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munsonsmixtapes · 5 months

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Wanna Bet?

tattoo artist!Eddie x tattoo artist!reader

Summary: You don't like Eddie, but he's going to convince you that you do, even if it takes a bet to prove it.

This takes places in the year 2,000!

word count: 4k

This series is being discontinued until further notice, but feel free to continue reading if you'd like!

part two part three part four

You stared at the door in front of you, the hours that were painted onto it staring back at you. Maybe if you had stood there long enough, the place would’ve closed and you could just leave. You didn’t know why you were so nervous. You had more tattoos than anyone you knew so this one should’ve been a breeze.

Maybe it was because it was a new place. There were new people you didn’t really know yet. The tattoo shop where you had worked had shut down because of a fire and you were still in shock because of it. So not only had you lost your job, but the appointment you had set up with Kip, the owner, had been canceled. He was the only one you trusted so you were hesitant when he had given you a referral. You didn’t care if it was a friend of his, you were still nervous as shit.

Your hand rested on the door handle. You couldn’t get yourself to open it, bile climbing up your throat. You were terrified to say the least, anxiety coursing through you as you thought of every possible thing that could’ve gone wrong.

You had your consultation with Gareth weeks ago and had called to reschedule because you had been scared, but now you were ready. It was just a small tattoo and Gareth had assured you that he’d go easy on you and you could take as many breaks as you wanted. You were looking forward to working with him despite your nervousness.

You finally went inside and the whole place was very tidy despite the sketchy looking exterior. It definitely seemed like whoever owned the place knew exactly how to make people feel comfortable. There was a seating area by the front door with a large couch and a coffee table with a bunch of magazines spread out on it neatly.

A coffee bar was sitting by the front desk, complete with a freshly brewed pot and an array of mugs that fit the aesthetic of the building. There were also different types of sweeteners and a small refrigerator that was filled with many different brands of bottled water as well as multiple different flavors of coffee creamer.

The walls were covered in framed sketches and you wished you had the time to look at them all, fascinated by the details of each one. Rock music was playing loudly over the speakers and it was a song that you had recognized from the radio.

You walked up to the reception desk and the same guy you had remembered from before was behind it typing away on the computer. He looked up at you and gave you a bright smile as if you were old friends.

He was on the phone with who you assumed was a customer and it didn’t seem to be going well just from hearing his side of the conversation.

“Yes, I am so sorry, Rebecca. Believe me, it won’t happen again. Yes, he knows all about it. Yes, I’ll tell him. You have my word. Alright. Buh-bye.” He hung up the phone and brought his attention to you, a bright smile on his face.

“Hey, so sorry about that. Welcome in,” he greeted, his honey eyes shining bright from the sun shining through the window. “How can I help you?”

“I have an appointment.” You gave him your first and last name and he typed some stuff into the computer before looking back up at you. You eyed him and couldn’t help but notice how out of place he looked there. He didn’t have a single tattoo on him and looked like he would’ve been scared to actually step foot into the building.

“Alright, y/n,” his smile widened and you wondered if his cheeks ever hurt from doing that as often as he seemed to do. “If you’ll follow me, we can-“ His words were cut off by the front door opening. It was slammed shut so loudly that the frames on the wall rattled. Whoever had just entered had wanted to make an entrance and it clearly had worked since everyone had turned to see what all the commotion was about. Both you and the receptionist turned to see for yourselves to see the most beautiful man you had ever laid your eyes on.

“I’m back, baby,” he announced, holding his arms out. Your eyes trailed down his body from his long curly hair to his black combat boots. He was so attractive and you wondered how you had never seen him before. You definitely would have remembered him if you had. The receptionist made a beeline for him as well as a few of the employees. It was clear that the man had been gone a while considering everyone’s reaction to him. He must have been pretty popular around there.

“Steve, hug me, honey,” he pulled ‘Steve’ into his arms and pressed a kiss to his cheek only for Steve to rub it away in response. Despite his disgust, you could hear a little giggle fall from his mouth. Was this man God? He must have been because no one would react that way to a mediocre man, would they? At least, you hoped not. You hoped they all had higher standards than that.

He took a drag of the cigarette he was holding and flashed you a smile before crossing the floor to the desk. The smoke passed through his lips and into the air and he titled his head down, his eyes locking onto yours.

You knew his type just by looking at him. He was the life of the party. The kind of guy who thought that everyone was into him just because of his giant ego. And they were into him because of the way he carried himself. Like he didn’t give a damn about anything. And he didn’t. Not even the people who he claimed to be friends with.

You could see him eyeing you when he stepped behind the desk, going through the envelopes that had been sitting on top of it. When most men checked you out, you’d pull your shirt down to show them a little cleavage, but for this guy, you just wrapped your cardigan around yourself, wanting to hide your body. He didn’t seem amused but wasn’t backing off.

It was as if seeing the man had brought your confidence back. Like you were no longer the shy woman you had been just moments ago. Being around men who were full of themselves tended to do that to you. It was as if you felt the need to one up them, having more confidence than they did. You wanted to show that you had superiority.

You turned your back to him, looking at the frames on the wall as you waited for your appointment to get straightened away. You didn’t have anywhere to be until you had to work later that night so you supposed that you could’ve waited just a bit longer.

Your eyes locked onto one in particular. It was a sunflower and you normally wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t stood out amongst all the other images that were far more dark subject matter. It was pretty and so realistic, like you could have reached out and plucked it from the painting.

“Who’s the babe?” Eddie leaned over to Steve, whispering so he was the only one who could hear him. They both looked at you and you just avoided them, still looking at the frames.

“She’s a client,” Steve replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He loved the guy, but sometimes he couldn’t help but think that Eddie was nothing but a pig. “Jesus, Eddie. You just got back home and already can’t keep your dick in your pants?”

“I’m human,” Eddie smirked, his eyes moving down to your ass, admiring the shape of it before turning back to Steve. “Sue me. I mean, look at her man,” he referred to you with his hand. “Look at that ass.” He leaned closer to Steve, pulling his lip between his teeth as he turned back to you to get another glimpse.

“Did you miss the word ‘client’ coming out of my mouth? I’m serious, Ed, you can’t keep sleeping with them. It not only makes you look bad, it also makes the company look bad.”

The shop had gotten multiple phone calls that Steve had the unfortunate pleasure of being on the receiving end of because that had been the phone number he has given the people he had slept with because he hadn’t deemed them important enough to give them his home number.

Not only that, but Steve had walked in on too many of Eddie’s “meetings” in his office and was sick of the guy making a habit of it. Could he have not slept with them in his car or at his house like a normal person?

He was getting tired of the new persona Eddie had taken on as he had gotten more popular. It was fine when he had gotten the motorcycle and when he flirted a little with the clients to make them more comfortable, but he drew the line at him acting like the complete dickhead he had become, using people for their bodies just to throw them away when he was done.

“I just want to-“

“You want to what?” Steve cut him off “Seduce her?”

“Maybe,” Eddie rounded the desk. “We’ll see where it goes.” Steve grabbed onto the back of his jacket and pulled him back, causing Eddie to let out a yelp.

“Not so fast,” Steve shook his head.

“I just want to say hi,” Eddie held his hands up in defense even though the both of them knew that he was lying.

“Saying ‘hi’ leads to flirting which leads to seducing which leads to ‘your place or mine’ which leads to you saying you’ll call and then you never do. I’ve been keeping a tally of all the people who have called here because you were an ass.” Steve held up the notebook he had been writing it and Eddie’s eyes widened.

“Five, ten, fifteen, twenty-“ Eddie counted of the tallies to himself, not even trying to hold back his smile.

“Forty-five, Eddie,” Steve cut him off with a glare.

“Forty-five,” Eddie repeated, a smirk kicking up at the corner of his rosy lips.

“And this is just with clients,” he sighed, throwing the book down “Look, you can fuck whoever you want as long as they’re not seeking business from us.”

“Steve-“

“No,” he pointed at his friend with the pencil he was holding. “If I find out that you did anything but greet her as the owner, I swear to god I will castrate you.” Eddie’s eyes widened at Steve’s threat but only for a second before his smirk took over again.

“But what if-“

“No, this isn’t a challenge. I mean it, if you even so much as bat your eyelashes at her, I’m going to make sure that you can never use your dick again.”

“Are you coming on to me?” Eddie batted his eyelashes. That had only happened once and they both just decided that they were better off as friends. “Damn, Stevie. I didn’t know you felt that way about me.” Steve had felt that way about Eddie once upon a time, but not anymore. Especially not since Eddie started solely thinking with his dick.

“You’re disgusting,” Steve glared before turning back to the computer. “Now leave me alone.”

“Happy to.” Eddie rounded the desk and made a beeline to you. He had no intention of keeping Steve’s promise and seeing the look you gave him only made him want to flirt with you even more. He had to do what he could to get the sour look off of your face.

Unbeknownst to Eddie, you had heard his entire conversation with Steve, neither of them quite knowing what an “inside voice” was. It didn’t surprise you that Eddie would fuck anyone who was human, and it especially didn’t surprise you that most of them were clients. If you hadn’t already gone through the consultation, you would have walked right out of there.

Fat chance if he thought he was going to get with you, but you were going to have some fun with him first. You were going to knock him down a few pegs. It was what he deserved for having whoever he wanted just because he was famous in the tattoo industry.

“Hi,” he propped himself against the wall and you had to hold back a laugh at his flirting attempt. How could that have worked on anyone?

“Hi,” you nodded towards him then turned back to face the frames.

“I’m Eddie,” he put his hand out to shake and you reluctantly took it, not wanting to be rude to owner of the establishment no matter how much you wanted to tell him to fuck off.

“Y/n,” you replied and his smile got wider. You had to admit that it was really nice. You could see at least how that worked for him.

“Y/n,” he nodded, saying it slowly, focusing on each syllable as they fell from his lips. “That’s pretty.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here. And trust me, I’d remember someone as smokin’ as you.” That didn’t actually work on people, did it? That didn’t actually get him into people’s pants.

“If anyone’s smokin’ here, it’s you,” you winked and wondered how you could have submitted your name to the Academy to be nominated for an Oscar for your performance.

“So what brings you here, darlin’?” He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side like a curious puppy. He almost looked adorable. Almost.

“I have an appointment with Gareth.” Of fucking course. Eddie took a vacation and now Gareth was getting all the pretty girls. Sometimes, life just wasn’t fair.

“Oh,” he nodded. “I can take you to him.”

“Okay, Edwin.” You walked ahead of him to head to wherever Gareth could have possibly been and Eddie took another opportunity to stare at your ass. The way your jeans clung to it. The way it moved when you walked. He needed to feel it, skin against skin. He just knew that it would have been soft. He desperately wanted to give it a little slap, but even he knew that wouldn’t have been appropriate. Even for him

“It’s Eddie,” he corrected and you didn’t bother to look back at him when you spoke.

“Sure, Eduardo.” He wasn’t used to women acting this way and he’d have been lying if he said he didn’t like it. He actually thought it was kind of hot.

He was right behind you when you stopped abruptly at Gareth’s station. Eddie had been so busy staring that ran right into you and had to grab onto your shoulders to stop the both of you from falling to the floor.

He let out a chuckle but you just ignored him, keeping your attention on Gareth. His face lit up when he saw you and he couldn’t help but smile as well. You hadn’t forgotten your flirty consultation and the way he looked at you from across the desk. Like he had wanted to take you right there and you would have let him.

You had imagined running your hands through his curly hair, pressing your lips to his roughly, sticking your tongue into his mouth. Hearing his moans when you touched him in just the right spots.

Eddie looked between the two of you and he didn’t like what he saw. The way you were smiling at each other, the flirty glint in your eyes. Whatever was going on had to be nipped right in the bud. If he couldn’t have you, no could. Not even Gareth. Especially not Gareth.

“Hey, cutie,” you greeted, resting your hands on his table and Gareth just blushed. He wasn’t used to getting attention from people, at least not romantically. And when you had showed up and openly flirted with him, he could have sworn it was a joke. But seeing you then, he realized that you hadn’t been joking at all.

“Hey,” he responded, a small smile forming on his lips. “How are you?”

“I’m great. And you?”

“I’m fantastic. Especially now that you’re here.” You giggled at his words, causing his blush to get pinker. Eddie watched the two of you for a bit longer then looked around the room for a trash can he could throw up in.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” You leaned closer and Eddie quickly turned away. No way in hell he was subjecting himself to seeing the two of you kiss.

“Well, I’m ready when you are,” Gareth smiled and sat down in his chair, rolling it closer to the bench.

“I’m ready now,” you nodded, sitting on the bench and Eddie took that as a sign to actually do his tasks that he had been putting off for far too long.

———

“Gareth,” you gasped as you looked at your fresh ink in the mirror. It was a Sting from Lord of the rings and it was exactly what you wanted. He was somehow able to get it exactly how you imagined it. “This is fucking amazing.”

“Really? You like it?” He had a sheepish smile on his face that you could see perfectly in the reflection. He was just so cute. And sweet. The complete opposite of the other guys you had been with. The complete opposite of Eddie.

“I love it.” You turned around to face him and before you could stop yourself, you were throwing yourself into his arms. They were quick to wrap around your waist tightly. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he smiled, making no move to let go of you. “I’m glad it was what you wanted.”

“It’s perfect. Really.” Gareth had never gotten that kind of reaction from one of his clients. They usually just thanked him and paid before leaving.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, pulling away from him. “That was totally inappropriate.”

“No,” he assured you. “It’s okay. I…liked it.”

“Well, good.”

“C‘mon,” he nodded his head towards the front of the shop. “Let’s get your care instructions.”

You followed him to the front desk where Steve was still typing away on the computer. Eddie was beside him, going through some envelopes. He looked up at you and Gareth and didn’t miss your close proximity, your shoulders touching. He supposed that if you ended up with anyone, it should have been Gareth. He would have treated you right and wouldn’t have just wanted to fuck you like Eddie did.

Eddie didn’t do relationships. He just liked to get laid and have no other connection to the people. That was the only way he could do it. Thinking about being romantic with someone made him feel gross. It made him want to laugh. He only had enough love in his life for his few friends and Wayne.

You didn’t do relationships either, but you felt like if you played your cards right, you’d be able to start something with Gareth. He was sweet and he liked you and you didn’t get that weird feeling in your gut when you were around him. That feeling that always told you that the person was bad news. And it was always right. Maybe Gareth would end up being the right guy for you. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but you were willing to find out.

“Well, let me see!” Steve exclaimed and you turned around, stepping closer to the desk. He leaned over it to get a better look, a wide smile spreading over his face. “That’s sick…what is it?”

“C’mon, Steve. It’s from Lord of the Rings,” Eddie replied.

“That’s what it’s from?” Gareth asked, turning to you. “I thought it was just a dagger.”

“It’s Sting. It was an Elven short-sword made in Gondolin during the First Age,” you told them.

“Bilbo discovered it in the year TA2941 in a Troll-hoard, and used it during the Quest of Erebor,” Eddie finished, a smirk forming on his lips. He had met many women who like Lord of the Rings and had even done a few tattoos, but he liked the fact that you were so passionate about it.

“God, you guys are such fucking nerds,” Steve scoffed. “How do you know that from memory?”

“How do you not?” You and Eddie asked in unison, causing you both to laugh.

“Alright,” Steve turned to you. “Your total is going to be-“

“Actually, it’s on the house, right Stevie?” Gareth asked and Steve just let out a sigh.

“Sure, I uh, I guess it’s on the house.” With how many times Eddie had done the same thing, the company had surely lost a lot of money, but Steve supposed he could make an exception. Gareth had been shot down so many times that Steve thought he at least deserved to let one girl get her tattoo for free.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” you shook your head vigorously. You always wanted to make sure that people were getting paid properly for their work. Especially tattoo artists because that kind of thing took a lot of time and patience. “I think Gareth should be compensated for his hard work.”

“I can be compensated in other ways,” Gareth winked at you and Eddie feigned throwing up while Steve smiled. He was just happy that the guy was finally getting some attention. He always seemed to fade into the background when Eddie was around. People always seemed to care about him and Steve felt bad for Gareth. That he was always stuck in his best friend’s shadow. He hated it for him.

“Sounds like a plan,” you winked back. “Maybe I could repay you tonight.” Gareth liked that idea. He liked that idea a lot.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Eddie put his hand over his mouth and disappeared behind the door that was behind him.

“I’d like that,” Gareth nodded, stepping towards you, the two of you completely ignoring Eddie. He was just jealous that he wasn’t on the receiving end of the flirting this time. He was always a sore loser even though he frequently tried to deny it. He loved Gareth. Like a brother, even. But he couldn’t help but feel jealous that the guy was getting your attention. He didn’t know why, but the fact that you didn’t seem to be interested in him only made him want to try harder. He wanted to prove himself that he could get you into bed.

You grabbed a blank piece of paper and pen from the desk and scribbled down your phone number and address before handing it to him. He took it from you and quickly took his cell phone out of his pocket, quickly typing in the numbers and saving it under a cutesy nickname.

“So you’ll come over after you get done here?”

“I definitely will,” he nodded.

“Great,” you smiled and Gareth could have sworn that he was feeling his knees giving out. You then leaned closer to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you tonight, Emerson.”

After you were all set, you pulled Gareth into a lingering hug then exited the shop, the man watching you through the glass as you headed down the street. He had only had a few conversations with you and was already down bad. Why did he have to always fall so easily? He knew that you’d drop him for Eddie with one bat of his lashes so he didn’t even know why he was trying.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe you really did like him. Maybe this wasn’t all just an elaborate plan for you to get to Eddie like he had thought. He couldn’t even keep track of how many times that had happened to him and he was sick of it. What was wrong with him? Cleary something since he was never anyone’s first choice. But for once, he was yours. He was your first choice and he couldn’t have been more elated about it.

You got to your car and was shocked to find Eddie leaning against it. He was smoking a cigarette and you hated how you kind of found it hot. But only kind of. He was leaning against the driver’s seat door, preventing you from getting in it and he looked like he had no intention of leaving any time soon. He gave you his signature smile and you smiled back, not wanting to show just how much he was getting to you.

“So,” he spoke, blowing the smoke from his mouth and it wafted right into your face, causing you to cough. “You and Emerson, huh?” He used his cigarette to point to the building.

“Yes,” you nodded, waving the smoke away from your face. “But I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” You crossed your arms over your chest, wondering why he cared so much. He could have anyone he wanted from what you had heard so you weren’t sure why he was so set on hitting on an almost taken woman.

“It’s my business because Gareth is my best friend and I’ll be damned if anyone hurts him.” He pushed off of the car and stood directly in front of you, attempting to look intimidating, but fell flat. You weren’t scared of anything, especially not Eddie Munson.

Eddie really didn’t care who Gareth spent his time with, especially not romantically, but you weren’t one of the soft, innocent looking girls that the guy usually went for. Eddie just wanted to make sure that you were good for him. And maybe the way of seeing whether or not that was true was sleeping with you, but that was going to take a lot more effort than usual. But Eddie always liked a challenge.

Usually, showing a woman just what she was missing after the initial shut down wasn’t a problem. He turned on the charm and was as nice as possible until he got what he wanted. He didn’t know why you wouldn’t just give in. He was sure that he could make you feel much more than Gareth ever could and he’d do it so much better. Gareth was less experienced than him and was seriously lacking in flirting skills so stealing you away would have been a breeze. It wouldn’t be long before you were racing into his arms, telling him that you had been wrong all along. And he couldn’t wait.

“If anyone’s hurting Gareth, it’s you,” you crossed your arms over your chest. Those words stung Eddie more than they should have, but he wasn’t going to show it. “You just can’t stand the fact that someone prefers him over you. Gareth is sweet and caring and guess what? He’s also much more of a man than you will ever be. So fuck off and go find someone else to screw with because it sure as hell won’t be me.” You pushed him out of the way and got into your car before pulling out of your parking space and heading down the road.

Eddie watched in shock as you drove away. No one had even spoken to him like that and he’d have been lying if he said that if didn’t make his dick hard. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t always been a pig. Once upon a time, he was actually a nice guy, but then he got just a sliver of fame in the tattoo industry and thought he could treat everyone any way he wanted. He had quickly become the kind of guy that he had usually despised and didn’t even care that his friends were getting tired of him.

It was like an addiction. He had slept with one person and then another and then another and it was like he couldn’t stop. Now he couldn’t go a couple weeks without having someone between his sheets. It was getting to the point that he didn’t even really enjoy it, but he was so desperate for attention that he’d take home anyone that he could just so he wouldn’t have to sleep by himself and be alone with his thoughts.

Eddie hung his head and reluctantly headed back inside. Gareth was still at the front desk and Eddie gave him a glare before heading to his office for some much needed alone time. He couldn’t let Gareth know that he had gotten to him. That would have just been embarrassing. Eddie thought that he was better than him in every way and didn’t like that he had gotten the girl for once. He had lost and hated the way the rejection felt. It was like a stab to the heart and he finally knew how his best friend had felt watching him leave with all of those different people. It was torture, but that still didn’t mean that he was just going to let him have you. He still had a point to prove, no matter what it took.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #tattoo artist!eddie #tattoo artist!eddie x reader #tattoo artist!eddie x tatoo artist!reader

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hornyfor-redacted-onmain · 22 days

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Chapter 6

OT8 Straykids x reader, ABO AU

Masterlist |

You picked up the box of painkillers from the convenience store shelf. You looked it over for a bit, deciding it was suitable for what you needed it for.

