoured and a moist finger was probing, trying to work its way inside.

“I said eat. I did not say "touch.” He hisses baring teeth at the guilty party.

The finger withdraws as if burned, but the tongue remains, the pleasure remains.

I don't remember leaving that room but when I awake I’m alone in bed. I’m still naked, so I walk to the bathing chamber intent on washing away the stickiness when I feel a quiver in my womb. A twitch of muscles that could go unnoticed, but I also hear a still small voice. A voice that gains strength the longer I listen.

‘She is here. You must stop her.’

I ignore the need to clean myself and I quickly don a robe and tie it tightly. I feel my feet carry me, without me choosing a path. I’m led away to the guest quarters. Gray colorless fireworks light the sky through the vast windows, and the voice calls to me again. 

‘Stop her. You must stop her.’ 

I find myself at an unknown insignificant door, and I open it slowly. Feyd Rautha is on his knees before a Bene Gesserit sister.  A beautiful blonde seductress, opposite me in every physical way. I can tell she is tall and graceful even as she sits. Her blonde hair is pulled back and tame while my dark waves are loose and unruly.

‘Call to him, break the trance.’

I do.

“Feyd Rautha.”

He doesn't flinch but the woman's eyes flash at me curiously.

‘Margot.’

“Release him.” I hiss out using the voice, sounding near demonic in my pitch.

Her body compels her to follow my command. As Feyd takes in his surroundings he looks confused. Like sleepwalking he couldn’t quite remember where he was or how he got here. He moves away from Margot before he realizes I’m here in the room. Once he sees me his brow crinkles even more.

“Feyd Rautha, come here.” I’m speaking to him but looking at Margot. 

Feyd follows my order, not because I took away his will, but because he chooses to. Margot observes us closely, smiling as I step ahead of him. Shielding him from her with my own body.

“Calista Atreides. It’s lovely to finally see you up close.”

“Likewise, Margot. However I am surprised to find my husband on his knees before you. It’s so unlike him.” 

I lift my brow at her and she nods in understanding. The voice inside me is still once again, but I can still sense the source within me. Quiet but not gone. The Bene Gesserit knows she’s been caught in the act of manipulating my husband into her bed. Her attempt has been thwarted by me and she must now report back to the Reverend mother if Feyd lets her leave with her life intact that is.

“I’m just following orders, Calista, it's not personal.” She shrugs.

“It’s personal, Margot. He’s my husband, we are celebrating his child inside me. That’s as personal as it gets.”

 I reach behind me feeling Feyd there. He’s still dreamwalking even now. Whatever they used on him is potent, but he seems content beside me. He’s vulnerable, how could she do this to him in such a state. It’s wrong.

“If he was in the right state of mind he would kill you, I however will allow you to leave with your life.” 

She lifts her head, chin up now, trying to appear calm and in control. The bead of sweat falling from her hairline is a clear indicator she was not as confident as she looks. 

“I will tell The Reverend mother, you have him in your control. She will be pleased sister.”

“I’m no sister to you, or anyone. I’m my parents only child.” I turn away from her and exit with a tight grip on Feyd Rautha.

I guide Feyd to our chambers and tuck him into bed. He likely wouldn’t remember a thing about this night and I would never tell him. I would keep his vulnerability to myself. I would wrap it deep inside me and keep it safe for him. 

I feel that quiver again, a small twitch of my abdomen, before the voice calls out to me.

‘You did well, not to harm her.’

‘You did well, mother.’

Mother. The revelation is not shocking or confusing. I knew him before he was conceived. He showed me a vision even then. Him speaking to me now that his life had taken shape in the womb could not surprise me. My hand covers him where he’s safe and sound inside me, and I feel happiness. He saved his father tonight from the plans within plans just as he saved me all those years ago. I would always keep him safe.

“You did well. Thank you for your help.” I speak aloud knowing he will hear me.

‘Mother.’

 “Mother is God in the eyes of a child.”

― William Makepeace Tackery

Taglist: @mamawiggers1980 @drunkennunicornn @aoi-targaryen @lovereadingfanfic @avidreader73

@nemodeus @landlockedmermaid77 @wo-ming-bai

[thelonewolf48]

The most beautiful image in The Loyal Pin...

According to me and me alone!

If you want to dive into my overthinking brain and see me nerd about photography and why I think this particular shot is the best so far...

Then jump after the cut because it's gonna be a kinda long post!

Before episode seven falls upon us, I want to talk about one scene that makes me lose my mind and that previously commented on Twitter (because I refuse to call it X).

I’m sure there are more prepared people out there to talk about this, but my very amateurish ass can’t stop the word vomit I’m about to post.

I love photography and cinematography.

I love The Loyal Pin and, of course, FreenBecky.

I didn’t come here to tell you how beautiful TLP is, we all agree of its beauty. But, there’s a scene from Episode 6 that I can’t take out of my head for many reasons. If they did this fully knowing what they wanted from this, then they have all my respect! But even if it was a more instinctive choice, I still want to praise them for the shot!

I’ll begin by saying that movies and series can tire our eyes. We have less than seconds to react to the images thrown at us. Some directors make an effort to film in a way that we don’t get tired, that we don’t have to work much to focus on what they want us to see. I won’t go too deep into this topic because it is not the reason why I'm posting this rant.

I’ll try give a short explanation:

Here, we have a medium close-up shot, obviously the point is their faces and their feelings.

Then we jump to the next cut.

And here the magic happens!

Once the image changes, our eyes don’t move! We might not notice because it’s a cut instead of a fade, but this is what it looks like when we merge both images together!

With that our of the way, let’s get to the main point!

First, this is a beautiful Wide Shot! It contains so much more information than we can think. And I want everyone to admire it!

This one feels powerful and it moved us because they’re placed in one of the four intersecting lines when divided in thirds.

Second, we have frames!

And lastly, the image is also divided by 2 very contrasting color temperatures. Warm and cold!

This division is what I want to talk about.

We know why we are in this scene. Lady Pin is heartbroken because they don’t have much time left and they just finally confessed their feelings. So, she feels sad and in pain. She’s feeling blue… and blue is a cold color!

We have visuals of her feelings, not only for what we are seeing in the scene but also on how the cold of the room is trying to eat the warmth of the chandelier!

In contrast, we have Anil trying to give as much comfort as she can. She is hopeful of the future because she knows their love is real and because she will return so much faster than last time. Anil’s warmth is trying to conquer Pin’s cold.

But she is feeling sad too, although she tries to be positive about it, she doesn’t want to leave. I believe this also represents her own feelings of guilt for hurting Pin. Of course, we know it wasn’t her fault but the guilt is there too, she also feels powerless and I dare say even defeated.

That’s why the image isn’t divided in the middle, and both are on the colder side of the room.

You guys have no idea of what happened in my head when this image popped up!!

Maybe there will be other scenes that will make me go wild… But so far, this imagine right here is a masterpiece.

Or maybe I’m reading too much into it!