The bells on the door rang as it opened, another customer making their way into the nearly empty store. You supposed it was rare to get customers this late on a Monday night, but you wanted to make sure you restocked the first aid kit back at your apartment before you forgot, having gone through the entire stash back when you were dealing with your preheat.

At least, restocking was all you had been planning on using them for. But with the way your blood was starting to pound heavily in your head and the ache in your bones, you had a feeling that you might need to think ahead and get more than just one box.

You sighed.

Grabbing another box, you took a second to consider the slight grumbling in your stomach, and made your way to the next aisle over. Some snacks couldn’t hurt. You just went through your heat; you figured you had an excuse.

“The chocolate flavored ones are the best,” A voice said from beside you.

You looked up from where you had been considering the selection of candies and blinked in surprise. “Jisung?”

The beta smiled at you. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I-“ Jisung’s eyes went wide. He looked down at the ramen package in his hands, and you raised an eyebrow. “It’s not what it looks like! I know we have performances tomorrow, but I just … really had a craving for ramen.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell on you.”

“It’s only this once, I promise!”

“Seriously, Jisung. I couldn’t care less about your diet.”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

Jisung took your words at face value, and you found yourself matching his now genuine smile with your own. You reached out to grab your sweets, intent on passing by and going on your way, but the idol reached out to stop you as you made to leave.

“I can’t eat this back at the dorms without someone complaining of temptations,” He began, eyes focused on the package in his hands.

“Makes sense,” You quipped.

He shifted his feet nervously. “If you aren’t in a rush, I was wondering if you wanted to join me?”

“To eat?”

“Yeah.”

You reached out to pat his shoulder, and Jisung finally lifted his head to actually look you in the eyes. For a split second, you found yourself breathless with no explanation, the kind of feeling that you got when listening to your favorite song years after forgetting it or watching a plot twist for the first time. It made your entire body hum.

And then it was gone, and only the hums of the refrigerators at the back of the store remained. You swallowed hard.

“Sure.”

-0-0-

You watched as Jisung slurped up the noodles from his chopsticks, the red broth staining the corners of his mouth even as he licked up the remaining moisture. With a small smile, you reached over with a napkin to wipe it away, and he turned to you with wide eyes and full cheeks.

You snickered. “I can see why fans compare you to a squirrel.”

Jisung whined, but with his mouth full, he couldn’t say anything to defend himself. He chewed thoughtfully, staring out through the convenience store window. The soft rain and disappearing sunset gave the streets a hazy glow, and combined with the quiet music playing through the speakers gave you a sense of peace.

You looked over at Jisung again, only to find he was staring at you back.

He quickly looked away with an awkward laugh. “It’s, uh, odd to see staff here. Most of them take advantage of the free meals in the company cafeteria.”

“Hmm, I never turn down free meals. But they only have super healthy meals.” You shook the bag of sweets. “Sometimes you’re just in the mood for some junk food, you know?”

Jisung looked down at his instant ramen and nodded his head. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Besides, it’s not like I come here everyday. Although, if I knew I’d find such nice company, I probably would have come here sooner,” You said, pushing your shoulder gently against his.

“Ah, I don’t come here often either. Although, if you asked, I would definitely show up just for you.”

Jisung gave you a wicked grin, and you covered your mouth with a laugh in hopes of hiding your flushed cheeks, shaking your head in amusement. You didn’t know him that well, but you weren’t expecting something like that to come out of his mouth.

“Wow, Jisung. Are you flirting with me?”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “And if I am?”

“It just seems like such a change from the first time we met,” You mused, leaning in close as well.

Jisung blinked in surprise, his mouth parting open a smidge as his pupils dilated. “Oh, wow. You smell really good.”

You frowned, feeling like reality had just shattered your hopeful fantasy. Jisung was lucky he couldn’t smell your actual scent because you were sure if it wasn’t for your scent blockers, you would be stinking up the store with your sudden mood change.

Jisung leaned back with a worried look. “I- I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you really do smell good, but I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He started to wave his hand around anxiously, and you forced your face to relax, reaching out to hold one of his hands between yours. He immediately stopped moving, his mouth snapping close and eyes staring deep into yours. You smiled.

“It’s okay. You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” You lied, because you couldn’t explain the truth to him.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, right. Um. Good.”

“There he is.” You smirked, “Guess you’re not that confident after all, huh?”

“What!? No! I mean, I can be confident!”

You shook your head, grabbing his now empty trash and standing up. “Sure you can.”

“I really can!”

Jisung practically fell out of his chair in his rush to follow you. The two of you made your way out to the store and into the cold night air, a sudden chill forcing you to close your jacket around your shoulders in the pursuit of warmth. From behind you, you heard Jisung say his goodbye to the girl manning the cash register.

The second he walked out, a cold burst of air rushed through the street, and a few stray drops of water lingering from when it had rained earlier hit you in your face. Having already been bundled up in your jacket, you only felt the cold on your cheeks, but Jisung had just walked out of the store and had his own hoodie hanging from his arm, leaving him vulnerable to the sudden change in temperature.

He let out a squeak in surprise, arms tightening up against his body as he shivered. He then tried to pull his hoodie on as quickly as possible, but somehow his arm got stuck and he struggled to get his head in the right opening.

You sniggered.

“You’re doing a really good job showing how smooth you are,” You pointed out.

“Shut up.” He said, his voice muffled by the fabric of his hoodie.

He finally managed to figure it out, pulling the hoodie down and letting out a huff. The sleeves were a little too long for him, leaving the beta with an adorable pair of sweater paws and a flushed face (whether from the cold or the embarrassment, you weren’t sure).

“Aww, how cute.”

“Shut up!”

“No! You’re adorable, seriously.”

“I wasn’t going for adorable,” he grumbled, folding his arms. It only made him look even cuter, and you moved forward.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset,” you said, ruffling his hair. “It’s just that it’s hard to imagine you fitting the Stray Kids concept with those big wide eyes of yours. Especially some of the 3racha songs I’ve heard. They seem a little too hard hitting for you.”

Jisung tilted his head away from your hand, rolling his eyes. “Its different when we’re on stage. We haves stage personas for a reason.”

“Well, yeah. But those personas don’t come from nowhere. Where do you get all your confidence from?”

“Hmmm. I guess it’s easy when you’ve got a stadium full of beautiful people screaming your name,” He joked, nudging my shoulder with his own.

“Is that what it takes to get you going?” You teased. You don’t know what prompted you to suddenly lean in close, crowding Jisung in from where he was leaning up against the wall. His eyes darted down your face and back up in surprise. “Is that what you need to show me how confident you can be? Hmm? Want me to scream your name?”

“Watch it,” he muttered.

“I thought you were confident.”

Without another word, Jisung spun the both of you around so that you were now in his place. He pushed you up against the wall, not hard enough to hurt you, but enough that you could feel the strength behind his touch. To his credit, he immediately moved his hand away from your shoulder and to the wall behind you, his palm slapping loudly against the brick as he leaned in like it was a cheesy drama where the guy had the girl cornered up against the wall.

The idea behind the gesture probably would have been more effective if a cat didn’t immediately yowl from behind him, causing Jisung to jump in surprise.

You laughed loudly, and not even his glare could get you to stop. Even when he leaned in closer, his other hand coming up to rest on the other side of your head, effectively trapping you between him and the wall, you couldn’t stop the snickers.

“Yah! Stop laughing!”

“I can’t,” You said breathlessly.

“Seriously, you’re ruining the moment.”

You just laughed harder, eyes closed and chest hurting from the shakes that wracked your body. Hands grabbed your waist gently, and you titled your head down with a smile. Jisung looked up at you, eyes betraying his amusement.

“You done?”

You took a deep breath. “Yeah, I think I’m good. I’m sorry.”

“Good.”

It was then that you realized just how close the two of you had gotten since your laughing attack. His hands were still on your waist, face inches apart. You felt your smile drop slowly, eyes darting down to his mouth on instinct. Or maybe it was want.

It felt odd, because you couldn’t smell him. He was wearing scent blockers. And even if he could smell you, it wasn’t your real scent, and it wouldn’t be affected by your feelings. Neither one of you was being drawn in to each other based on instinct. And yet there you were, staring at each other in a knowing way, both of you too afraid to make that first move.

You didn’t even know each other that well.

His hand tightened on your waist, and you reach out to grab his forearms, not sure if you wanted to pull him away, or pull him closer.

Jisung let go. “I should get going.”

“Yeah.”

You forced down the disappointment. He gave you a hug goodbye, one you hadn’t been expecting but accepted less. You wished him a goodnight and spent the few seconds it took for him to make his way down the street staring at his back, wishing he would turn back around. Wishing he didn’t have to leave.

It was for the best.

So why did it feel so wrong?

-0-0-

Comeback season was in full swing.

The first few days were a bit of a chaotic mess at the company, but you managed to keep out of the way, unlike Maya and most of the other stylists. Most of your work took place at your desk, preparing for the upcoming promotions taking place in Japan later that month, and then the world tour that was set to take place afterwards. You were in contact with multiple news programs, city venues, promotional companies; more than a dozen phone calls were made every hour, and it left you feeling mentally exhausted by the time Wednesday came around.

The music video had been dropped early that morning, with captions in every language you knew, and more to be added soon. With every passing hour that nobody complained about any errors, you felt yourself relax a little more, the post-heat and stress finally catching up with you until your eyelids felt so heavy you could barely keep them open.

If it wasn’t for the fact you still had a meeting scheduled later that afternoon, you would’ve found a way to take the rest of the day off and crash. But alas, the job never ends.

Maybe Sooyoung had been right. You could have used a few days off.

Thinking about Sooyoung made your head hurt again. The alpha had been radio silent since last week, and when you let her know your heat had started, she had packed a bag to stay at a friends house. It was normal, something you had both been doing for months since you realized how much your heats and ruts affected each other. But even though it was expected, coming home to an empty apartment was still hard for you.

You tried not to think about the comfort that you sought that weekend. Instead, you tried to focus on the late schedule you were dealing with. The time difference with the stops the boys would be taking on their tours meant you had to stay up late to attend to meetings with other companies, but it also meant you were never up early enough to catch Sooyoung, who was back at the apartment and leaving early to get to the school.

It made it very hard to talk to her. To apologize. You felt like you owed her that at least, if not more for everything she did for you. For how much she cared, even when she didn’t need to. You were finding it hard to accept that.

That people cared. Could care. Would care.

For you.

You let out another sigh and pushed away from your desk. Maybe a coffee from the cafeteria would help your heavy eyelids.

There was heavy traffic in the hallways, most of whom you recognized as stylists. They were clothes on hangers, and some of them had makeup bags. You slowed down to let them pass since they had their hands full. You felt for the stylists. At least all your work was only mental and not physical.

As the doors to the elevator open up, the group shuffle in with their load, and choose to relax against the wall as your waited for the next one. For a moment, you let your eyes fall close. You still had your eyes closed when the elevator dinged again, signaling it had arrived. You opened your eyes and immediately met Changbin’s own eyes.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” You joked, shuffling into the elevator.

He gave you a grin in response. “Going down?”

“Hmm. Cafeteria.”

“Long night?”

You hummed. “Yeah. You?”

Changbin let out a tired laugh. “Yeah.”

The two of you rode down to the cafeteria in silence. You walked with him since you were heading in the same direction, but upon entering you saw that Changbin was actually the last of the Stray Kids to arrive to what seemed to be a gathering. Even in a room full of staff and other idols, they seemed to be the loudest of all.

Jisung waved wildly to you when he spotted you, calling out your name. You winced as the people around you suddenly turned to stare at you.

“Han, dude. Inside voice,” Changbin reminded him, pushing the air in front of him down with his hands. “Calm down.”

“I didn’t know you two were on a first name basis,” Chan said, giving you an inquisitive look.

As if suddenly remembering that your outing earlier that week was supposed to be a secret, Jisung shrank back into his seat. “Ah, it’s not that. I mean, I just assumed since we were the same age-“ You crossed your arms, trying (and probably failing) to bite back a smile. Jisung squinted at you. “Actually, I have no idea how old you are.”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?” You joked at him. You shifted on your feet, unsure if you should stay or find a seat of your own. “How’s your comeback going?”

One of the younger ones, an beta if your nose was right, dropped his head onto his folded arms resting on the table with a groan. “Uh, don’t remind me.” From next to him, Hyunjin patted Jeongin’s shoulder without looking away from his ipad.

“Tiring, like always. But it’s going great. Stay’s seem to love the new song,” Chan said, leaning back in his seat with a grin.

You had to look away from him, unable to meet his eyes without thinking of that weekend where your omega wanted nothing more than to have the alpha in your bed with you, the need so bad you had found yourself digging out that hidden shirt you had in your bottom drawer to incorporate to your nest. The combined scent made most of your memories of your heat fuzzy. Although, on that note, Chan wasn’t the only alpha you had thought of in your horny heat ladled mind.

You eyed Minho carefully, but he was looking at his phone.

“I imagine you’re probably busy too. We have a tour coming up,” Seungmin brought up.

“Ah, I’ve been working on that stuff for the past two weeks. Since I got hired, actually,” You pointed out. The others looked up at that.

“That sounds rough. Having to deal with all that work so soon after joining,” Felix said, resting his cheek against his hand.

The position of the omega’s hands made his words come out slightly slurred as he squished his cheeks. You found your eyes resting on his mouth and how it was pushed into a small pout, the pink of his lower lip shiny. You shook your head, both at his comment, but also to keep yourself from staring.

“Nah, it’s not so bad. I haven’t been doing it all on my own, anyways. Since I’m still technically new, I’ve had plenty of help from Jeonhui as she shows me the ropes. I’ll probably be on my own once you’re actually on tour, though.” You smiled ruefully. “That should be fun.”

Changbin beamed. “You’re coming with us?!”

You blinked in surprise at his loud voice. “Yes? I mean, you guys are going on a world tour, and I’m a translator. I’d imagine it be kind of obvious.”

“Oh, right.” The others laughed at Changbin’s sudden embarrassment.

You spotted a small table being cleaned up and figured you should take the chance to get a seat before the cafeteria began to fill up again. You waved goodbye to the boys, wishing them luck in their performances, and made your way to the empty table.

Chan’s eyes followed you as you left.

“She’s nice,” Felix mused. “I’m glad she got some time to get settled in before we went on tour. She looked so nervous the first time we met.”

“That’s probably because Minho went all protective alpha on her,” Seungmin said nonchalantly, side eyeing the dancer.

Minho, to his credit, didn’t seemed bothered by all the looks the other’s shot him. “Eh, it was an honest mistake.”

“Hyung!” Jisung whined. “Why do you always have to scare away the pretty girls?”

“Pretty?” Hyunjin finally looked up from what it was he had been working on. “Since when do you care about pretty girls?”

Jisung flushed. “Never mind.”

“No no no,” Changbin teased. “Come on, I want to hear more about your little crush.”

“It’s not a crush!”

Chan smiled. He was glad that his members seemed to be getting along well with you, the mysterious omega who had grabbed so much of his attention. He had never intended to go home with anyone the night that he had met you, but the moment that you scent had registered in his brain, his alpha had perked up his ears in interest, something it had never done before. At least, not since he had met his pack mates.

He wasn’t delusional to assume that his interest in you meant that you would one day be a part of that pack. You had ever right to say no if, and when, he asked. But knowing that you had enjoyed your night together, and that you held no ill will against him, made him slightly more hopeful that maybe, just maybe, you would someday be open to him courting you. To joining the pack. To being his mate.

He glanced at Felix, the blond omega laughing at something someone had said or done, his eyes shining like there were a million stars in them. He could only hope that the others would also be open to his plans. After all, he would never imagine inviting you in without their permission. This was their pack just as much as it was his.

Chan let out a sigh. Soon, he imagined. Soon he’d get his answer.

_o-o_o-o_o-o_o-o_o-o_o-o_

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alphabetboyluvr · 1 year

Text

throttle │ jjk - one

this fic is my baby and has just hit 400k over on wp, so I'm sharing her here too he he

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - jungkook is blonde <3, he's also a bit of an asshole. dangerous driving, alcohol consumption, nothing major, we're setting scenes, building worlds just to ruin them woohoo. mentions of violence, gang dynamics. both the oc and jk swear like sailors.

word count - 17.8k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

The bell above the gas station door always chimes just a little bit louder than is really necessary.

In fact, the shrill clang of metal is so intrusive, that it feels borderline rude every single time a customer swings the door open. It's only natural for you to ignore it now, affronted by the way it distracts your focus.

It's not like you're ever doing anything important. Just flicking through the day's newspapers or counting stock.

Although, come to think of it, you're never actually counting stock, either. You leave that job for Jieun, because you know she's a stickler for the rules, and likes feeling accomplished after her shifts are finished.

You're not really sure how much accomplishment can be derived from a part-time job at a GS25 attached to a gas station forecourt, but she seems to enjoy it.

This job really isn't for you - but it's better than following your father into local politics, and nepotism is all you really have going for you, considering you flunked the college entrance exam. An act of rebellion, for the corruption scandal your father had chosen to embroil himself in during your senior year, you had refused to write a single word on the paper.

You thought it would embarrass him - and it did. Just at your expense.

And so, while it may not be your childhood dream of being a pop star, or a vet, or anything of any significance, ringing up bills at the gas station is how you're able to pay your own bills. It'll do for now.

You ignore the chime of the bell as the door to the service station opens once more.

It's the start of the year, and the breeze is bitter whenever it rushes in. This time, the wind is accompanied by a guy in his mid-thirties. Dark slacks, burgundy jumper. His off-brand sliders scuff across the floor as he traipses round to the refrigerator, bottle clinking as he picks up a little soju and some beer for his evening. It's not an uncommon occurrence for men his age.

You hypothesise his next move. To the snack section to pick up something for his kids? Maybe straight to the kiosk to pay for his fuel? You check the screen, and notice he's barely added enough gas to cover the minimum charge.

A scornful mutter of 'priorities' laces your lips, as you see him put back the soju and reach for the whisky instead.

Still, you can't blame him. It's fucking freezing. A little whisky to warm him up will probably be as cost-effective as getting a new boiler that actually works.

It's all just an assumption of course.

You don't know this man, and you don't have a clue if his boiler works or not - but thinking about the lives of the people you meet for split fractions of time always helps to make your shift go quicker.

He comes to the counter, pays, and leaves.

You wonder if he's made up a life for you in his head, too.

Probably not. He probably already has an actual life to distract him from his thoughts. Maybe that's what the whisky is for.

And there you go again; hypothesising. Thinking. Putting your assumptions onto strangers.

The next customer is a girl around your age, wearing a fluffy pink coat and hoops big enough to be worn as bangles. She arrives on foot, pushing the swing door open without much care for excessive force.

You decide, all rather quickly, that she must work at the gentlemen's club around the corner from the gas station. She's buying a coffee, iced, and nothing else.

It's when she's at the kiosk that you realise your make-believe life for her is terribly inaccurate. She fumbles with her purse, dropping her staff I.D. card.

She's a nurse. Paediatric nurse, to be specific. The coffee she's picked up isn't for a boost before a shift on the poles, but to keep her going through a night on the wards.

And yet despite how your assumptions are so often so wrong, you still consider yourself to be a good judge of character.

It's a flaw, the way you always seem to think you can read people; think you can look at their demeanour, their clothes, and assume their financial status, what they do after the sun sets, and if they're going home to an empty house or not.

Your thoughts become lore. The gas station you work in is the thick leather cover that protects your make-believe world from outsiders.

When the bell chimes again, you don't look up.

It's a habit. You don't want to make eye contact. It breaks the illusion that these people are just characters in your head.

Instead, you glance up to the curved mirror in the far corner of the shop. It acts as a second pair of eyes, and is ignored by pretty much all of the customers - except for the teenage girls who like to take selfies in it.

Tall, you assess when you finally find the new customer in the mirror. Broad.

His posture a little sloped, but all things considered, he carries himself well. He heads for the refrigerators, just like every man above the age of 19 seems to do on a Friday night. There's that clink again, and you guess he's going for soju. He's young, so it seems apt. Whatever's cheapest seems to be the drink of choice for the guys your age, and you can't blame them.

You watch, cautious to not catch his gaze, as he heads to the food fridge.

Gimbap, you guess. Tuna, not chicken. One roll, not two.

He pulls out his phone to check a notification, and you notice just how hard his gaze is. There's a ridge between his brows, and a couple silver ballbearings accenting the brow farthest from you. Whatever he's reading on his phone, he doesn't like.

Girlfriend, you guess again. No. An ex. No, no. A FWB turned far-too-clingy.

He looks like the type to be after something a little casual.

The tattoos on his hands are nothing special - you've seen hands like his in countless 'sneaky' Instagram stories; a hand on the thigh, holding a bag. Y'know, the ones. The kind of shit girls post with the caption 'private, not secret' - but you both know there's nothing really 'private' about it. The owner of the hands will be blocked within a week or two, once the girl realises he's nothing special, just like his hands.

You hear him mutter beneath his breath. You can't quite make it out, but the way he shakes his head lets you know that it was most likely a curse. He locks his phone, tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans, and carries on looking for something to eat.

You watch as his gaze lifts and falls.

That's it, you urge silently. Go for the gimbap.

You want to be proven right.

He's already got a green bottle tucked into the pocket of his black bomber jacket, so you know you've got his choice of drink correct. You're assuming that your guess about his phone is correct, too, so you only need one more right to get a full house.

As he looks across the snacks - gimbap, vacuum-sealed meats, cheese, strawberry sandwiches and enough microwavable food to feed an orphanage - he pushes his hair out of his face. The way it falls back down almost instantly makes you smile.

He needs a haircut - but you bet that his FWB (turned far-too-clingy lover) loves it, so he keeps it long for her satisfaction. It's bleached; pale as the sticky rice balls he's eyeing up, with dark roots that let you know he's trouble. No boy with hair like that has ever been good news. Especially not the ones who look like him.

Or so you guess look like him. He's wearing a mask. It's black, to match his outfit, cinched at the nose, hooked around ears that are studded up the sides. He must have, what? Five? Six? Little square studs in there. Airport security must be a nightmare.

You smile to yourself as he reaches for gimbap. One roll, not two. Tuna, not chicken. Bingo.

"Pump six," he says as he approaches the counter. You already know. It's been waiting on the screen since he walked in. There's no one else in the forecourt. "And these."

He tosses down the gimbap, and pulls the soju from his pocket, an old receipt coming with it. Kang's Auto Repairs it reads, but he stuffs it back into his pocket before you can read anything else.

"We're cheaper," you note, not really caring for revealing just how incredibly nosey you are. There's a perspex screen between you, which always makes you feel protected - from people, their judgements and whatever other airborne diseases they might be carrying. From the looks of him, the only diseases he'll be carrying are the ones found beneath the sheets. He's too well-built to be suffering from any ailments - but equally, too well built to not to be fucking about. "Cheaper than Kang's, I mean. He'll charge you an arm and a leg for the honour of his service."

"Hmm?" He raises a brow, obviously just wanting to pay for his shit and go. "Thanks, but I like Kang's. Been going there for years."

You hold back a laugh. He's no older than you. 24? 25? Yet he's talking like he's been loyal to that over-priced, under-qualified garage for decades. The neighbourhood is littered with garages, scrap part dealers and gas stations, and yet Kang's is the main competitor for your place. It's not even in this neighbourhood - it's across the river, which is a different district entirely, but the proximity is close enough. Your boss will never miss an opportunity to shit talk Old Man Kang and his 'con-artist' car mechanics. He doesn't think any of them are actually trained.

"Yeah, well," you smile, scanning his items, pretending there's a fault with the barcode on his gimbap just to be a little annoying. "Our guy, Yoongi, he's a specialist with those." You nod out of the window and towards the car by pump six. It's red; a little bit brash, but a classic. "Pony, right? Hyundai? '80?"

"Pony," he nods, tone neutral but eyes a little narrow. Doesn't know why, but he didn't expect you to know - and then he remembers you work at a garage. Of course you know. Got the year wrong, though."It's an '83. A mark two. I'll keep the suggestion in mind," he adds, though you both know he's lying. "How much do I owe you?"

He doesn't really listen as you list off the figure. Just hands you his card, hums when you ask for his signature - sign of a big spender, must be a full tank - and says little else. His phone buzzes on the counter as he stuffs his purchases back into his pockets, and you glance down - again, not caring for the discretion of your nosey tendencies.

KNJ. (1) New Message.

Sneaky bastard, you think. How rude of him not to have his message previews displayed.

You're not sure if he caught you looking, but he snaps his phone up regardless and shoves it into his back pocket.

"Cheers," he nods, before he sets off into the night. Car unlocked, he slides into the driver's seat and empties his pockets onto the passengers' side. You watch on for a moment, before there's a rattle of his exhaust pipe, engine roaring into action - and like that, he's gone. You assume he's not on his way to his FWB (turned far-too-clingy lover). Wouldn't have bought tuna if he was. Then again, he's a guy. You don't expect him to care about such social cues.

Maybe he's just left hers. His neck did seem a little red, but then again, it's cold. Minus 3. The river you walk across to get to work is frozen over, and has been for about two weeks now. You've got a heat pack stuffed in either pocket of your work jacket.

Well, Yoongi's work jacket. It's his name stitched into the breast pocket - but it's bigger than yours, so you can fit a few more layers beneath it. If the boss saw you in it, he'd have a bitch fit for 'not following company protocols,' and for not caring about the 'company brand image'. Which is true. You're neither following protocols, nor do you care about the company nor its brand image.

It's just gone nine on a Friday night, though, and the boss clocked out a few hours ago with a bottle of makgeolli and the day's newspaper under his arm. He's not gonna see. And if he does, what's he gonna do? Fire you? Good luck to him finding anyone else who wants to spend their winter nights freezing half-to-death in this shit hole of a gas station.

By the time midnight hits, you've been yawning for at least an hour. Keeping yourself warm is a laboursome task.

"You're gonna catch a cold," Yoongi acknowledges as he enters the shop through the back entrance. He's still wrapped up in a calf-length puffa jacket, all warm and cosy. He heads out past the kiosks as normal, up to the fridges. Bagged americano and a cup of ice. You know his score - and you're proven right. "Tell me why I agreed to cover your night shift, again?" he says with a slight shiver as he scans through his own items.

Though he's typically out fixing up cars behind the service station, he helps you out at the kiosk too. Normally just when there are staff shortages - which in all fairness, occur more frequently than you'd expect.

"'Cause you love me," you sing, knowing that it's entirely plausible.

Yoongi - stone-cold, stoic, as emotionally inept as you'd expect a bachelor verging on his 30s to be - could very much be in love with you. It's not like he really speaks to many other women, and he's never given you a reason to believe he's not interested.

But he does give you his jacket, cuts you slack on the days you feel like shit, and covers the shifts you don't want to work without asking any questions. Sometimes he sneaks you the food that was meant to be tossed in the bin overnight, and other times he makes sure there's a peach tea waiting for you when you clock in.

"It's 'cause I love money," he corrects, as if the extra 30,000 won he'll make from the last three hours of your shift is really an incentive. He's already spent 3,000 on his coffee. "Now scram. Get yourself home. Fucking freezing tonight. Want me to call you a cab?"

That'll be an extra 7,000 to his evenings' expenses. You really don't think he does love the money. At least not enough for it to be a reasonable excuse.

"It's good," you shake your head. "You know I'm not far away."

He nods, not really fighting your choices. It's not like you ever accept his offer anyway. He learned quite a long time ago that if you want something done, you'll do it for yourself.

Y'see, you're not the only one who watches.

Yoongi watches you too, as you tap through on the screen to log yourself out and cash up the till.

You've only run 260,000 through your till in the last four hours, barely enough to make ends meet for the gas station. No wonder the place hasn't had any upgrades - with the exception of tills and a new fridge every now and again - since the mid-noughties. The signs are rusting, and Yoongi still has to change the fuel prices by hand every morning.

On the rare shifts you work together, you like to make assumptions together. You guess what people are gonna buy, hypothesise where they're going, who they're going with. When you hear bottles clink, you guess which flavour soju they're going for, as if you don't only have 4 flavours stocked. During the summer, you like to guess who's filling up their tanks to go to the coast.

The door chimes as a new customer walks in, and Yoongi knocks his head back. "Go on, out. I'll cash your till up. It's all good."

You ask if he's sure, to which he smiles and tells you to leave again - so you do. Not without thanking him, and fluttering your lashes a little. Maybe it is your fault, just a little, that Yoongi might be a tiny bit in love with you.

"I owe you the world!" You squeal as you skip out the door. He laughs, but says nothing. He just wants you home and safe as quickly as possible.

Yoongi doesn't mind covering your shifts, not this late at night. He knows this area doesn't have the best reputation, and despite your sharp tongue, he knows that you'd stand absolutely no chance if someone decided that it seemed like a good place to commit a felony or two.

It's a debate you've had a few times before. You know he's right, but you fight against him regardless. It always makes him smile, and only adds to your theory that he might be a little bit in love with you.

You forget the quiet thrum in your chest as soon as the cold air hits you. Yoongi traded his jacket with you before you left; him now in his work uniform, and you in his thick puffa which reaches down to your ankles. Hands stuffed into his pockets, your shoulders hunch as you walk, a mask covering your face just to keep the heat in. Your scarf is wrapped around you so tightly that you might just suffocate, but it would be worth it, you think. You hate this time of year. So fucking cold, and for what?

The bridge lights are off by the time you reach it, illuminated only by a couple of cars. They're sat up towards the far end, facing you, and you sigh. Every fucking weekend.

It's not always the same cars, but quite often it is - or some variation of the same group, at least. They sit, waiting for traffic to die down and the lights to cut off, before turning the bridge into their own little speedway.

You should have guessed from the sound of that asshole's exhaust earlier that evening that he'd be one of them.

The fact he goes to Kang's, too.

It's obvious, when you think about it now.

Guys his age never fill up their tanks - but he did. Filled it up just to spit it all out again, painting the road in iridescent speckles of gas.

You can see the Pony. It's the car farthest away from you, next to a black SsangYong.

You can't make out the model of the SsangYong, but it looks fast. It's lowered, windows tinted, exhaust tampered with, just to create an almighty roar - which screams 'I have a tiny cock'.

At least with the Pony, you can tell that the sound being delivered comes from his engine. Credit where it's due, and all that. He could still very much have a tiny cock, but at least he's better at hiding it.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you hug into yourself to preserve heat. The lights of the cars make you a little self-conscious, aware that you're the only thing in sight that's disturbing their peace. There's ice on the road, but you pay it no notice, knowing that there's no point in worrying about one of the cars swerving off-road as they inevitably shoot past you.

If it happens, it happens.

The SsangYong is loud. Obnoxiously, so. You can hear pressure being put down and released on the gas pedal, clutch raised. He's teasing you. Warning you. Hurry up.

Next to it, the Pony hums. He doesn't seem interested in taunting you as if you could fight a two-tonne vehicle as it hurtles towards you. That, or he doesn't want to waste his gas. Lord knows he'll be wasting enough of it tonight as it is.

"Try me, fucker," you mumble under your breath, eyes trained on the black car. You can't make out its driver, nor do you really care.

It's at this point you notice a guy on the opposite side of the road.

He flashes the torch of his phone, once, twice. The Pony kicks into gear now, too, revving to rival the SsangYong. You're halfway across the bridge, wishing they could have just waited, like, one more minute. But whatever. Assholes will be assholes.

The torch guy is out of your line of vision by the time you hear tyres screech against the ice-cold road, rubber-burning regardless. The Ssangyong bolts, fumes from the exhaust fogging in the air behind it. You expect the Pony to do the same.

It takes you half a second to realise it's stagnated, and another half to realise that things aren't going to plan for Mr Gimbap.

There's a thud from the back wheels as they lock and release, causing the wheels to spin out. You've seen enough wheel spins now to know one, and as the Pony lurches forward, you know that's exactly what it is - but you also know the road is icy.

The fun of a wheel spin, or so Yoongi likes to tell you, is that brief moment of lost control. He likes to do it whenever he gives you a lift home, because he finds the way you freak out funny - but he's always in command of his vehicle. He's never done it with you in the car during the winter. He knows better. Doesn't actually want to lose control.

At least, not like the dude in the driver's seat of the Pony currently is.

The back kicks out, sending him swerving. The front wheels are a fucking mess, his hands twisting the wheel in an attempt to rectify his fuck up. It's fruitless. He's off the clutch, the wheels aren't spinning, but he's already on the ice, and he's hurtling towards you.

You're aware you should run, but like the river, you're stuck. Frozen in place.

Maybe you should have accepted Yoongi's offer of a taxi. RIP.

There's another biting screech as you're doused in headlights, and you're pretty sure that this is what people mean when they say you see the light before you die. Fucking blinding. No way those lamps are regulation approved.

It's as you're bracing yourself for the inevitable end (and thinking about how embarrassing it's going to be when your family is tasked with clearing out your apartment after your demise - you haven't cleaned for weeks, laundry has been sat in the washer for two days, and there's a pizza box that you don't dare look in sitting next to the bin) that miracle seems to strike.

The Pony hits an uniced patch just in time for the driver to slam on his breaks. Handbrake, by the sound of it, but you're not sure. Not really sure of anything. Your heart is beating in your throat.

Steam is coming from the heat of the tyres, but the air around you is frozen, and so are you. You're not sure if it's from the cold or from the shock. A bit of both probably. You don't shake out of it until the driver's door pops open.

"The fuck are you doing?" He shouts. His mask is off now, not like it had been in the store. Light glimmers off yet more metal stuck in face, this time a ring around his plump bottom lip. His nose, though well proportioned, is blushed. "I could have fucking hit you!"

"Uh, yeah?" You almost laugh, too stunned to compute the fact that he was shouting at you. "Yeah, you could have fucking hit me, you asshole-"

"The fuck are you doing on the bridge? This late? Wearing all fucking black? I know you work around here, so I know you know what this place is used for-"

"Yeah, it's a bridge," you deadpan. It's notorious for racing, but who cares? It's not like you're in the wrong here. He's the one breaking laws. You're just trying to go home. "It's used to cross rivers. So, yanno, people working night shifts can walk home without rowing a fucking boat. Pretty neat actually, invented by the Greeks."

"Don't be smart," he scolds. "You saw us gearing up, you knew what was about to ha-"

"I'm sorry," you really are laughing now. "Are you telling me that I'm in the wrong? You? The asshole who's racing his shitty car on an icy fucking bridge? The asshole who can't control his aforementioned shitty car-"

"Can control it," he snaps. "If I couldn't, you'd be fucking dead."

"Oh, well thank you very much! How kind of you to not kill me as a result of your reckless driving. No, really. I appreciate it so much. How ever can I repay you?"

"You know what?" He calls after you when you begin to walk away. As far as you're concerned, the conversion is done. "Next time, I will just hit you."

"Be my fucking guest!" You shout back, holding your middle finger up to wave goodbye. "Stick to Kang's next time, you pretentious, self-absorbed cunt."

"Gladly."

"Oh, and by the way," you begin to say in a sickly sweet tone, which you just know is going to piss him off. You turn to find him standing, facing the bridge wall, looking at the river that's illuminated only by the headlamps of his car, like two little moons. The real one is hidden by clouds. "You'll have better control if you release the clutch a little slower. Wheelspin like that? Yeah, someone needs to practise their clutch control."

He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he just flares his nostrils and grates his jaw. He knows you're right. Knows he missed the mark - but he'd been distracted when he noticed you on the bridge. You threw him off his game.

Equally, you know he's a good driver. The way he gained control of his car on the ice was borderline expert. Impressive. You won't go as far to say life-saving, because if it wasn't for his driving in the first place, your life wouldn't have needed any God Damn saving.

You walk backwards for a step or two, just to gloat in the knowledge you've gotten the last word. He glares at you, but stays silent. Victory.

"Oi, Kook. The fuck was that about?" A distant voice yells. The SsangYong driver, you assume.

"Nothin'," he yells back. His eyes are still on you, watching as you hunch a little, folding your arms over your chest. You must be freezing, he thinks. Stupid, too. The area is littered with taxis on Friday nights. Why anyone would choose to walk is beyond him. He casts you one final stare, his chest heaving from the adrenaline, before he turns away from you. "Stupid bitch almost got herself killed. Starting line. Let's go again."

────────────

You don't mention your near-death experience to Yoongi when you see him at work the following Monday. You know he'll just worry, and then he'll really start insisting on ordering cabs for you.

Worse yet, you think he might just order them to arrive when your shift finishes, and then you'll have to take them. No point in making mountains out of molehills.

Customers are always steady on Mondays; people fuelling up for the working week, replenishing stocks wasted on the weekends.

By the time it hits four, school kids are piling in. They're picking up snacks, something to fuel them between mandatory classes and the additional ones they've picked up at hagwons. Poor suckers, you always think.

It's been years since you did the same grind, and you still don't fully understand just why you worked yourself to the bone, only to end up working in a fucking service station.

It had never been the dream. Still isn't - but it beats being hired on account of nepotism, thanks to a father with an unlawful influence in the city.

Your family name - which you don't go by, these days - is on the side of buildings, in the list of hospital beneficiaries, even on the local soccer team's fucking shirts. You're cursed with it; no identity of your own. Even when did try to get a job without the backing of your family, people still knew. Your face has been at God knows how many press junkets, playing the role of the Mayor's darling daughter.

All bullshit, of course.

Your father is just as good at saving face as he is at making investments. Turns out there really is nothing money can't buy; support for a mayoral campaign, the silence of a nanny - of whom he started fucking when you were still in middle school - and enough pearls to keep your mother happy after she found out.

Cars, houses, material goods? You'd wanted for nothing as a kid.

Privilege. It's a funny little thing. You had the world, and yet none of it was yours. Not really. And so, as soon as you were of legal age, you were out of the family home, trying to find some concrete meaning for your life.

All you'd found so far was the harrowing knowledge that your father's mayoral tenure had been hell for those without the privileges you'd been raised with, and therefore you'd distanced yourself so far from your family that you weren't even sure they'd recognise you, anymore.

"You good?" Yoongi asks, around about the time the clock hits five. He's by the back entrance, wiping his oil-covered hands on an old rag. "Just finishing up."

"Good," you nod in response to his question. You give him a fond smile to let him know that the perplexed expression he'd caught on your face was nothing to be worried about, and then you ask him his plans for the evening.

There are only a few more hours left on the clock for you. It's a mid-shift, someone else coming in to work the night rotation. You've never liked these shifts - the highest influx of customers, but by far the least interesting interactions.

They come and go so quickly that it's hard to make up a fake life for them, before they're replaced by the next sullen face, wanting to get in and out as quickly as possible.

"Gimmie a call if you need a lift," Yoongi calls over as he gets his jacket to leave. Off comes his work one, tossed over to you, replaced with the black puffa you returned that morning.

"Will do," you nod - and you both know you're lying. Still, he's a gentleman through and through. Wouldn't have felt right if he didn't at least offer. The bell on the entryway door chimes, but you don't look over to see the customer, choosing to smile at your friend instead. "Catch ya later, Yoongs."

"Yeah, you too," he smiles back, zipping up his coat and pulling up his mask. He's walking home, too, but it's still light. It will be dark by the time nine hits, and even though he doesn't know about last Friday night, he still doesn't like the idea of you walking home alone.

You hear the clink of glasses by the fridge, but the view is obscured by an obnoxious advertising standee your boss has insisted you put up inside the store. You tried telling him that the whole point was to draw customers in, not block them from even entering, but he was having none of it. Doesn't trust the kids in the neighbourhood not to nick it.

There's a crunch as the lid of the chest freezer is slid open, a cup of ice rattling as it's pulled from the stack. You only filled it up half an hour ago.

Annoying. And who the fuck is drinking an iced drink on a day like today? You think, as if Yoongi doesn't reach for an iced americano before each and every shift. You're just as bad. Your peach tea habit is becoming an issue.

You glance to the forecourt to check which pump to ring through - and that's when you see it.

Sat in bay six, as proud as the paint is bright, is that stupid fucking Pony again. With a small scoff, you pull up the balance - just over 30,000. Half a tank. Already.

Hardly a surprise, with the way he had been ragging it about on Friday evening. Must be a common occurrence.

As he comes into your line of vision, you busy yourself.

Turning your back to the kiosk, you're arranging cigarettes that don't need to be arranged, purely so that you don't have to look at him. The bottom of his soju bottle clinks against the counter, the ice and a coffee bag following suit. You still don't turn around, instead opting to look through the 'how-to' manual for the lottery machine, just to really reinforce the fact that serving him is the last thing you want to do.

Had you not told him to stick to Kang's?

"Ahem," he coughs.

You pause mid-page turn and look vacantly into the distance for a moment, before facing him with a smile so insincere it's almost comical.

"Sorry, didn't see you there."

He nods, but doesn't say anything further. He's in all black again, this time with a sweater beneath his bomber. Air quality is still bad, thanks to the cold temperatures and lack of rain to clear the skies, so he's wearing a mask again, but it's perched beneath his jaw. His poker face holds up well.

You ring up his total, ignoring the fact he's chosen to go for a peach tea, not coffee like you'd assumed, and ask if he wants a receipt. He declines, and heads on his way, scooping up his soju bottle, leaving the peach tea.

"Oi," you call after him, but he ignores you."Oi."

Still, nothing. He pushes the door open with his knuckles that are wrapped tightly around the neck of his bottle, not paying you any attention. He's just being a dick at this point. You know he can hear you.

"Oi," you shout again, sliding out from behind the kiosk and following him to the door. You don't grab his drink - he can go back and pick it up himself, the asshole.

"Kook," you shout, remembering the name the SsangYong driver had called him by.

He stops now.

"Oh," he turns, lips pursed, before throwing your words right back at you. "Sorry, didn't see you there."

Neither of you say anything. It's fucking freezing, and you can see your breath as you huddle yourself together. His eyes are soft, expression gentle, to suggest he's only teasing, but you can't work him out.

"You left your drink."

He shakes his head. Holds up his soju. "No, I didn't. That's yours. You like them, right? It's what you were drinking the other day?"

You narrow your eyes, only for him to raise his brows. You aren't the only nosey one, doll.

"Bit weird," you tell him.

Retrospectively, he thinks you're probably right. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He hadn't intended for it to be so strange - he just isn't great at admitting when he's in the wrong, so a peace offering is a far more tempting solution.

He digs a hand into his pocket, almost as if he's searching for the remains of his dignity, but simply shrugs. "I know I was a bit of a prick."

Acknowledgements of flaws are always welcome by you, but you really don't fancy just forgiving and forgetting. As stupid as it all seems, it was a life or death situation. A peach fucking tea wouldn't have resurrected you or uncrushed your bones.

"Yeah," you nod, biting down on your lip, a little unsure of how to handle the situation. "You were. And not just 'a bit' of a prick. Massive prick, actually."

He repeats your correction, and adds, "You just took me by surprise. I panicked. I'm not usually that..."

"Unreasonable? Arsey? Unable to control your clutch?"

"All of the above," he smiles, and you notice that he has dimples. Asshole. "Look, I won't bother you again. It just wasn't sitting right with me, the way I behaved. My mother would have been rolling in her grave if she heard me speak to a girl like that, especially so late at night. It was a dick move... and so," he inhales, looking at the ground before briefly meeting your eyes again. They're round and wide, almost as if he's incapable of telling lies. "I'm sorry."

There's silence for a moment, and then there's the flash of headlights as a second car rolls into the forecourt. You both turn to check the car, but it's just a standard family saloon. Nothing worth checking out, but it's enough to end the conversation.

"Stick to Kang's," you simply say as he pops open the door to his car. "I appreciate the sentiment, though. Was sweet."

He nods, fully intending on sticking to Kang's. He just needed to do this before he could move on from things.

Or at least, that's the assumption that you make as he drives away.

You wait for a little while, ignoring the man clicking the gas nozzle into the side of his car, just watching the now empty road where the small red car had sped off from. You wonder where he's going, but determine he's most likely going to that FWB you've decided he has.

Turning on your heels slowly, you let your body weight fall into the swing door, pushing it open with your shoulder. The bell jingles, like always, and for some reason, it kind of feels like the sound has settled in your stomach. It's all jittery and annoying, and you don't quite understand it. You definitely don't like it, whatever this feeling is.

It's the same feeling that washes over you next Thursday afternoon, when the bell chimes and you glance out the window, only to see a red Hyundai fucking Pony sat in bay six.

He begins to make a habit of it. Neither of you really address it. He just keeps showing up, filling his tank up, and buying whatever tickles his fancy from the snack fridge. It's nearly always gimbap. Occasionally he'll pick up something a little more substantial, and it's always accompanied with soju on Friday nights.

It takes about three weeks for you to be able to distinguish the way in which he opens the shop door. The bell chimes a little slower than normal, his casually cool demeanour preventing him from using too much force to open it. It will always 'ding' for just a bit longer than when other people push open the door. Doesn't matter where you are in the shop, what time it is. You always know when it's him.

It's a Saturday when you hear the unmistakable sound of him again, 4 weeks since that first time.

You can't see him, thanks to the standee that is still obstructing your view, but you can hear the fridges. One, two, bottles of soju. There's another clang. Three? Unusual. It's when he heads to the snack fridge that you realise you're off your game.

He's holding beers - four of them. Making the most of the four for 10,000 deal, you muse. The bottles are green, so you assume Terra, but there are some foreign imports in the fridge, too. You kind of stop guessing at this point, too busy watching. His hair is messy, like aways, and the flannel shirt he's wearing is in need of an iron, but you have to admit - there's a certain charm about him.

Your eyes flick to the door to check that nobody else has entered, and are proven correct - so why does your stomach still feel like that bloody bell chiming?

"Am I good to leave these here?" He asks, drawing your attention back to him. He's already putting the beers down on the counter, so it's not really like you can say no. "Haven't filled up yet, just wanted to check that you had what I was after, first."

"Beers?" You laugh almost immediately. "It's a GS25, dude. Course we have beers."

"Right," he nods, scrunching his nose up a little as he smiles. It was a stupid excuse, and he knew it. Part of you thinks he actually looks a little bashful. It's sweet. Confusing - but sweet, nonetheless. "I'll just go fill up."

"Uh-huh," you nod, when he doesn't leave immediately, almost as if he's waiting for permission. He laughs, and so do you. It's awkward, and you don't know why but you find yourself dropping his gaze. "Just go fill up your car."

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "Fill up. Right."

You move his bottles to the side just in case of another customer, and set about making yourself look busy, but you're a simple being. It's hard to do anything other than wistfully stare when a boy that pretty is stood in your forecourt.

He pays you no notice as he unscrews his gas cap and positions the nozzle against the opening of his car.

There's a casual nature to his posture, leaning back ever so slightly as he slides the length of the nozzle into his car, displaying just how in tune he is with doing such a menial task. It's second nature at this point.

He watches the nozzle, then lifts his gaze above the car and out towards the road. His eyes are hard, focused almost, that little line forming between his brows again. Almost like he's looking for something.

There's a click as his gas reaches its limit, and he withdraws the nozzle slightly, letting the excess drip into the tank. He knocks it once, twice, against the entrance to be sure that he's emptied it of every last drop, before he slides it out and hooks it back into its holder.

You finally avert your eyes as he screws the cap back into place, your fingers working nimbly to bring up his total on the screen.

There's that ringing feeling again when you notice he's barely reached the minimum spend, yet you could hear the tell-tale sign of a full tank from the forecourt. He hadn't needed gas at all.

He could have just gotten a few bottles of beer from any of the convenience stores in the area - and yet for some reason, he made his excuse to come to you.

The silage of his aftershave lingers by the kiosk, and you remind yourself that he's probably off to see a girl you've made up in your head. The beers are probably to be drunk with her. The flannel shirt is still creased because what's the point in ironing something that will just end up on the floor, anyway?

It's these thoughts that have you acting a little frosty again when he returns. You ring up his total, instruct him to put his card in the machine, as if he doesn't know what he's doing, and then you offer him a receipt.

He's a little confused by the fact you're as cold as the air outside.

Had your interactions not developed past the point of a typical cashier-customer relationship? Maybe he'd read the situation a little wrong.

"Kang's have beer," he finally adds, accepting his receipt, studying it, just to see if it has your name listed under the cashier ID. It does. He takes his time to fold it up, instead of just stuffing it into his back pocket. He's biding time. Making more for himself. "But I'm a bit of a liar," he says, ending his statement with your name. The way he says it, hanging onto the last syllable, taking claim of your identity as his gaze meets your eyes, has that stupid ringing feeling back in your stomach. "I'm not here for beers."

"No?" you ask, almost nonchalant. You're divided by a perspex screen, and you've never been more thankful. It's cutting the tension for you.

"No," he shakes his head. He's about to speak, when the bell of the door goes again - for real, this time. Not just in your stomach.

He steps aside to let the customer pay for their gas. It's a simple transaction, no added extras like Flannel Boy always has.

He stands awkwardly, toying at the bagged sweets with his ring adorned fingers. You decide that even if your assumptions about him are wrong, there's one that must be right: he knows he's hot.

The way he turns and smirks after the customer leaves, and says, "where were we?", only confirms this.

"You were saying how you weren't here for beer," you remind him, not that he actually needs it.

The perspex screen feels like a thick brick wall. You're simultaneously thankful for and annoyed by it.

"Ah, that's right," he nods. "You were saying how you're going to call in sick tomorrow night and meet me downtown."

"I'm gonna do what now?" You laugh, caught off guard by his boldness. He's smooth, you'll give him that much.

"You're gonna meet me downtown," he says simply, before adding, "Jungangno underground, exit two. The one near CGV. I can draw you a map-"

"Shut up," you laugh, blissfully ignoring the fact he's flirting with you. "I know Jungangno."

"So you'll meet me there?"

"I didn't say that."

He begins to gather up his beers, two in either hand, a smile etched on his cheeks. "So I'll see you tomorrow, at, hmm, say, 8?"

"No," you laugh.

"Yes," he grins back, walking away so that you don't have even more opportunities to reject his advances.

"No, you won't."

You sound so full of conviction when you say it. Determined. Self-assured.

Idiot.

────────────

You tell yourself that you're not going to go.

You told Mr Gimbap that, too, before he left the gas station, not that he was listening.

You tell yourself it again when you're thinking about what you could wear, and then you repeat it like an oath when you're texting Yoongi to see if he can cover your shift.

It's not like you're actually going to go.

You just want to check out your options.

And yet, somehow, you find yourself sitting on a bench outside a shitty burger chain at seven-fifty-six the next evening.

You're dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and a slouchy sweater which is a few sizes too big, but you think it looks cute. It's covered by a thick puffa jacket, regardless - cropped to your hips, unlike Yoongi's mammoth calf-length one.

He told you he'd be happy to cover your shift tonight when you asked, but you still feel a little guilty.

Mainly because when he asked why, you panicked and lied, telling him it was a friend's birthday.

You then also told yourself that you're definitely going to hell - but it's not like that's news to you.

It's still freezing, and you're thankful that you changed out of your converse and into a pair of boots before you left your apartment. Your hair is clipped up, make up the same as it normally is, just with a little more mascara than normal. You don't want to make it look like you've actually made an effort - but you definitely have.

You're about a mile and a half from work, but you can feel that bloody door chime in your stomach, again.

Should you walk away, a little? You don't want him to see you waiting.

Appearing too keen is the least of your desires.

Desperation isn't a good look for anyone. If anything, he should be the one waiting for you. Kind of rude that he isn't, actually. So you get up, and pace around a little, before thinking fuck it.

You hop on the elevator and head down into Jungangno underground mall, painfully aware of your stomach doing that stupid ringing thing again. Maybe it's vertigo. From, like, the change in altitude, or some shit like that. You're almost able to convince yourself that it's plausible. Almost.

The shops in the underground mall are a welcome distraction. Ajummas stand in dated clothing stores, offering low-quality clothes for even lower prices. It's crowded, and stuffy, but you're enjoying the distraction. You head for your favourite jewellery place, an emporium filled floor to ceiling with what must be thousands of jewellery pieces, and fumble through the racks of earrings.

You aren't wearing any, and remember that he - Kook, though you're not entirely sure that's actually his name - wore enough to open up his own jewellery store. You settle on a simple pair, just a couple silver hoops. It's a subtle difference, but one that makes you feel a little more confident. A little more willing to awkwardly say hello, and go on a date (if you can call it that) with a guy you barely know.

Pulling your phone out, you check the time. Seven past eight. Do-able. A little late, but not so late that it's rude. You head up the stairs, and are greeted with almost the exact same scene you had left ten minutes earlier.

Perhaps he's just running late. It's not embarrassing to be the first one waiting, not now that it's gone past the meeting time, but you can feel that ringing in your stomach begin to grate against your insides.

It hits eight-fifteen, and you're feeling anxious. Embarrassed. Even if he does show up now, it's obvious that you've been waiting there like a tragic, desperate excuse of a woman.

Five more minutes, you tell yourself.

But five turns into ten, and then another fifteen, and then it's nearly nine.

You pull out your phone and are barely able to type, thanks to how bloody cold it is.

How long until lateness turns into being stood up?

Opinions vary, but everyone on the little online forum you're reading seems to be of agreement that 45 minutes is the cut off point. 45 cold, lonely, mortifying minutes.

You imagine he's watching you, laughing from the warmth of a cafe, with that friends-with-benefits girl you've convinced yourself is definitely real.

God, you must look like a twat. You've been sat here for so fucking long. Your hands are numb, arse too, and you know you're gonna wake up with a cold - but none of these compare to your hurt pride. Not by a country mile.

With a sigh, you stand, admitting defeat. Being a jerk, you could get over. But this? Deliberately being cruel? You're proven right, after all. The guy is an asshole.

You hop on the 503 out of the downtown area and back towards home. The ride is lonely, city lights reflecting in your eyes as you gaze out the window and wonder at which point your life became this bleak. You work at a gas station, and got stood up by a guy who drives a fucking Pony. Mortifying.

The ding of the bus as it rolls into its stops reminds you of the chime of the gas station door - so you stay on for a few extra stops past your apartment building.

You're gentle as you press the red button to let the driver know you'd like to get off, but there's a little more traffic than normal, so he lets you off ahead of schedule. Odd. The roads are never normally blocked, not at this time of night.

You're only a couple hundred steps away from the bridge, but you notice the red and blue flashing lights across it almost instantly.

Your heart sinks to your stomach, right into the pit where the chime has been grating your insides apart. Still, you keep on walking. It's only the road that's blocked. Not the path. One foot in front of the next, you keep going, until your pace begins to increase. You can see the police cars now, and where they're parked.

Fuck the kid you barely know, fuck feeling sorry for yourself.

All you can think about is Yoongi.

There are four cars sitting outside your place of work, and you can hear an ambulance blast its sirens away from the gas station in an attempt to get through the crowd.

You're gonna be sick. You can feel it - or is that just the chime resting too far up in your oesophagus, now? You ignore it though, and begin to run, faster, faster, faster, boots clicking against the pavement as you draw closer to the gas station. Your boss is there, locked in conversation with a police officer, but Yoongi is nowhere to be seen.

A cop notices you approach, grabbing onto you as you attempt to run past the tape and into the store.

"Woah, woah, woah. Calm down, little lady-"

"Where is he?" You panic, not even caring to offended by the officers choice in tone. "Min Yoongi. The guy who was working. Yoongi, where is he?"

"Who are you?" The officer counters, and you want to scream.

"Where is he?!" You struggle against his grip, kicking out, but the officer is firm. He's trained to handle situations like this; girls like you. The little but fierce. The kind of girls Shakespeare wrote about. "Where the fuck is he?"

From across the forecourt, your boss calls over. "She's one of mine. Was meant to be working this shift. Did a last minute switch with Min Yoongi."

The officer nods, understanding the situation, but not easing his grip. "In that case, I'm gonna need you to come with me to the station. Need you to answer some questions."

You stop struggling. "I- What?"

"You're not under arrest. It's voluntary, but we'll have to go to the station," he speaks calmly, straight to the point. You notice that his nose is slightly crooked. You wonder how many people have punched it. Quite a few, probably, considering that you'd quite like to do the same.

"Just go," your boss calls over, not even looking in your direction. Asshole, you seethe internally. City is full of fucking assholes.

"Where the fuck is Yoongi?!" You demand to know, this time shouting towards your boss, who looks like he's in desperate need of a cigarette. He just fucking shrugs.

"C'mon, station," the officer says, deciding that enough is enough.

You don't know your rights. You can't fight back, not really, and you're starting to tear up, and everything feels like such a fucking mess. You just wanna know that Yoongi is safe, that he's well, that he's okay. If he's not, it's all your fault, and you don't even know how to process that.

In fact, you don't know how to process any of this. Your cheeks are wet before you're even sitting in the back of the police car. The engine rumbles, and before you know it, you're back downtown, but this time you're at the city's main police office.

It's hard to comprehend anything. You practically feel like you're dragged from the car and then dumped in the witness interrogation room. Some rookie cop is asking you questions, and you find yourself not wanting to answer a single one of them.

They're stupid fucking questions, for starters. Dumb shit.

Why did you switch your shift? Were you aware of a planned hold up at your place of work? Is that why you swapped? Who were you going on a date with? Why did you lie to Min Yoongi about your activities this evening? How do you not know the name of your date? Says on your file that you legally changed your name six years ago? Why? Anyone know of your family ties to politics?

Dumb questions reap dumb answers though, so once they realise they're getting nothing of any substance from you, they admit defeat. Tell you they'll be in touch if they need to follow up.

And then, after they've watched you cry for an hour and half over Yoongi, they tell you he's fine. Came in for routine questioning, but was released without charge (obviously) and drove back.

He's waiting for you in the lobby.

That temptation to break the officer's nose? Yeah. Intensifies.

"God, you fucking idiot," Yoongi speaks softly as you come into view, face all red and puffy from tears cried over him. He pulls you into his chest, and you can hear his heart thud, thud, thud, against your head. "Why did you go to work? Shouldda just gone home."

He calls you an idiot again, and you sniffle into his chest. There's a comforting scent to his clothes, a mix of gasoline and cotton, and it makes you feel a little calmer.

You pull away, and inspect his face. There's a small graze on his cheekbone, which is beginning to bruise, and a little dried blood crusting around his nostrils. Other than that, he seems okay.

He's silent as your fingers trace the pink flesh of his cheeks, lips resting a little ajar, unsure. Uncertain. He doesn't know what to make of such an outward display of concern - so he simply brushes it off.

"I'm fine, trouble," he promises, bringing his hands up to clasp your wrists and stop your hands from roaming. Doesn't wanna stop you. Not really. Just knows that he should. "C'mon, let's get you home."

And it's ridiculous, 'cause Yoongi was the one who had been held at knifepoint by three men that evening, the tills forcefully emptied and his life threatened if he didn't tell them where 'the girl' was.

He doesn't tell you that last part when he tells you what happened, though. Doesn't want to scare you. He's scared enough, himself.

It replays in his head, the way the guy with the knife doubled-down when Yoongi said he had no clue where you were. The clatter of the knife against the counter, the hands that tangled in his hair and slammed his face against the surface... yeah, they weren't memories he'd be forgetting any time soon.

Yoongi has few regrets in life, but taking the perspex screen down at the beginning of his shift to clean it definitely makes the list.

A conversation plays on loop, though, which scares him more than anything else.

"You said she'd be here. She ain't fuckin' here!" "Well she normally is. You know I've been keeping watch for weeks-" "Not hard enough." "Oh fuck you, you do it next time, prick."

Doesn't take a genius to work it out - and Yoongi's pretty smart, regardless. For whatever reason, they'd been hoping you'd be on shift.

"Do me a favour?" Yoongi asks as he rolls his car into your neighbourhood. He only lives around the corner from you, but it's too far, he thinks.

"Mhmm?"

"Kind of feel a bit..." he pauses, but doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. You already know. "Don't really wanna be alone."

"Stay at mine," you offer, straight off the bat, not giving it a second thought.

He shakes his head. Makes some excuse about your place being small. Avoids mentioning the fact he's scared that someones keeping tabs on you.

"I've got a spare room," he adds. "Makes more sense."

You'd be forgiven for thinking this is just another sign that the poor boy is helplessly infatuated with you. He knows he isn't really all that inconspicuous, but he also knows that the pair of you would never work. He just can't seem to help himself.

And so you end up in his bed, while he takes the pull out sofa in his spare room, because he's far too much of a gent to make you sleep on something so crappy. He leaves the heater on in your room, because you're always complaining about the cold, and tells you not to worry when you pout and mention the fact it will hike his heating bill. It's a small price to pay.

"All the money I've saved when you refuse taxis can go on the heater, instead."

Still, you click it off as soon as you're confident Yoongi won't be back in to check on you.

In the morning, when his hair is all fluffy and cheeks puffy from a crappy sleep, he orders breakfast and double-checks that you're okay to work the shift you're scheduled on for. You remind him that he was the one held at knifepoint. Not you.

You're not surprised to learn that Yoongi thinks two iced americanos and half a bagel each qualifies as 'breakfast', but you appreciate it nonetheless.

"I can cover, if needs be," he rambles, bagel in one hand, americano in the other, while you watch on with a smile. His cheek has bruised rather spectacularly, and you wonder if it aches as much as your heart does. "Boss gave me a couple days off, but I don't love the idea of you being there alone-"

The guilt of asking him to cover the night before is eating you alive. You don't think you'll ever ask him to cover for you again. Karma will catch up with you, you're sure, but for now, you'll be your own Saturn.

"I'll be fine," you smile. "Lightning never strikes twice."

────────────

When Jungkook drives, he drives alone.

No music, no radio, just him and the open road. He likes to hear the way the tarmac sounds beneath his tyres, and how the engine purrs a little louder when he steps on the gas. It's therapy in a way - though, with the amount that he spends on gas, he's pretty certain that an actual therapist would probably be cheaper.

The roads are empty, morning sun breaking beyond the mountains that line Daegu, as he makes his way past the bridge over the river, and out towards Kang's. There's a boxing studio next door, owned by Old Man Kang himself, a little decrepit and definitely not the kind of place you end up by chance.

It's the kind of place that's bestowed upon those who need it; the people looking for a home. A family. A cult, some like to joke, though Jungkook thinks they're half right. For him, it's somewhere to hide when the world gets too invasive; a shadow in the spotlight.

Old Man Kang's boxing club is a shit hole, when Jungkook looks at it objectively. Wires hang from the ceiling, and the walls have needed a paint ever since he'd first stepped foot into the place six years ago. He thinks about doing it sometimes, just showing up early before anyone else arrives, with a can of white emulsion from Daiso and a few brushes. Never does it, though. Would be a thankless job. Old Man Kang probably wouldn't even notice.

And if he did? He'd probably make Jungkook pay for 'defacing his property.'

As he pulls his car into the forecourt, parking up by the air compressors, Jungkook sighs. He isn't expecting anyone else to be here so early, but he's having trouble sleeping. Pulling down on his sun visor, he's rough as he slides the mirror cover across to study his face.

He's not looking too bad - lip a little split, but alright, all things considered. Could have been a lot worse. Namjoon has a mean left hook, after all.

His thumb presses down on the buckle of his seatbelt, releasing it as he reaches over for his duffle bag in the footwell of his passenger seat. There's a clink as he does so, half a dozen bottles of soju ready to be transferred into the fridge by the entrance to the locker room. It's a free for all, used by all the members of the boxing club, but no one ever knows who actually stocks it up. It just kind of... replenishes. Like Christmas presents, or coins under pillows in place of lost teeth.

Admittedly, Jungkook never used to know, either. He still doesn't know who stocks up the waters. He knows who stocks the soju, though. Or at least, he's known for the last few weeks, now.

Where else is he gonna put all the bottles he buys from your store? It's not like he ever drinks them. He just needs an excuse to visit so frequently.

"You're early," a voice says from the back entrance, as Jungkook is shuffling around with the bottles. The fridge light hums, illuminating his face, as he lets his perfectionism take priority when arranging the bottles. He doesn't turn to look, knowing the tone by heart.

"So are you, Minnie."

Minnie by name, mini by nature, Park Jimin is a 5'7 (though he swears blind he's 5'9 with shoes on) force to be reckoned with. He likes to get to the club early, before his shifts at the fishmongers. It gets his blood pumping, ready for a day of hacking away at marine carcases.

"I'm always early," he teases, as he tosses his bag on an old wicker chair in the corner of the room.

It's a large space - a disused rice store that was repurposed in the 80's, and taken over by Old Man Kang after the last owner gambled it away during a back alley game of poker. A large square ring is in the middle, red ropes a little tatty, but still usable. There are a few machines dotted around the corners of the room, but most people opt to use the plethora of punching bags hung up by the far wall.

Jungkook smiles softly as he begins to wrap his hands up. He's dressed down in just a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats. They're tapered towards his ankles, where they meet his beat-up black high tops. His laces are pulled tight, wrapped around the classic star logo, and tied in hasty bows on the back of his ankles. Double knotted, as always. "Couldn't sleep."

For how much of a liar he is, Jungkook is always honest with Jimin.

Well. Nearly always.

Jimin heads for the far corner, where a skipping rope is strung up on a rusty nail embedded into the wall. He nods, figuring as much. "Joon isn't happy."

Jungkook rolls his eyes as he stretches out his back. He couldn't give a fuck if Namjoon is happy or not, especially not after-

"You should talk to him."

Squaring up to the coffee-brown punching bag, Jungkook knocks his head to the side. His jaw clenches as he gently presses against the leather to get a feel for the weight. He bounces, left, right, and then throws a punch. The smack of his hand against the weighted bag echoes into the room.

"Or not," Jimin adds, sensing that Jungkook is in no mood to talk to anyone - and definitely not Namjoon.

Unsolicited advice is never received well by Jungkook. If he wants it, he'll ask for it. Jimin knows this.

There's an art to the way his body moves, recoiling a little with every punch thrown until he disciplines himself. Back broad and triangular, calves strong and tense, it's clear to see that Jungkook can defend his own. If he had wanted to fight back against Namjoon, he could have.

But Jungkook is a man of honour. Integrity. Respect. He'd never fight against Namjoon, no matter how much he disagreed with him - so instead, he takes it out on a punching bag that is so old it may as well be an antique. The echo of his assault against the leather rings in his ears like a warning bell. A siren. A chime.

It's funny, 'cause a few roads over - just past the bridge and down the lane - there's a ringing in your ears too.

For you, it actually is a chime - the one of the gas station door, and it's a scathing reminder of how badly you fucked up by asking Yoongi to cover your shift.

You spend your morning lamenting, hypothesising. You're so busy thinking about the stupid boy who drives that god-awful red car, that you don't even bother making assumptions about other customers.

They're all about him. Where he was, who he was with. Why he did what he did.

You decide that he grew up in a single-parent household. He's already mentioned his late mother, and suggested that she influenced his need to apologise, so a father figure didn't really seem to fit the profile you have of him.

He wears so much black because he's scared of having an actual personality. Scared that it makes him vulnerable. Or so you assume. In fact, you decide that 'scared' is the best way to describe him.

A scaredy-cat. A chicken. A pussy. No balls.

After all, he was too scared to show up, and didn't even have the bottle to find a way to let you know. Did he have your number? No - but perhaps that was deliberate on his part, too.

Your final assessment of his character comes in the form of his FWB (turned far-too-clingy lover). If she's real, which again, you've decided she is, then you don't think it's her fault that she's developed an unhealthy dependency on him. He seems to be the type to lift others up, only to drag them back down with him.

Enough thoughts about him, though.

If you're not worthy of his time, then why should he be worthy of yours?

The next few days are spent in a subliminal haze; body moving, mind still. It's Wednesday before you know it.

Jieun is on shift with you, after she complained about not wanting to work alone following the raid. You told her that no one would be stupid enough to rush the place again so soon after the first time, but she's having none of it.

"We don't get paid enough to put our lives at risk," she states whenever the topic of conversation is mentioned. And she's right - you don't.

But as you look at the grainy CCTV footage still-image that's taped up above the counter, you can't help but think they wouldn't have actually killed either you or Jieun. Realistically, they barely left a scratch on Yoongi. Physically, at least. Mentally, he's a little more wounded.

There had been three of them; two rather tall, the third shorter. About Yoongi's height, you guess. Dressed in all black, it's hard to really distinguish any features or their bodies, let alone their faces, which had been covered in ski masks. Run of the mill robbers. The kind you see in crappy action films. Background characters. Just a way to move the plot along, no real personalities, no actual significance to the lives of the protagonists, other than causing a mild inconvenience.

You don't even realise when you're making assumptions, these days. You think in hypothesis more often than not.

The thieves had run off on foot and down the back alley behind the shop, which is where the trail to find them ends. The CCTV for the alley has been out for months. The boss didn't deem it a necessary investment - "Well, we'd never been robbed before!" - so it had fallen to the bottom of his priority list. The issue with the back alley is that it leads to an underpass with so many blind spots that it's easy - almost too easy - to slip into nothingness.

It's when you're staring at them, thinking about the assumptions you could make for your mystery men of misdemeanours, that the door chimes.

You don't ignore it, anymore. The raid has spooked you. So you look towards it, and are met with the sight a broad back. The shoulders, strong and well-defined, are covered in a brown flannel shirt. It's tucked into a pair of jeans, that cling to the contours of the customer's legs. He's not wearing a coat - just hopped out of his car, where the aircon is keeping him toasty - and you realise you recognise his posture.

The mop of bleached hair is pretty damn recognisable, too.

"Jieun," you hiss quietly, drawing her attention from the stock she's counting in front of the kiosk. She glances towards you, eyes startled by your tone. You beckon your head back, and she scurries over to you.

"Can you man the till?"

She looks confused for a second. "Why?"

"Girl issues," you lie, knowing she won't be able to say no. "Just came on my period. Need to, yanno-"

"Go, go, go," she nods, hurrying behind the counter, ushering you away and towards the staff room door.

As you leave, you glance to the curved mirror in the far corner; the one that only you look in. It's your second pair of eyes - but you find another pair staring back at you. It's brief, and his gaze drops as soon as he sees you focus on him, blonde hair covering his dark eyes from your view. He's looking at the gimbap again, now. Pretending like he never saw you.

Good, you think. Fuck off.

It's been three days since he stood you up; three days since you jeopardised one of your best friends lives to see him, only for him to be M.I.A. You don't know the kid, not really. Why waste any more of your time on him?

You stay in the bathroom for upwards of five minutes. Just enough time for him to leave. Jieun must be wondering what you're doing, but you'll just explain it away.

You're quite good at that. Lying. Just little ones, white lies. Porkies. Fibs. Never anything that will harm another person, just things that will protect you instead.

"Who's the blonde dude?" Jieun asks when you return. You furrow your brows and play dumb. "The one with the brow piercing," she adds, as if you need any clarification. Blonde dudes aren't really the norm around these parts. He sticks out like a sore fucking thumb. "Tattoos."

"Dunno," you say with a smile. It's the same one that laces all of your little lies.

For once, Jieun looks at you, her thick brows hard and poised, as if she knows you're lying.

And then she nods towards the counter, where a peach tea and a cup of ice sits. "Left this for you."

"Hmm," you purr. "Must think I'm someone I'm not."

Yeah, you think scornfully. Must think I'm an idiot.

It worked as an apology once before - but it's a pattern of behaviour, now. He's a leopard, spots unchanged as he runs away from the consequences of his actions, suffocating you in the dust clouds he leaves behind.

"He's cute," Jieun muses.

"No," you smile. It's the same one. That little one full of lies. "He's not."

────────────

The peach tea sits on the counter by the till for two days. It's tucked behind a box of pocket money candies, which are waiting to be restocked; hidden in such a way so that only you know it's there.

Y'see, you've been making assumptions again - though you wouldn't really call this one an assumption. It's acceptance of a habit that's been proven: he will return.

He always does, it seems.

And sure enough, that afternoon, two days after you'd last been graced with his presence, he returns.

Jieun spots him first, eyes darting immediately towards yours. You're like a deer in headlights, ready to bolt - but she doesn't let you.

"Gotta go," she squeaks, before mouthing 'girl issues' to you, with a smile she reserves moments like these; her little victories.

He does his usual rounds, and you're already mentally ringing it up: a bottle of soju, and a tuna gimbap roll. You glance out to the forecourt, towards pump six - but it's empty. Not a single car in sight, let alone his trusty red pony. You're confused. Brows furrowed, nostrils a little flared. Lips pouty. You big baby.

When he eventually comes to the kiosk, it takes all of your strength not to ask, 'why the fuck are you here?'

And just like all of your assumptions about him, you're wrong. Again.

No soju, no gimbap. Banana milk and bibimyun ramyeon, instead. A great combination by all accounts, but you're not gonna give him the satisfaction of letting him know you think his choice is elite.

As far as you're concerned, he can take his banana milk and shove it up his ass.

Frustratingly, he appears to find amusement in your outward expression of annoyance. There seems to be a small grin on his face, cheeks appled beneath his mask, as if he's not aware that it's painfully awkward between the pair of you.

He has no manners, you decide. No spine. No awareness of social cues, either. A triple whammy. What a catch.

But you believe that silence is a virtue, so you say nothing as you ring up his items. You don't even tell him his total - just nod towards the card machine. He follows your line of sight, watching the machine light up for a moment, before putting his card in the slot.

While he does so, you reach for the peach tea and add it to his stockpile.

"You forgot your drink again."

He looks at the pouch of tea, then up towards you. And then he repeats it, several times.

"Ouch," he says, ending his declaration of pain with a small laugh. You've got half a mind to rip the pouch open and pour it all over his shitty flannel shirt. It's blue today, paired with sweats, because apparently that's fashionable?

Boy looks like he got dressed in the dark, you think scornfully - but really, you're just annoyed with how hot you think he looks. Unreasonably hot. He's the bloody Sahara storming through Daegu's coldest winter. He's melting the river, leaving everyone wet in the process.

Or maybe not. Maybe just you-

"What's the grin for?" he teases, and you realise that you've been paying too much attention to your thoughts.

"No grin," you snap, face flushed.

"Service with a smile, as always."

"Your transaction is done," you say, this time smiling as if butter wouldn't melt. "You can leave, now."

He holds up his pot of ramyeon and shrugs, before glancing over to the food station, where the hot water and microwaves are waiting for him. "Actually, I think I'm just gonna eat here."

Without even so much as a glance back towards you, the asshole picks up a pair of chopsticks, wrapped in thin paper, and heads towards the food station. You're in a state of disbelief. Entitled prick.

Jieun returns almost as soon as he's left the counter. She still doesn't have a clue about whatever's happened between the pair of you, but she did see you hiding up the peach tea a couple of days ago, so she figured it was something.

"You gonna take it to him?" she asks, nodding down towards the tea, which he's left at the counter, again.

"No."

"Take him the tea."

"No."

"Take it."

"No.

"Fine," she huffs. "If you don't, I will-"

"Fine!" you whisper, though it's definitely a shout. You might not want anything to do with him, but you also don't want to watch him work his charms on Jieun. For her benefit. Not yours. Definitely not because you don't want to see him flirting with her instead.

Him, with his stupid tattoos, and dumb blonde hair, and annoying smile and-

"Go," she grins.

"Just... give me a minute."

You watch as he fills up his ramyeon bowl, hot air steaming around the jet of water. It's been a while since you ate, and you're a little jealous. Your break isn't for another few hours yet, though, so smelling his food throughout the store will be torture. Asshole.

He sits down, and Jieun pesters you a little more, but you're trying to wait it out. If a customer comes in, then you can just deal with them instead - but the forecourt is empty, just like it always is at this awkward time of day. After lunch, but before the end of school. This is the real ghost shift of a gas station - after midnight is when it comes alive.

Admittedly, it was a little too lively the night of the raid. You make a mental note to text Yoongi on your break, just to check-in, and then you glare at Jieun and her shit-eating grin, before heading towards gimbap-less Mr Gimbap.

Tossing the bag down onto the cheap plastic table, you're indifferent as you speak. "Like I said. This is yours."

"Is it?" he asks, unpierced brow raised. "Doesn't look like mine."

"Well, it is," you say, clearly fed up with him. "And just while we're talking - where's your car?"

His eyes narrow ever so briefly. Almost like he knows you're onto him. For what? No clue. But something.

"Taillights out. Just needs a repair."

You nod. Seems plausible. At least he sticks to the highway code - even if he does break it after the clock strikes twelve every other weekend.

You're not quite sure what to make of him as he looks at you, eyes only lingering for long enough to let you know that there's something he's not telling you.

The air quality isn't bad today. There's no need for him to be wearing a mask, but he's hiding. From you? From something else? You can't work him out.

Perhaps it's shame.

After all, this is a boy who came and apologised to you for being a little bit mean in the heat of the moment. Being deliberately cruel doesn't really seem like his motive, no matter how cold his demeanour is.

And so, instead of just letting your assumptions fester, you voice them.

"You're hiding something."

You're met with silence.

"Behind that mask," you clarify, before repeating yourself. "You're hiding something."

He looks at you for a moment, before dropping your gaze, and glancing towards the door.

Thinking about making a run for it, you lament internally - but he's not. He just doesn't like how sometimes - just sometimes - your assumptions are entirely correct.

He lifts his ringed index finger to his ear, unhooking the thin black elastic that keeps his mask in place, before letting it fall. His skin is clammy beneath it from the heat of his breath, and the chill of the winter breeze outside, but your eyes fall to his bottom lip.

It's split, the centre crease darker than the soft pink flesh around it. There's a bruise beneath it, still tender and sore. You don't mean to, but you gasp at the sight of it. It's no worse than Yoongi's graze, the placement makes it so much more bothersome.

Uncomfortable with the way you're looking at him - like you feel sorry for him - he hooks his mask back up again.

"Happy now?" he asks, knowing that you just love to be proven right.

You scoff, a little offended. "Obviously not. What happened?" You take the seat opposite his. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened," he lies, avoiding your eyes as he does so. It's funny how you haven't noticed that little trait of his yet. You will. Just not yet. "I'm fine."

"You're quite clearly not fine."

"Quite clearly am," he bickers, before nodding to the food on the table. "Just hungry."

Ouch. You're just trying to make sure he's okay, but if he wants to be hostile again, then fine. No skin off your back.

You nod, looking away. It's awkward, and when the bell chimes to indicate another customer entering the shop, you find your stomach lurching.

Still, he toys with the softening noodles in their pot, as if they're the most fascinating things in the world.

This isn't how he wanted this conversation to go. Hell, he doesn't even know what the outcome should be. He's just feeling uneasy, as if he's making all the wrong choices.

"I heard about the raid."

You nod. It's been on all the local radio stations. Thankfully Yoongi is the only employee being name-checked. You aren't ready to give up your own personal paradise just yet, which is exactly what will happen the second your family gets notice of where you're spending your days.

"Yeah, me too," you deadpan. It's a fault of yours, giving back the same energy you receive, unable to just suck things up and be nice all the time.

Thankfully, he smiles. You kind of expected that he would. He seems to get you, get your humour. It's something you both share, like a little secret. A smile rests on his lips as he glances up towards you, like he's a school kid trying not to giggle in class.

And then you find yourself making assumptions again. You wonder what he would have been like in school, if he would have been just as charming. You bet that he was the kind of kid who could get away with murder in class. All he'd have to do was flash those of eyes of his, and he'd be off the hook.

Sort of like how he does with you. Why else would you be giving him the time of day after he stood you up?

"Oh really?" He entertains your attitude."What did you hear?"

You lean against the table, a little bit provocative, but only 'cause his tone of voice matched it. "Heard that I'm lucky some prick asked me out, even if he did leave me waiting for hours in the dark."

His smile falters a little, but only for a fraction of a second. He likes the flirt; doesn't like the acknowledgement of what he did. "Hours?"

"Nah," you scrunch your nose up, and sit up straight again. You're still smiling, to let him know that you're feeling fine about it, now. "Didn't stick around for that long. What?" You laugh when he raises a brow, and begin to tell white lies. He'll see through them, but you want him to. "You think I don't have other eligible bachelors lining up, trying to take me on dates?"

He shrugs, and you can tell that he's pouting a little behind his mask. "I'm still the one you skived off work for, am I not?"

"That's neither here nor there."

"Yeah, it is," he speaks softly, leaning forward on the table. Closer. "What time do you clock off today? I wanna talk. Properly."

"Are we not talking properly now?" You say, unable to resist being difficult. It takes everything within his power not to roll those pretty eyes of his - but you're grinning, and he finds himself doing the same back. His mouth may be covered by his mask, but you can still tell.

He thinks about his response for a moment. If he's being honest, he wants to make some crude remark; tell you that he wants to get you talking just so he can think of ways to shut you up. You're not at that level yet, though. Coming on strong is unfavoured by him, so he opts for something a little cooler.

"We're talking about talking," he reminds you, picking up the pot up and leaning over to the sink by the food station to drain the excess water. "I wanna talk about... well, anything else."

You purse your lips, folding your arms across your chest. There's part of you that really wants to say no, to tell him to go fuck himself. But there's a teeny tiny part of you that wants to say-

"Nine. I'm off at nine."

"Nine," he nods. "I'll be here."

"Sure you will," you tease.

"I will."

"Yeah, yeah. Course. You're really good at that." You're nodding enthusiastically, a stupid smile on your face, eyes all wide as if you couldn't be more naive. You can tell he's smiling again, and it's like that door chime in your stomach is bloody broken. "Yanno, the whole showing up when you say you will, thing."

"Shut up," he laughs, but it catches in his throat like a low growl. "I'll be here, but not if you keep being a little bitch."

Your teeth cushion themselves on your bottom lip, and you nod. "See you at nine... Kook?" You question, realising that you're yet to actually ask his name.

"Jungkook. But Kook works, too. Just depends on how well acquainted you're planning on getting."

He doesn't give you a chance to reply, simply standing as he pushes the pot of noodles over to you. "Eat up. You look hungry."

Turning on his heel, he heads for the door.

The bell chimes, and it's like it's harmonising with the feeling in your stomach.

You prod around at the noodles, and sigh, posture defeated. This is not good.

────────────

The rest of your shift trudges on. It's slow, the hands of the clock seemingly frozen - until, suddenly, it's nine.

"You're late," Jungkook greets you, perched on a bollard by the side of the forecourt. He's wearing a coat, now, wrapped up a little warmer than he had been earlier. His sweats have been traded for jeans, but he's still in that big blue flannel shirt. You like it.

And he's not wrong - cashing up your till took a little longer than normal, thanks to an old note that wouldn't read properly in the sorter. Just another thing your boss refuses to upgrade.

"At least I'm here," you quip back.

"Touché." He holds out his arm, almost as if he expects you to link yours with his. "Shall we?"

You look at his arm, then up towards him. And then you repeat it, letting out a soft laugh, not accepting his arm, instead turning to walk in the direction of home. "C'mon," you call back. "You walking me home or not?"

It's his turn to laugh now as he ups his pace to catch up with you. "Not."

"Not?"

"Not," he repeats, seemingly unable to say anything else - until, of course, he does. "My cars around the corner. Wanna go for a drive?"

"Sorted the taillight?" You ask, curious, figuring that it would have been at Kang's overnight.

Jungkook hums a response, not really saying yes or no, but as you turn the corner and it comes into vision, you can see that his taillights seem fine - not that you can really judge. A car as old as his doesn't come with central locking systems, so it's not like you'll see the lights flash as it-

Oh. Nevermind.

There's a beep, and the car flashes in front of you, mocking those damn assumptions of yours.

"Since when do Pony's have electric locks?" You ask defensively, almost as a reflex for having your assumptions disproven.

"Since I decided to install them," he says, as if it's the simplest job in the world. You've heard Yoongi mutter 'bastard locks' enough times to know otherwise.

"Kang's must make a killing from you," you joke as he nods towards the passenger side, indicating for you to get in.

"Kang's don't make shit from me when it comes to the wires."

You wait for him to pop his door open before you do the same. The interior is leather, all black, and is cold to the touch as you get in. The windscreen begins to fog almost instantly, the minimal heat you're letting off proving just how cold it's been getting lately.

It's curious, you think. There should be a little heat left in the car from his drive to meet you.

"No?" you question, choosing to ignore the temperature of the car. It's below zero, you rationalise. Of course it cooled quickly.

"No," he shakes his head, turning the key in the ignition.

The car rumbles - purrs - softly. You can tell he's listening to the engine, making sure that it sounds okay before he sets off. Standard old car problems. Running gas through the motor before it warms up only causes issues.

Like his locking system, you notice that the stereo isn't exactly true to the era in which the car was built (even if the lack of insulation is). It's got an aux cord hanging from the headphone jack, which he picks up and places in your lap. "Don't put anything shit on."

He avoids clarifying your question, and it annoys you - so you choose to be direct about it, not plugging your phone in at all. If he doesn't want to listen to shit music, he should be a more specific.

You're stewing, clearly irritated, but you're also casually enamoured, watching him as he carefully observes the dashboard, checking the revs, trying to heat the car up a little.

"Just the electrics? What about everything else?"

He doesn't look your way as he replies. "Just the electrics. Put your seatbelt on."

"Why?"

He's still not looking at you. "'Cause if I crash, you'll go straight through the windshield."

"Not the seatbelt," you reply, though he's got a point. You haven't clicked it into its buckle yet. Nor has he, though. "The electrics."

Still. Not. Looking. At. You.

It's not even like it's an important question. You couldn't give a flying fuck about his shitty car's electrics. You just don't like that he's deliberately avoiding answering something so simple, as if you're asking him how old he was when he lost his virginity.

Eventually, he cracks. It's as he's sliding his seatbelt down, the smooth noise of fabric scruffing against plastic filling the car. He's bargaining - hopes that if he does his belt up, then you will too.

Then again, he knows that you're difficult, and that you'll probably use it as a bargaining tool. You won't do it up until he gives you an answer.

"Electrician by trade," he says with a little sigh, before turning to face you finally. "Happy?"

You don't want to say yes - but you are. You're smug in the knowledge that you know just as much about him now as he does you.

"By trade?" You push a little further as your buckle clicks into place.

"By trade," he answers, in that annoying way he so often does, not really giving you an answer, just confirming what you already know. "I'm in between jobs at the moment."

"Ah," you smile, finally putting the aux into your phone. The windows are beginning to clear. "That explains why you're always in the garage at such weird hours."

It doesn't. There's an entirely different explanation for that. Not one that he'll give, though.

He hums a response, not wanting to tell more lies. He knocks the car into first, and lets the handbrake down, easing the car into motion as it rolls gently from the curb and into the road.

It's at this point you realise you're in the car with a near-stranger, and that it's probably the dumbest thing you've done in a while. You're smarter than this. Been raised better.

Jungkook smiles at your statement, though. "You ever stop making assumptions?"

A laugh falters in the back of your throat. "No," you muse. "I don't think I do."

His palm rests on the gear stick, thigh pressing down against his seat as he dips the clutch. There's a simple joy to be found in watching his movements like this, as if you're getting to see something reserved for very few people. He's smiling as he knocks it into second gear. Smiles a lot around you, actually.

Perhaps he's just like this all the time. Naturally light natured, despite the dark clothes and even darker eyes.

"Tell me mine," he says as the car moves from the slightly beat up side road, towards the main street that leads up to the bridge. There's a change in pressure beneath the tyres, the new road far smoother, far easier, than the one you'd been on previously. "Your assumptions. I wanna hear them."

"I can't," you reply, as if they're some closely guarded secret. In a way, they are. You've built up this idea of Jungkook; of who he is, who he associates with, what he does in the dark.

If he confirms or denies a single one of these assumptions, then it could all be in tatters.

"Can't? Or don't want to?"

You watch his hands as he flicks on an indicator. There's no one else on the road. Seems redundant. It's interesting, though, how he seems to care about the rules of the road now that you're in the passenger seat.

"Why can't it be both?"

And just like that, you're going round in circles again. Always talking, but never quite saying anything. It's a strange little dance you like to do, one that you don't know the steps to, but seem to get right anyway.

He uses the palm of his hand to turn the wheel, back on the bridge now. It's less icy today, but you find your heart resting in your chest just like it did the first time you were here with him. He glances over to you, but you keep your eyes straight ahead.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "About that time. When we were here, yanno?"

You nod. It's a weird thing to think about. You could have died. Came pretty fucking close to it - and yet all that really lingers in your mind from that night is the way he stared you down.

"Mhmm," you press your lips together, and cross your legs.

He doesn't like it. The way your body sort of angles away from his. It's cold. Cruel, almost.

So he lifts his hand from the gear stick and taps your knee. A request, not a demand. He's gentle as he nudges, encouraging your legs to unhook, until they're back in their original position. You just kind of let him. Neither of you say anything, but there's an awareness that he doesn't want you to close off from him.

Your arms move instead, without much thought, crossing over themselves.

"Don't."

The silence is so loud you think the windows might shatter.

"Please," he follows it up, then decides that he needs something to fill the void that you're leaving in the conversation. "Put some music on," he says, before backtracking on his earlier statement. "I don't mind if it's shit."

It earns a small smile from you, an exhale from your nose letting him know that you find humour in his words.

You unlock your phone and head to spotify, confronted with more playlists than you know what to do with, and settle on the one you use when Yoongi lets you control the music in his car. It's pretty inoffensive, you think. Nothing too shit. No noughties classics, at least, though there are a couple from the 80's. If he complains, you'll just remind him of how old his car is.

"So what's the deal?"

The fact you only start talking as he exits the bridge isn't lost on Jungkook.

"No deal," he replies just as casually as you asked.

"Well you aren't taking me home," you muse, glancing over to him. There's a smile on his face. Dimples present. "And I'm hoping that you're not chauffeuring me to a date with the Grim Reaper - so where are we going?"

"We-" He turns to face you, now. Just briefly. Just a glance with a smile that has a chime sounding in your tummy again. "-are heading into town. I don't think the Grim Reaper's gonna be there, but you never know with that dude. Always showing up at the worst of times."

"Mm," you agree with a small laugh. "His social skills are atrocious."

"You give him a run for his money, yanno," Jungkook teases you.

It's reflex, more than anything, that has you swatting at his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft, and there's a waft of his aftershave as you draw your hand back to your lap. Oaky. Mature. Probably more than he seems to be.

"My social skills are fine. You're just shitty company."

"Me?!" He sounds affronted now, but there's a grin plastered all over his pretty little face. "Sorry, little miss clutch control. Forgot you were queen of making casual conversation."

"Uh-huh," you say as you shift in your seat, body angled towards his. The smile on his face grows. There's one on yours too. A pretty fuckin' big one, at that. "That's why they hired me. Could see I'd be great with the customers."

He snorts, crown of his head tipping against the back of his seat. "Oh, yeah?"

You hum an affirmation, and Jungkook looks towards you briefly, chin lifted, eyes narrow, curious of what you'll say next.

"Well, I seem to have done alright with one of the customers, at least."

His teeth begin to show as he looks towards the road again. "Poor fucker. I'd hate to be him."

And then you're both laughing.

It's how it remains for the rest of the evening.

You're laughing when he parks in the furthest corner of the lot, just to make sure no one scrapes his paintwork. You're laughing when he can't figure out the QR code for the automatic parking fee, and you're laughing when he tells you to fuck off for laughing.

But he's laughing too.

Laughs when you can't figure out the apron in the dakgalbi place off the side of the main shopping street, and laughs when the middle-aged lady running the shop comes to help you out. Jungkook had refused. He was enjoying the struggle too much.

See, your cheeks go all red when you get flustered. He's never seen that look on you before. You get a similar look once you realise the spice of the galbi is a little hotter than what you're used to, and you get it again after you've had a few shots of soju.

He matches you, shot for shot, but also makes sure to keep filling up your stainless steel water cup. In fact, he fills it more than he fills his own.

Unlike you, and your perceived ability to judge characters, Jungkook actually can read people pretty well. He knows his limits, and he's guessing at yours, but doing a good job doing so.

It's not until Jungkook's paying that you realise just how many bottles the pair of you have gotten through. You're steady on your feet, but you can feel the alcohol in your system, and know that he must be the same.

"How we getting home?" You ask, as the chime of the door rings behind you. Within seconds you're pulling your arms over your chest, trying to preserve heat. You fucking hate January.

"C'mon," he mumbles, looping his arm around your shoulders, rubbing at the side of it quickly to build up some heat. He's all hunched up too, clearly feeling the cold. "Taxi? I can pick my car up in the morning."

It's gone twelve on a week night. You both know there's no way in hell you'll be able to score a taxi, not without a 45 minute wait, at least. The curse of downtown Daegu. Should have just gone to eat in your neighbourhood, but Jungkook felt like he had a point to prove. He wanted to make it up to you. Properly.

You drop Yoongi a text as you load up your taxi app, just checking in, letting him know that you're all good. He replies pretty much instantly, but you're distracted by Jungkook letting you know that his app says no cabs are available.

"Shit," you hiss, bouncing around on the balls of your feet, trying to keep warm.

Jungkook weighs up his options. On the one hand, he knows he needs to get you home. On the other, you're hopping around like a fucking bunny. It's borderline cruel to keep you out in the cold like this. Especially when his place is only a ten minute walk away, in the heart of town, compared to your hour long trek back to the outskirts.

"My place isn't too far."

The suggestion is out of his mouth before he knows any better. He's getting himself in too deep already. All it's taken is a couple weeks of awkward flirting across a gas station kiosk and exactly one (1) shared dakgalbi. Maybe the 6 bottles of soju didn't help.

"You can wait it out in the warm for a taxi, at least," he adds on, before realising that you're both as tipsy as one another. Both hovering a little too close to one another. Both feeling that weird pull, of which he's telling himself to ignore, but he just can't seem to help himself.

He's a simple man, of simple pleasures - and sex is the most simple of them all.

If he wants it, then you probably do, too.

Might do, he corrects himself. Best not to make assumptions about things like these.

"Wait it out," you nod, a little grin resting on your lips. They're a little plumper than normal, partially thanks to the galbi spice, but also thanks to the you've been biting down on them all evening. It's okay, though. Jungkook's lips are just as bad. All plump and pretty and - fuck. You know you're staring but it's kind of hard not to.

He knocks his head to the side and holds out his hand for you to take. "C'mon. I'm this way."

And so you do take it. Fingers neatly linking between his, hooking on and holding close as if it isn't the first time that it's happening. It's been so long since you did this with another person that you're almost not sure you're doing it right. His grip adjusts, and then his other hand reaches behind your shoulders to prop the hood of your jacket over your hair.

"For the wind," he says.

Definitely not so that the pair of you are a little more incognito.

It's why he puts his hood up, too... For the wind.

After all, he's not hiding behind his mask like he was earlier. Not hiding from you.

But he's hiding from something.

And you should be, too.

────────────

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

690 notes · View notes

pink-sparkly-witch · 10 months

Text

Just Like This

Summary: Working a second job in a bar to help pay for Sammy’s education, Dean finds a kindred spirit in bar manager Y/N. When a drunk Douchebag gets too handsy with her, Dean quickly jumps to her defence but faces harsh consequences.

Pairing: Bartender!Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Rating: Teen

Bingo Square: Getting Fired for @j3bingo

Warnings: tw: sexual assault (groping), fluff, angst, fighting, minor violence, Chuck is a complete and utter asshole in this, getting fired, quitting in solidarity, first kiss, friends to lovers

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Okay, it feels like an age since I’ve written anything that’s just pure floof. I hope you enjoy this fluffy, protective, besotted Dean fic. Please be kind. I’ve had my angst hat on for a long time, and though this was really refreshing, it’s also a little daunting!

My Masterlist AO3 Ko-Fi

Consider reblogging to spread this far and wide around this Hellsite, or leave a comment. It really does fuel a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or too cool for people to know you read fanfic and you don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖

It wasn’t the best job in the world, but as part-time work went, Dean knew it could be a hell of a lot worse than this. He worked with his dad in the garage during the day and worked four nights a week and two shifts at the weekend in Shurley’s Sports Bar. His wages and tips went to his dad to help pay for Sammy’s education. Sure, the kid had a full ride to Stanford; however, he still needed to pay for accommodation after freshman year and the thousands of books he needed for his coursework. And at least this way, his dad didn’t put himself in an early grave by working all the hours God gave him. Lord knows he’d done enough of that when they were kids.

Shurley’s was a decent bar. It had a prime location between the University of Kansas campus and downtown, so it always has a steady stream of customers. It quietened during the summer when the students went home or on their travels, but the locals still made trade steady enough. The owner, Chuck, was a bit of a dick, but he barely showed his face around the place, and the other staff were decent, making it a great place to work.

“Hey, Dean,” Y/N said as she came out of the back office. Y/N was the bar manager and a great girl. They had a lot in common; both lost their mothers when they were young and looked after their younger siblings while their fathers worked three jobs to try and make ends meet. Y/N’d had to drop out of college when her father took unexpectedly sick, having to take care of him and her little sister. Now that her father had passed and her sister had a full ride to another prestigious college, Harvard, Y/N lived in the tiny apartment above the bakery where she worked four days a week and in the bar four nights a week and every Saturday night. The rest of the time, she studied part-time to finish her college education and sent every spare cent she had to her sister in Boston.

“Hey, Y/N,” he smiled at her. She was pretty, too, and Dean wasn’t afraid to admit that he had a massive crush on her. Not that anything would ever happen because she was her, and he was… well, he wasn’t good enough for a girl like that. “How are ya, sweetheart?”

“I’m good, Dean. How are you? Oh! Did you manage to get Sam’s apartment sorted?” Y/N asked, and he smiled that she’d remember such a thing.

“Yeah, it’s all good now. We managed to get the rest of the deposit together,” Dean said. “Thanks for the extra shifts, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” Y/N smiled. “I still can’t believe landlords can actually do that,” Y/N shook her head as she headed behind the bar and started filling the refrigerators with bottles of beer and wine to prepare for the busy Friday night shift.

“Yeah, us either. But it’s done, and he has somewhere to live,” Dean said as he put the last menus and condiment buckets on the tables. “What needs to be done next, boss?” he asked, smirking when Y/N chuckled. She hated being called that, but he seemed to be the only one she didn’t scold for it.

“I could use a hand changing over the barrels if you’ve got time?” she said, breaking up the cardboard that the bottles had been housed in.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” Dean headed into the storeroom and started shifting the beer barrels behind the bar as Y/N continued putting bottles in the fridges and replacing the almost empty spirit bottles with full ones to accommodate the busiest night of the year: Friday night football and Freshers Week.

The bar was packed with customers, the warm, sunny weather drawing even more of them in than usual, and of course, Chuck had decided tonight was a good night to show face and ‘help’, putting the staff on edge. Dean had gone with the head down and get on with it attitude, glad it was three deep at the bar so he had an excuse not to have to entertain Chuck for very long.

Y/N had been running around after Chuck all night, finding this paperwork and that invoice and the employee payroll for the past six weeks. Eventually, when he couldn’t possibly ask for anything more, she’d escaped the office, having brazenly told her boss that she was needed front of house to help serve customers.

“I swear,” she’d said as she tied her little black server’s apron around her waist, “It’s like he fucking knew tonight would be the busiest night but still came to check months old paperwork! God, that man is insufferable!”

It wasn’t often that Y/N showed her annoyance, and Dean couldn’t help but think it was cute. Though, admittedly, that could be his crush talking, her furrowed brow and tiny pout were adorable.

“What can I do to help?” he asked as she took her place behind the bar.

“I should be asking you that question!” she giggled. “What do you need me to do?”

“We could do with someone collecting and cleaning the empty glasses, if you wouldn’t mind?” he responded, smiling as she picked up a basket, cleaning spray, and a cloth before he’d finished his sentence.

“You got it,” she winked and headed onto the floor to clear and wipe the tables down. And that, Dean thought, is what makes a good boss. Someone who works with the team to achieve the same goal. Someone who isn’t afraid of stepping in to help by doing the most mundane tasks that are below their pay grade.

Y/N was a breath of fresh air for him in so many ways. She was bubbly and caring, and no matter what was thrown her way, she responded with an air of calmness and dignity that he admired.

“Hey, man. What can I get ya?” Dean asked the next patron, finally taking his eyes off the girl slowly taking over his every thought.

“Be careful,” Dean said as Y/N headed back onto the floor to clear more glasses and tables. “It’s getting rowdy out there. You know what those college boys can be like.”

“Thanks, Dean,” she smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He knew she would be. He’d seen her handling every kind of drunk customer. Still, he’d watch her closely because he was more worried than usual. The crowd tonight seemed even more enthused thanks to the local sports team playing. It still surprised him how often the female staff got touched inappropriately and had the most vulgar things said to them by too drunk and far too confident men. More than once Dean had had to step in and stop something from going too far, and he’d do it as many times as he needed to for Y/N or any of the other female staff.

Y/N managed to get around most of the bar unscathed, but there was a particularly boisterous table of men who only frequented the bar when the Chiefs played. Dean had been watching them all night because they seemed to have forgotten their age and tried to out-drink their much younger counterparts. They’d already run their mouths off to the bar staff, and now one of them in particular had their beady eye on Y/N as she moved from table to table, collecting empty glasses and bottles.

Swapping her tray out for an empty one, Y/N made her way over to their table, and the second she got close enough, the balding guy with the beady eye was quick to rear his hand back and smack her ass. Dean’s hackles rose, and he was on high alert as he watched her give the douchebag a piece of her mind. But he didn’t stop. Douchebag wrapped his arms around her waist and tried pulling her onto his lap. All the while, his douchebag little friends laughed and cheered him on like he’d won a fucking prize.

Dean saw red as he ran around the bar and strode purposely over to the group of middle-aged men amid a mid-life crisis and pulled Y/N from his hold, dragging her behind him to protect her.

“The lady told you to leave her alone. I suggest you do that,” Dean fumed, only getting angrier at Douchebag’s smirk.

“Oh, ladies and gentlemen, we have a jealous boyfriend trying to protect his girl! You know, if she were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t let her out the house wearing something so…” he paused as he leered up and down Y/N’s body, “revealing.”

“Listen, asshole, you don’t want to piss me off right now. Why don’t you and your buddies call it a night and go home? You’ve clearly had too much to drink, and we don’t take kindly to people assaulting our staff here,” Dean’s jaw was clenched, but he’d somehow managed to keep his voice steady.

“Sorry, man,” Douchebag smirked as he stood. “Just can’t help myself when I see a pretty girl showing off half her body like a Goddamn little tease. She’s asking for it, really.”

That was the last straw, and as Douchebag made one final (and unfortunately successful) attempt to get his hands on Y/N, Dean pulled his fist back and punched him square on the nose. The resounding crack as Dean broke the guy’s nose was satisfying, as were the synchronised grimacing ‘oohs’ that the audience this little corner of the bar had attracted.

“You broke my nose, asshole!” Douchebag spluttered. “I’m reporting you for assault!”

“You do that,” Y/N said, “and I’ll have you arrested, too. This whole bar and the CCTV saw you grope me twice and clearly saw me trying to get you off me! What he did,” she pointed at Dean, “was save me from being sexually assaulted!”

“Come on, man,” one of Douchebag’s friends said, patting him on the back. “Let’s get you to the hospital. It’s not worth it.”

“Damn straight it’s not!” Dean yelled. “Any way you spin this, he doesn’t win, so get the hell out and don’t come back!”

Tail between their legs, Douchebag and his friends left the bar. The second the door shut behind them, Dean was next to Y/N, checking her for injuries.

“I’m fine, Dean,” she insisted, but her eyes told a different story. The encounter had shaken her up, and Dean wanted to fix it, needed to fix it.

“No, sweetheart, you’re not. You’re–” Dean began but was interrupted by the shrill voice of Chuck.

“Winchester, my office, now! You too, Y/N.”

Seeing Y/N sitting beside him on the other side of the desk was strange. This was where she did all the paperwork, payroll, ordering, and invoicing, so to see Chuck on her chair was disconcerting. And not good.

“I don’t know what was going on out there–” Chuck began, and Dean scoffed in disbelief.

“You’re bar manager was sexually assaulted by a customer. That’s what happened!” Dean sat forward on his chair, raising his voice. He only calmed when Y/N placed her hand on his forearm.

Chuck pursed his lips at his outburst and continued speaking as if Dean hadn’t interrupted.

“I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, sexual assault or not,” Chuck looked pointedly at Y/N before he continued. “It’s no excuse for my staff to behave violently.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” Dean fumed. “That… scumbag… touched her ass and her breasts and tried to force her into his lap! You see those bruises, right?” he asked as he pointed to the dark purple fingerprint marks on her arms.

“Inappropriate comments, slurs, even touching, is to be expected when you work in a bar–” Chuck was interrupted again, this time by Y/N.

“There are no touching policies in every strip club in the country for a reason, Chuck! You cannot expect it to be any different in a fratboy sports bar! No one should go to work expecting that being sexually assaulted is okay!”

“For God’s sake, Y/N! So what a guy touched your ass and tits! You should be flattered!”

“It was sexual assault, Chuck! That guy,” Y/N pointed behind her in the general direction of the bar, “touched me without permission, and I could have him charged! You too with how you’re behaving!”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic! I feel sorry for your boyfriend if this is how prudish you are!”

“Hey, that is–” Dean interjected, but Chuck kept talking.

“Dean, you’re fired. I cannot, and will not, allow a violent brute to work in my bar.”

“You can’t do that!” Y/N protested.

“Watch it, or you’ll be gone, too!” Chuck threatened, but Dean knew it was an empty one with her. He needed her too much. The bar would burn to the ground without her in charge.

“No need. I quit. Effective immediately. I cannot, and will not,” Y/N glared at Chuck as she repeated his words to him, “work in a place where I’m expected to be sexually harassed and assaulted and ignore it. I cannot, and will not, work for a man who fires a good person for helping someone in need.”

Standing, Y/N took off her apron and name tag and threw them on the desk. She unhooked the keys from her belt and pulled the cash box towards her, opening it and pulling out two brown envelopes, handing one to Dean and putting the other in her pocket. Once she’d locked the cash box, she tossed her keys down on the cheap metal desk with a satisfying clang.

“Really? You’re going to quit over him?” Chuck scoffed.

“Yes. Dean is worth a thousand shitty bar jobs like this one, and I’d choose him over any of them in a heartbeat,” Y/N said with her head held high. “I hope you know you’ve just lost your two best workers on the busiest night of the year. Come on, Dean. Let’s get out of this shithole.”

Dean didn’t protest. He stood up, smirked at Chuck because he just couldn’t help himself, and followed Y/N out of the bar and onto the street.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t need to do that. I’m a big boy, and I can look after myself,” Dean said after walking in silence for a few minutes.

“I know you can, and yes, I did. That was unfair and undeserved. Especially because it was my fault,” Y/N responded.

“Hey, don’t ever… it wasn’t your fault. Things like that are never the woman’s fault, you know that, right?” Dean couldn’t believe she’d ever think something like that would be her own doing.

“I know, but if I’d listened to you and let Marcus clear tables instead of me, none of this would’ve happened.”

“No. I won’t hear it. You didn’t ask to be groped by a balding douchebag going through a mid-life crisis, sweetheart. Don’t ever apologise for someone else’s wrongdoing,” he reassured her.

“So, what do we do now? We both kinda needed that job,” Y/N chuckled, but it held no humour.

“Well, I might know a guy who owns a wine bar downtown. A classy establishment, so the tips are better. And we’d be treated right,” Dean said, thinking of the bar Cas had tried to get him to work in for months.

“You have a buddy with a bar, and you chose to stay working in that shithole?” Y/N asked in disbelief. “Why? What would possess you to stay there? Willingly?”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Dean smirked. This wasn’t where he envisioned this conversation going–if it ever happened at all, that is–but the perfect opportunity had presented itself and he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t take it. “I got to see you almost every day.”

“Come on! You did not stay there for me!” Y/N scoffed, and Dean shrugged his shoulders, his lips tugging upwards in a shy smile.

“I did, actually. Can’t think of anyone better to spend so much time with.”

“Dean Winchester,” she grinned. “Are you flirting with me?” The teasing tone in her words was one he’d never heard before, and he liked it.

“Do you want me to be flirting with you?” he’d asked, needing to hear her say it before he did something stupid because he’d misread the signals.

“Yeah… I think I do,” Y/N giggled, stepping closer to him, bumping their arms together as they stepped in sync down the sidewalk.

“Yeah?” he asked, checking again because, quite frankly, she was her and he was him.

“Yeah.”

Dean stopped walking and gently grabbed her forearm to stop her from walking ahead. Feeling brave, Dean placed his hands on her cheeks and dipped his head, slowly lowering his lips to hers. Every inch closer he got, he switched his gaze between her lips and her eyes, making sure this was what she wanted.

When there was no hesitation and nowhere else to go, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers. They were as soft as they always looked, softer even, and tasted as sweet as he’d imagined they would.

Y/N pressed herself closer to him with a low hum and slid her arms up his chest, resting one hand on his pec and the other curling around his neck. Dean licked her bottom lip, encouraging her to open her mouth and let him deepen their kiss.

He failed to hold back a groan when his tongue met hers, the feeling so much better than anything his mind could’ve conjured up. Dean couldn’t remember how long he’d wanted this, and now that it was happening, he knew he’d do whatever he could to keep her in his arms, just like this.

Tags: @acitygrownwillow @akshi8278 @ashbatz @candy-coated-misery0731 @chriszgirl92 @deans-baby-momma @deans-spinster-witch @deansbbyx @deanwanddamons @duncanhillscoffeecups @foxyjwls007 @giggles1026 @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @hoboal87 @impala67rollingthroughtown @iprobablyshipit91 @jackles010378 @jamerlynn @jc-winchester @k-slla @kazsrm67 @kmc1989 @lacilou @ladysparkles78 @leigh70 @lyarr24 @maliburenee @michecolegate @mrsjenniferwinchester @nancymcl @negans-lucille-tblr @nelachu2423 @octoberclidan @perpetualabsurdity @roseblue373 @sandlee44 @sexyvixen7 @snackles87 @spnbaby-67 @spnwoman @stixnstripesworld @stoneyggirl2 @suckitands33 @synmorite @tristanrosspada-ackles @twinkleinadiamondsky @waters-2567 @winchestergirl1720

#j3bingo #just like this #au dean winchester x reader #bartender!dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #au dean winchester #dean winchester #dean winchester fluff #fluff

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custardcrazy · 1 year

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i have a Ted logan request! it’s kinda inspired by the tutor piece you wrote but instead of being Ted’s tutor she’s Deacons tutor (or babysitter) instead and she comes over to the Logan household and Ted sees her there and is immediately head over heels for her and is constantly trying to find an excuse to go to whatever room she’s in and stay there much to the annoyance of Deacon and their father on occasion

sorry if i got to specific but you’re my fav Ted Logan writer and I’m happy his requests are open!!!

young as we are

summary: you're deacon logan's new babysitter. it doesn't seem like it'll be anything too special -- until you meet his cute older brother, that is. (gn!reader)

wordcount: 3.8k

A/N: okay so I might've changed around the prompt a teensy bit, but hopefully it still fits what you wanted. i'm no good at writing slow stuff so i got kinda impatient lmao (also. i'm?? your favorite?? you have no idea how genuinely happy that makes me. i'm smiling like an idiot. thank you so much.)

You checked the note you'd written the address down on to make sure you hadn't gotten the wrong house -- okay, all good -- before ringing the doorbell.

The house itself was pretty nice, just looking at the exterior. One of the perks of babysitting in a somewhat well-off area like this one was that you usually got paid decently for your troubles; and it wasn't nearly as bad as working retail, if the stories you'd heard from your friends were anything to go off of. And kids could be sweet, unlike food service customers.

It was only half a minute before the door was answered by a balding middle-aged man with a stern expression. Mr. Logan, you presumed; it was probably his voice you'd heard on the phone.

"You must be the babysitter," he stated directly, not giving you time to answer, "come in, then. I have some things I have to inform you of." He didn't wait, disappearing into the house and leaving the door ajar behind him. Feeling slightly awkward, you followed.

Once you entered the foyer, he began speaking again. "Deacon's probably in his room right now. He has to be in bed by nine P.M., and he knows that, but I don't doubt that without me being present he'll try to stay up." Indicating some bills on the counter, he continued, "there's some money for a pizza. The number to call is on the refrigerator. Dinner should be at six."

"Oh, and my … eldest son, Ted." If it was even possible, his tone became more snide. "He should be back in an hour or two. Don't let him bother you at all -- if he gets too annoying, just let me know when I get back later in the evening, and I'll deal with him."

You barely got out an "uh, okay, thanks" before Mr. Logan was yelling for Deacon.

He was maybe around twelve, you guessed. It was obvious that he was reluctant to come downstairs, but did so after a look from his father. You smiled at him, but he didn't return it; you didn't really mind. He was at that awkward age, after all. And if your instincts were correct, an overbearing father could inflict a number on any kid.

It wasn't that you weren't familiar with strict parents -- but it was near-impossible to get entirely used to them. Being in charge of their children meant that you had to be extra careful. You couldn't trust a young kid to not tell on you if you were a little lenient when it came to bedtimes, and you couldn't trust an older kid to not try and put the fact that you were more easy-going than their parents to the test.

Still, once Mr. Logan had left, you immediately relaxed.

And so did Deacon, by the looks of it, because suddenly his tense demeanor all but disappeared.

It was almost frightening how abruptly he turned his attention from his father's car pulling down the driveway to you.

"You ever watched RoboCop?"

He asked, with a certain bluntness only preteen boys were capable of.

"No, I haven't." Encouragingly, you smiled again. "What's that?"

"I have the tape," and already he was turning away, "gimmie a sec."

You had the sneaking suspicion that his father didn't have the same enthusiasm for science fiction movies.

And you were right; even during the movie he spoke up now and then to tell you stuff about the characters or the plot. About how "RoboCop could probably take down an entire army by himself". You thought it was kind of spooky how the titular protagonist was a reanimated guy forced to follow cyborg programming to uphold "justice" in an already-corrupt city, disregarding any humanity he once had.

… Or something like that. Deacon just found the guy "badass".

By the time that you'd nearly reached the ending of the movie, you were invested.

But not too invested to not look up when the front door opened, and thus you made eye contact with probably the prettiest guy you'd seen in a while.

He froze midway through his path to the stairs.

For a moment, both of you just looked at each other. He looked familiar.

Oh, yeah, you'd seen him at school a couple times. Passed by him in the hallways or in the cafeteria, maybe. You hadn't really noticed him before, but maybe that was because you hadn't gotten a good look at him. Like now.

And then Deacon took notice, coughing in an awfully non-subtle way into his fist, and you realized that maybe you shouldn't stare like a creep.

"Uh, you must be Ted, right?" You laughed semi-awkwardly. "Hi. I'm just gonna be babysitting Deacon until your dad gets home."

Hopefully you remembered his name correctly. From the way his father had said it, you had expected him to be some flavor of delinquent -- piercings, leather jacket, all that stuff that an uptight man like Mr. Logan would disprove of. A high school dropout who was bumming around in his dad's basement without a source of stable income.

That couldn't be further from the truth; the Ted you were seeing now was a slightly gangly, floppy-haired boy your age who was looking at you like he'd seen an angel.

It took him a moment, but he nodded vigorously in response to your question.

"Yes. Yeah. I'm -- that's me." Ted glanced away, finally breaking away your gaze. "Um. What's your name? I - … I don't think we've been introduced before, dude." Even from your position on the couch, you could pick out spots of rose pink on his cheeks. Even as he focused determinedly on the ground.

You couldn't help but be hopelessly endeared, so you gave him your name.

He gently repeated it once, as if trying out how it felt on his tongue. "Oh. Radical."

There was another brief moment, in which the movie still playing on the boxy television faded into the background. Then, his eyes were back on yours; they were a warm brown, you noticed.

Apparently, Deacon had enough of his older brother interrupting his sacred movie, because he spoke up again, breaking the silence. "Ted, don't you have stuff to do?"

You wanted to reprimand Deacon for his less-than-polite tone, but didn't have the chance, because Ted responded first.

"Oh." Seemingly snapping back to reality, he glanced away. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that."

Before you could tell him that you were going to order food later, he'd bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. You heard the far-off shutting of a door; and then a little later, muffled music that had a lot of distorted electric guitar and drums.

Deacon scoffed to himself, but settled further into the couch cushions.

You didn't see Ted again that night. He didn't even come downstairs to snatch a slice of pepperoni pizza, and just remained in his room. Maybe he didn't want to bother his little brother anymore, you thought, trying your hardest not to feel disappointed; even if you'd barely had any sort of conversation with him, there was something … Something very magnetic.

Mr. Logan was back at around eleven, and by that time you were seated by the television once more. Alone, because you'd miraculously managed to get Deacon to go to bed.

"I'm guessing everything went fine," remarked Mr. Logan, taking off his cap. You were beginning to get used to his clipped tone, and shut off the terrible sitcom you'd been killing time with.

"Yeah, I left the change for the food on the counter."

He pulled out his wallet, counting out crisp bills.

"Did Ted give you any trouble?"

Taking the money, you made sure it was the correct amount -- why'd you even bother, a man like Mr. Logan must've been specific about everything. "No, not at all. He barely said anything to me, actually."

He only gave you a noncommittal hum in response to that, not even looking in your direction as he headed for the counter; probably to make sure you weren't stealing any of the change. "Well, good night."

It wasn't a thank you -- not even close, but you'd take it. You'd been paid, after all. "Good night."

Ted's face upon seeing you still was fresh in your mind as you made your way home. And during the next several days that passed. It wasn't surprising, really. Nobody had ever looked at you like that; nobody had ever looked in awe of you on sight. At least, not anybody that had really caught your attention.

Eventually, Mr. Logan called again. Apparently he had another work thing to do -- not that you were listening closely when he mentioned it. Your heart jumped at another opportunity to see Ted; it was a little embarrassing, really. You weren't some boy-crazed lunatic, pining after a guy you barely knew.

Well, pining was a strong word. But you did pay extra attention when walking around at school, trying to catch a glimpse of him on your way to your classes.

(You didn't.)

This time, your pulse picked up when you walked up to the house. You even hesitated before you rang the doorbell again. But when you did, you heard some general commotion from within the house before Deacon answered the door, looking a little annoyed.

"Hi," he said, "Dad's getting ready or whatever."

He stepped aside to let you in. "I thought Ted was gonna answer the door. But he ran off as soon as he heard the doorbell." Sighing, he flopped down on the couch. "Lazy ass."

As if on cue, Mr. Logan entered the living room, fixing his hat. You idly wondered if he wore it to hide the fact that he basically lacked all of his hair except for on the sides and back.

"Deacon, watch your language."

"Sorry." Even though his voice was muffled into the cushions, he didn't sound apologetic in the slightest.

Mr. Logan turned his attention to you. "You don't need a refresher on anything, right." It sounded more like an order than a question, but you chose to look past it. At least he had offered to jog your memory if needed. The bare minimum was nice sometimes.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

He gave you a curt nod. It wasn't until you heard the garage door shutting behind his car that Deacon sat bolt upright, suddenly energized.

You looked at him expectantly.

"Let's watch Ghostbusters," he declared. "Dad thinks it's stupid."

And so, with little fanfare, you were basically doing the same thing as last time. But instead of dystopia, the setting was mildly less disturbing this time. And the main protagonists were human and likable. No offense to cyborg cops, but he didn't offer much in the way of personality -- so nobody could blame you.

You were sure you'd seen this movie before, but the memory was vague enough that most of the events were new to you. However, even though you were focused on watching the film, there was something else on the back of your mind. An underlying antsiness; and you had a good idea why.

Said antsiness was confirmed when, about half an hour into the movie, you heard footsteps coming down the stairs. It took all of your willpower not to look, but you knew who it was.

It was only until he breached your peripheral vision that you allowed yourself to smile.

"Hey, Ted."

Today, he was wearing all loose clothes -- a baggy tee shirt with BLACK SABBATH printed on it in slightly distorted purple font, and what looked like sleep shorts. All in all, it made him look very soft. Like he was planning to do nothing but lay in bed for the entire day. Even his hair was kind of mussed up, a curl or two (or three) sticking out from the rest.

He returned your smile tenfold with a near-blinding grin. "Hey."

Deacon, unlike you, didn't have to hide anything.

"Are you just gonna stand there and stare at the babysitter?"

Delightfully, Ted flushed, hand flying up to fiddle with his hair. "Uh. No. I was just wondering if I could -- " he hesitated, before continuing, "if I could watch the movie too, y'know. I think Ghostbusters is a totally exceptional example of cinema." You didn't catch the way Deacon narrowed his eyes at his older brother.

"Okay. Just don't interrupt too much."

" 'Course."

You were mildly startled when Ted sat down in the middle of you and Deacon -- you'd expected him to sit on the other side, but apparently that wasn't the case. The younger Logan let out an audible sigh and scooted further away.

True to his word, Ted didn't speak up for the majority of the movie. But you were aware of his presence in a way that was almost comparable; since you were mere inches apart. He didn't sit still, and adjusted his position every so often, but you had the feeling that was the norm since Deacon didn't mention it.

However, it seemed by the near-ending Ted reached his limit on not making at least one comment.

"Dude. I forgot how impressive the special effects are," he mused in his best attempt at a hushed tone. "Must've taken them ages to do this stuff."

"Yeah," you agreed, glancing over, "it's pretty cool. Slimer really gives me the creeps."

Ted opened his mouth to respond, but shut up when a loud "shhh!" came from Deacon's general direction.

For a moment, you and him just looked at each other. Then, not able to stifle it in time, you snorted; he lapsed into a fit of giggles, and as a result of that so did you. It wasn't really your fault -- his laugh was very contagious, even muffled like this.

Somehow, you managed to get through the rest of the movie without much more incident. Even if your heart lurched every time Ted's arm or leg accidentally brushed up against yours with the way he was fidgeting.

By the time it was over, it was around six, and so you called to order a pizza. Ted didn't retreat back upstairs, much to Deacon's disappointment, and pretty much hovered around you as you all waited for dinner to arrive. Not in a weird way, not at all -- he just resembled a puppy trying to get attention, really.

"What'd you think of the movie?" He asked, just after you'd gotten off the phone with the pizza place.

"It was pretty good," you hummed, putting down the receiver. "A couple moments were slow, but overall I enjoyed it. What's not to like about some guys capturing ghosts and defeating otherworldly entities?"

"An excellent way to phrase it," grinned Ted, "and I agree most wholeheartedly. The ghost-buster dudes are impossible not to root for."

You chatted a little more about it with him; his way of talking was a bit unique, but somehow you found it just as attractive as everything else. Sadly, your conversation was cut short by the doorbell. As soon as you'd taken a single step in the direction of the door --

" -- I'll get that!" declared Ted, with an enthusiasm that was a little frightening, already moving to grab the pizza.

"Hey, wait, there's money on the counter!"

"... Oh."

Backtracking, he grabbed the cash and resumed his course to the door, covering the distance with long strides.

It wasn't long before the food was gone; and you unceremoniously stuffed the ripped-apart cardboard box into the recycling bin like last time, hoping Mr. Logan wouldn't take issue with how you'd basically just jammed it in. After Deacon had wolfed down maybe three slices, he'd disappeared somewhere. Probably to his room -- you reminded him to be in bed in time, lest Mr. Logan stop letting you babysit, and he'd only replied with a dull "okay".

You were practically alone with Ted now.

"So, uh." He broke the silence as soon as you returned to the living room. "... Wanna go upstairs? There's not much to do down here 'sides watching more movies."

"I don't see why not," you said without thinking.

For a second, he looked caught off-guard just as much as you were, (seriously, what) but recovered quickly. "Cool. C'mon, dude."

Beaming, he motioned to you, and you were helpless to do anything but follow.

His room was a bit messy, but you would've found it strange if it wasn't. Posters were all over the walls, Metallica and Van Halen and other assorted bands and movies. In the corner was a shelf filled to the brim with various memorabilia; action figures, guitar picks, markers and books that looked kind of dusty. His laundry bin was overflowing a little, but at least it was confined to another corner. Everything was just so Ted and that was probably the best way to describe it.

He made his way over to the window, opening it just a crack. "Let's just keep the window open so we can hear Dad pulling in the driveway. His car is super loud -- I think he'd go ballistic if you were hanging out with me."

You knew he was right, but it still struck a minor chord on your heartstrings -- which you attempted to move past as fast as possible. "Oh, yeah. Good thinking."

At your compliment, he was all smiles again.

You felt yourself melt a little, and sat on the bed before your knees gave out or something.

Before long, you were both sprawled out on the carpet playing a serious game of Uno. For a guy who you were learning wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box, he was pretty good at making you question your own abilities; either that or he was just extremely, ridiculously lucky. He did have an awful poker face, after all.

He snickered every time he drew a plus four or plus two card, and blanched whenever he didn't have a playable card. Which was cute, but also pretty advantageous for you.

After a frustratingly long time of going back and forth; of him denying you every single time you dared call Uno, you finally won.

"Dude!" Ted exclaimed, throwing down his hand as if deeply and truly offended, but you could see that he was grinning again. "That was totally 'cause I let my guard down."

"I don't know," you teased, "or maybe it was because of my great and unbeatable card-game skills."

He hung his head in mock-shame. "You're right. I suck."

You were conflicted between bullying him a little more or comforting him to lessen the blow of your victory, but before you could decide, you both heard the tell-tale sound of tires crunching on the pavement and the whir of the garage door opening. Ted scrambled over to the window, peeking through the small opening he'd left earlier.

"He's back," he announced, turning back to face you.

"Okay," you said, getting to your feet and making sure you hadn't dropped anything. "See you later, Ted."

" 'Bye!" He called after you.

Thankfully, you managed to make it down to the living room, jump onto the couch, and fumble for the remote just in time to turn on the television a good minute before Mr. Logan entered. During that brief time, you felt strangely like you were a spy, a double-agent -- that if you were caught fraternizing with the enemy, you'd be given grave consequences.

It was hilarious, you had to admit.

Mr. Logan didn't ask you about Ted this time, just cutting right to the chase and taking out his wallet.

"Is the change on the counter again?"

"Yeah," you answered, giving him a "thanks" as he handed you a couple bills. You marveled again at how clean they were -- it almost felt criminal to stuff them in your pocket, but what else could you do?

Once more, Mr. Logan turned away, going for the counter. "Good night." If he was as disinterested as he sounded, it was no wonder why he didn't try to make small talk with you at all. And you were grateful for it; you were sure that it'd just be awkward and nothing else. You rushed a little to leave.

But just as your hand turned the doorknob, you were stopped in your tracks by a shout.

"Wait!"

Apparently, you and Mr. Logan were both equally shocked, because he also whipped around mid-action.

In Ted's hasty descent down the stairs, he nearly tripped over himself, but regained what little composure he'd been holding onto, and jogged over to you. Either he didn't notice his father standing there, looking utterly baffled; or he just didn't care. In his hands he was holding a cassette tape.

He held it out to you, still catching his breath. The color in his cheeks could be attributed to his rush downstairs, but you had a sneaking suspicion that wasn't entirely the case. "Here. Sorry. I was gonna give it to you earlier," bashfulness showed clearly in his expression, "but I forgot."

It was only a second before you realized that you'd have to exit the situation to avoid any questions from his father -- whose eyes were darting between the two of you in an extremely worrying manner. So you took it from him, even whilst having absolutely no idea what it was.

"Thanks."

And with that, you were out the door.

The second you got home, you got a good look at the tape.

On the outside, written in an untidy scrawl in black Sharpie, was your answer. It was a mixtape. How much time had he spent making this for you? Your mind conjured up an image of him sitting by the record player you'd seen in his room, painstakingly selecting his favorite songs to record.

Flipping it over, you realized there was a scrap of paper taped to it -- a note.

You hardly had to think about the question hastily written on it with a bright pink marker, with little stars doodled around the edges.

It was the only thing that was running through your mind for the rest of the night. They were agonizing, the few days that passed before you finally received a call from Mr. Logan again. It was probably the only time ever that you were glad to hear his voice.

Deacon was a little disappointed when you told him to wait a minute to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"Don't start loudly making out or anything," he said, sulking as you quickly ascended the stairs. You wanted to scold him for the sake of preserving your own dignity, but you had more pressing matters to focus on at the moment.

"So," Ted began sheepishly, after you entered his room. "You got my note, right?"

"I listened to the tape, too," you answered near-breathlessly. "Yes. I'd love to spend more time with you, Ted." You smiled broadly. "You're really sweet, you know that?"

He went bright red in response.

And then ducked behind his bangs.

It took him a little while to speak, but you were patient.

" … thanks, dude. I'm really glad," he finally murmured. "I spent ages making that tape, but it wasn't until I was gonna give it to you that I realized that. Like. Just hanging out like this wasn't gonna be enough. At all."

Right now, the main emotion your brain was registering was giddiness.

"I'm really glad, too."

#ted logan x reader #ted logan x you #ted logan imagine #ted logan imagines #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #bill and ted imagine

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depressed-simmer · 8 months

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Amazon Fresh (functional) 🛒💚

Thanks to all the creators that made this build possible, specially JCTekkSims for creating Amazon Fresh Signs.

A MASSIVE THANK YOU to Insimnia and Somik and Severinka for creating functional food, as mentioned below:

💗 Insimnia:

Edible Breakfast Cereal

Functional Candy & Chocolates

Functional Custom Bar

EDIBLE Lay's Potato Chips

Grocery Haul Set 5

Grocery Haul Oct 2022

Edible Chips Ahoy Cookies

more links on my Patreon.

NOTE: If you prefer the FAST option of each food, you need to download on the links above, and delete the SLOW version, BUT YOU CAN'T HAVE BOTH on your game.

💗 Somik_Severinka:

Functional Refrigerator for Beer Sale

Functional Buffet with 18 dishes

Realistic Cooking Mod 7.0

Important Notes:

❌ Baby care (functional baby care can be downloaded here, by QMBiBi), Household Items, Fruits & Vegetables, Baking, and some Deli ARE NOT FUNCTIONAL.

❌DECO SIMS NOT included.

❌I just realized I misspelled "Vegetables"...

✅ YOU NEED TO DOWNLOAD THE FOLLOWING MODS TO MAKE IT FUNCTIONAL (they are not included):

The smallemptyplate file (if you don’t have it already), Grocery Shopping Day Custom Register AND Insimnia Eats 2.0 by Insimnia

SCCO "Any Ingredient" Cooking Tags Resource by SrslySims

Cookbook S&S 20.12 by Somik_Severinka

My gallery ID is "TotsNChildren"

@sssvitlanz 💖

DOWNLOAD HERE (EARLY ACCESS: 02/07/2024)

#the sims 4 #ts4 #thesims4 #ts4cc #the sims cc #the sims 4 cc #thesims4cc #ts4ccfinds #sims4cc #ts4 interior design

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jovialjellyfishpoetry · 2 years

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#LG Refrigerator Service Center in Hyderabad #LG Refrigerator Service Center Near Me #LG Refrigerator Service Center #LG Service Customer Care

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generic-sonic-fan · 1 year

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The post where I do vague cultural worldbuilding headcanons for Sonic characters??

Sonic and Knuckles are mountain man bros in the sense that they both grew up in the wild raised by animals. They dunk themselves in a river, call themselves clean, and then fistbump about it. They eat fruit right off bushes. Knuckles can find you a damn good tuber in a pinch and Sonic would be able to snatch you a worm if you really wanted it. Knuckles finds it difficult to pick up on mainstream cultural customs but Sonic's always found it easy now that he's older.

Tails and Amy, meanwhile, grew up in towns. These towns had a definite human influence, hence their possession of first and last names, but they still grew up in a Mobian in-group of sorts. They know proper fur/quill care, feel that it's gender non-conforming for a boy to wear clothes and a girl to go without them, and are adept at reading ear/tail gestures. Tails was never really one for any small-town slang but Amy still uses more rural phrasing even now that she lives in a larger city.

Rouge grew up in a large city, so she's more well-versed in cultures other than her own. She's adopted some human rituals because she thinks they're fun, like face masks and shaving some of her body fur. She loves exploring human cuisines because they're "exotic" to her while Mobian cuisine are comfort foods. She's fluent in several different kinds of slang along with the gestures/manners of the different cultures.

Shadow was raised by humans. His mannerisms are unmistakably human. From wearing human-sized shirts around the house, to having a taste for "human" comfort foods, to being completely unable to read ear/tail gestures in conversation, any Mobian is able to peg him as an outsider pretty quickly. While he's absolutely embraced proper quill care, Rouge had to first point out to him that he was doing it wrong- using human shampoo is not going to cut it, hun.

Omega is. . . weird. For the most part, he's predictably alien: what few social customs he's bothered to learn he has to have observed first. Rouge has been a helpful educator on the rare occasion he gives a shit, usually in regards to slang translation to add to his dictionary. He's almost more like Knuckles in the sense that he was isolated and now he's playing catchup. Sometimes, sometimes, though, the assumptions Omega makes will lean more towards human biases. Anyone who values their life knows not to ever point that out to him.

Metal Sonic reads like a robot imitating a human imitating a Mobian. Yes, he can imitate Sonic's gestures, but it's the movement in between that's uncanny. The physicality of his limbs. The weight of each step in his out-of-combat walk cycle. It screams "human". Most of his cultural knowledge, the little that he has, comes from observing Eggman's daily routine. But Eggman is just one human, and an isolated and eccentric one at that. Metal Sonic could recognize a refrigerator but not a washing machine, could recognize a plate and fork but not any other kitchen cookware. His knowledge is piecemeal. His imitations are incomplete. He was designed for combat, nothing more. His unconscious attempts to fill in the gaps are illogical, aren't they?

Silver is permanently locked into a culture called "survival mode". That's a joke, but only mostly. His behaviors more closely match that of someone growing up in extreme poverty. He can't stand to throw stuff away and he has a hypervigilance about danger that someone who grew up in a "bad neighborhood" would understand. Not to mention that any cultural values he has learned are a few hundred years out of date, so his guesses at any customs tend to be slightly off.

Blaze is from a different dimension, which basically reads as just a different culture than the one that's prominent where most of Sonic's friends reside! She actually gets a kick out of sharing her customs and comparing them to everyone else's. She's also from an extremely privileged walk of life, though, and it definitely shows no matter how much research she does to try and be less ignorant about how "normal" life works.

#feel free to add other characters in the reblogs!!#sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #amy rose #knuckles the echidna #shadow the hedgehog #rouge the bat #e-123 omega #silver the hedgehog #blaze the cat #MAN that's a lotta tags! group post!!#please feel free to ask me about any one of these they're so fascinating to me

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obaex · 1 year

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you, the ocean, and me (pt. 2) - jj maybank

summary: life is picture perfect until the past comes knocking at your door, unwilling to let you go.

word count: 11.2k

warnings: 18+ mature, sexual/suggestive content below the cut, canon-level violence, and one terrible ex

a/n: i am squealing and kicking my feet in the air to finally be sharing this with you! i am obsessed with these two and their story. there are some flashbacks to things that happened in the past, all in italics. please note this one is spicier than part one, please read responsibly.

the vibe: the vow/ ruthanne (listened to this on repeat while writing this, i know it was in part one, but it’s just it for me fam) & coastline / steve kroeger

part one here!

Ever since you had come back to the Outer Banks, JJ was so uncontrollably happy and so smitten he was nearly unrecognizable. He waved to strangers on the street, his other hand tucked firmly in your own, he held doors open, he was a hugger all of a sudden, scooping Heyward into a bearhug the last time you were all at Pope's as the old man tried to swat him away. "Boy have you lost your damn mind?!" he had asked. And maybe he had a little bit. But he didn't care. He was floating through life. You were back, you were here, with him, what could possibly phase him? He had literal heart eyes for you, anyone could see it. It might have grated on his friends if they didn't love to see how happy you made him. He was insatiable around you, always pulling you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you or tugging you away from the group at the chateau to 'grab another beer' which resulted in your back pressed between the cool refrigerator door and his warm body as he kissed you deeply, passionately, his hands tangled in your hair, your hands tangled in his shirt, eliciting a groan from deep within his chest. "Princess please let me take you home" he'd beg as you dragged him back outside.

Perhaps the most notable change, though, was his behavior at work. He managed to contain his eyerolls and help the waitstaff at the Island Club with extra tasks; tonight he had even volunteered to help with a particularly difficult table that had just been seated with everyone's least favorite customers: Rafe, Topper, Kelce and a handful of their friends JJ didn't recognize. But even they couldn't bring him down. Every insult rolled right off his back no matter how hard they tried to rile him up. "Dirty pogue" "Marina rat" they snickered, eliciting laughs around the table. Even when Kelce 'accidentally' knocked an entire bottle of expensive wine off the table and blamed it on him, forcing him down on his hands and knees to clean it up. He had heard it all before and he didn't care because at the end of this godforsaken shift was you, and that was all that mattered. He was zoned out, thinking about you as he picked the glass off the floor, half-listening to the conversation at the table above him.

"Anyway, thanks so much for having me, I appreciate any help you can give me" an unidentified voice said.

"Of course" Rafe replied "How can we help?"

"I'm in town looking for someone. A guy. Probably from the club. All I know is that he surfs and he has a dirt bike."

JJ's ears perked up at that, his hands faltering slightly with the broken glass as he tuned further into the conversation.

"Shit, man, you just described half the guys at this table" Rafe said amidst a smattering of uncomfortable laughter as the guys traded glances around the table.

"Unfortunately, my mother-in-law didn't have the pleasure of meeting him. He made some... untoward advances toward my fiancée. She's down here with him still. We're worried about her. It's time he and I had a little chat."

JJ had frozen on the spot. His heart was pounding in his chest and he realized he was squeezing the glass in his hand hard enough for it to break skin. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and willed himself not to lunge across the table. Fury was rolling off of him in waves as he stood up and hazarded a glance at the guy. Even a cursory look told him everything he needed to know, he was every bit the pompous asshole he had imagined in his mind, smug and arrogant. He had laughed along at each of Rafe's jokes at his expense. The thought of this guy with his hands on you flickered through JJ's mind and he knew he needed to walk away while he still could. His legs and feet felt glued to the ground, his body urging him to stay and knock this asshole clear across the dining room. But with every last ounce of strength he had, he let out a deep breath and walked away, the gears in his head turning as his worst fears were confirmed.

"What did you say her name was?" JJ heard Topper ask.

"Y/N" he said. The sound of your name on his lips burned in JJ's ears as he kicked the kitchen door open violently.

JJ spent the entire ride back to the cut debating whether or not to tell you what he had heard.

He didn't want to lie to you, and he knew you were going to find out eventually. More than anything, he didn't want to admit that he was scared. Scared that Carson being here was going to shake the carefully constructed fairly tale he had built around you, that he had you all to himself, that you could leave your old life behind and be here with him, that he would never lose you again.

He pulled into John B's driveway and when he made his way to the backyard your eyes immediately met his as you hopped up from your seat and ran over to him, jumping into his arms as he lifted you off the ground. He would never get tired of the way you were always so excited to see him, even if it had only been a few hours or a few minutes. "Mm'missed you" you murmured into his shoulder. The tension in his body eased as he felt your heart beating against his and the way you were trying to nuzzle impossibly closer to him. He let himself enjoy one last moment of peace, one last moment with you in his arms, afraid he was going to ruin everything, but knowing, especially with your past, that he would never keep anything from you.

He let out a deep, shaky sigh and set you down as you searched his eyes. "Hey, what's wrong? Tough shift?" you asked, concern written all over your face as you brushed his long hair out of his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck and hung his head.

"Kinda" he said.

He looked back up at your doe eyes, the way they were all consumed with concern for him, a small pout on your lips. God he did not want to do this... "Look, I don't know how else to say this but uh Carson is here. And I don't think he got the memo that you two aren't a thing anymore."

In a million years, with a thousand guesses you would have never thought that's what JJ was going to say. You felt your heart plummet to your feet and took an involuntary step back, the news literally throwing you off balance.

"W-What are you talking about?" you said, your voice shaking but also rising with panic. "Here where? In Outer Banks?" Your mind refused to process this information, you were in denial. "How do you know it was him?!"

"Short brown hair? Brown eyes? Black Rolex watch that cost more than my house?" JJ replied, his voice now rising too. Why were you questioning him? Why would he ever make this up?

You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the watch you had bought him for his birthday two years ago as you covered your face with your hands and let the realization crash over you like a wave in a strong current, threatening to pull you under.

"He was with Rafe, Topper, and Kelce. He's asking around about you, about me, but he doesn't know who I am. He thinks I belong to the club" he laughed bitterly, "guess they never thought you'd end up with the busboy, huh?"

Even though your mind was reeling, your stomach clenched at JJ's tone, at the hint of bitterness, of the hurt. Rafe and his friends were relentless on the best of days, you couldn't image what Carson might have said about you, about JJ that he'd had to sit through tonight.

You let your hands fall from your face and pressed yourself back into JJ's arms, your head falling against his chest and your arms winding around him, squeezing him tightly. You didn't know what to think, you just wanted to be near him, to feel his arms around you. He was your safe place and you knew as long as you were together, you could face anything.

JJ had been painstakingly analyzing your reaction as his words hit you, frustrated at himself for letting his anger and insecurities slip through, terrified that for some reason you would change your mind now that Carson was here looking for you.

And yet.

You didn't look conflicted. Your first reaction was to fall back into his arms, pressing your warm body against him, wanting to be near him, wanting to know that everything here was going to be okay. He felt like an asshole as he shook off his own self-doubt. He scooped you off the ground and your legs circled his waist. "Hey, I'm sorry, it's alright, it's gonna be alright princess" he whispered against your hair. "I'm here."

Your heart thudded with fear, trying desperately to focus on the feeling of JJ's arms around you as the last words Carson had said weighed heavily on your mind.

2 Months Ago

You slid the ring off your finger and held it out to him. He looked at it with such deep confusion it could have been an award-winning performance.

"Carson" you had said, much more boldly than you'd felt as you tried to keep your voice steady, "I can't marry you. And, I know. About you, about Lauren. I've know for awhile.”

"L-Lauren and me? What are you talking about?" he said in his exaggerated state of confusion.

"Don't do this, don't treat me like a child" you said. "I know, okay? There's no use in pretending."

"You don't know anything" he said dramatically.

You rolled your eyes, holding your hands up in front of you, motioning for him to stop. "It really doesn't matter anymore" you said wearily, unwilling to fight about it as you turned to walk back upstairs.

Now that the words were out of your mouth, the next steps became abundantly clear. You needed to leave, you needed to get back to JJ, now. Right now. Fear and excitement in equal parts catapulted you up the stairs as the fog you had been living in began to clear. You had wasted so much time here, you realized. You needed to get back to him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Carson's voice echoed, following you harshly up the stairs.

"Well, I'm not staying here" you replied sassily, huffing into your room as he chased after you.

"Y/N stop, please, let's talk about this." You could hear the whiny urgency in his voice as he began to piece together the bigger picture: no you, no company, no access to your trust fund, as he tripped over himself following you into your closet as you pulled out your suitcase.

"Look, nothing happened, okay? She-she came on to me! What was I supposed to do? It was a mistake. I know that now. Look, we have our whole future ahead of us baby, baby please what about all the good times we've had? It's always been you and me." He had switched tactics, trying to play to your emotional side. It was far too late for that. So, when begging didn't work, and tugging at your heartstrings didn't work either, he flipped to another emotion you hadn't expected as you flung clothes haphazardly in your bag. He got eerily silent and laughed quietly to himself.

"You can't run away from this" he said, his voice steady. "Do you really think your parents are going to let you fuck this up for them? For me!?" his rising voice sent chills up your spine. "No chance! They've worked too hard, we all have for you to be so selfish, so ungrateful." His eyes followed you, unrelenting in your efforts to pack and get as far away from him as possible when he suddenly ripped the clothes out of your hands, reaching for your suitcase and pulling the clothes out to toss them on the floor. "No! You're not leaving!" he yelled.

"Stop! Carson! Stop it!" you yelled back, trying to wrench the clothing out of his hands when his eyes fell to something that wasn't part of your designer wardrobe: a black extra large hoodie, far too large to be your own from Pelican Marina, Outer Banks. He crumbled it in his fist, his eyes alight with rage and accusation. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of JJ's sweatshirt in his hands as he shook it in your face.

"I see how it is" he said, a twisted smile on his lips. "You little whore. This was your plan all along, wasn't it? Come home and make me look like the bad guy so, what? You can run off with some asshole you just met?! We've been together for TEN YEARS and you're just going to throw that away!?" He was screaming now and you weren't going to dignify him with a response as you frantically threw your clothes together, jumping at his words as fear pulsed through your veins. You tore the sweatshirt out of his hands and met his eyes defiantly despite the tears welling in your own. You wrangled your suitcase down the stairs as he followed you, watching you struggle the entire way.

You made it all the way to the front door before he put his hand on it, preventing you from leaving. He leaned over you, a sinister sneer on his face as he growled through gritted teeth, "This isn't over. I'm not going to let you ruin this for me" before you finally shoved him out of the way.

At the end of the night, you slid onto JJ's bike as he drove you both back to his small house around the corner from the chateau.

Your heart warmed as he pulled into the dirt driveway. Home. You really hadn't thought through the details of abandoning your entire life to come back here, to JJ, including where you were going to stay. JJ had offered for you (begged for you) to stay with him and you would have been lying to yourself if you said you wanted to be anywhere else.

2 Months Ago

You had been to JJ's house briefly before, but that first night that you were back for good held a heavy tension to it as he led you by the hand up the porch stairs and inside, giving you a short tour of everything that ended with the bedroom. You could tell he was a little shy about it, trying to grab clothes off the floor and kicking things out of the way for you to walk, but you didn't care. "So, that's it, really" he had said, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks a rosy red. He was afraid you would take one look at his life, his house, and walk right back out the front door. He eyed you warily.

You looked around the room and smiled deeply. It was perfect in a way you couldn't put into words: the maps on the wall, the posters, the surfboards propped in the corner and the tousled sheets that made your heart skip a beat knowing that this was where JJ slept as you bit your lip shyly. Everything here felt more like home to you than yours ever had. "It's perfect, JJ" you said, "so perfect" and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as he met your eyes and pressed his lips to yours.

You had only known each other for a couple of months at this point, half of which you had spent apart from each other. JJ was hyperaware of the situation and he didn't want to push any boundaries, so he was adamant that you take his bed and he'd sleep on the couch despite your protests that you would be perfectly happy on the couch yourself. His insistence and respect for you made you appreciate the kind boy he was even more.

He left you that night with a searing kiss before closing the bedroom door gently behind him. You had pulled on one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers to sleep in and you snuggled into his sheets. His scent was overwhelming: sandalwood, sunscreen and something so distinctly JJ it was almost too much for you to handle, especially knowing he was on the other side of the door. You didn't last 15 minutes before you got up and pushed the door open.

JJ sat up quickly on the couch, eyes alight with concern. "S'wrong?" he asked and you swallowed at the sight of him shirtless in his boxers as his blanket pooled around his lap. His eyes tracked your every move as you came over to him and slid onto the couch, curling in next to him as he settled with you in his arms, your bodies molding perfectly together in the small space. His heart was racing so hard in his chest he was having a hard time catching his breath; the feeling of you pressed against him, knowing you had come to find him in the middle of the night, that you wanted to be close to him, made every inch of him tingle. He was still pinching himself that you were even real, here, with him, in his house.

"I didn't come back here to sleep alone" you whispered, your voice, your words sending a shiver through JJ's body as he pulled you closer to him, into his arms, eliciting a giggle from you as he snuggled into you, pressing his lips to your hair.

"Then I can promise you, you never will" he said.

You hadn't intended to move in with JJ two months into knowing him, it just happened. Like everything with him, it felt natural, easy, unforced as you fell into a simple rhythm, your two lives tangling into one. You just fit. Of course, there were times when things were awkward and new, but it was JJ, he would make a face to get you laughing and soon enough you'd both be over it, your feelings for each other bigger than any problem in front of you.

1 Month Ago

Before long, JJ had insisted on taking on you on a proper date. He told you to meet him at John B's dock at sunset. No matter how much you pestered your friends, no one would tell you what he had planned.

You took your time getting ready, wanting everything to be perfect. Even though you spent nearly all day every day with him, there were butterflies in your stomach, you were nervous. This night felt important, monumental in a way no other night had yet. You wore a short summer sundress and met him at golden hour, the world awash in deep yellows and oranges. He was waiting for you in jeans and a clean white t-shirt, you could tell he had put effort in too. Something about the night just felt so heightened and special, you weren't sure if it was the surprise or the fact that he was standing with a bouquet of peonies, but more likely it had to do with the overwhelming feelings you had for him that bubbled to overflowing every time you were near him, especially now. When he'd seen you, he'd bowled over, putting his hands on his knees and wiping a hand over his face at the sight of you dressed up for him. You could tell he was nervous too, you could feel his hands shaking as they snaked around you and he pressed a kiss to your lips, his eyes searing into yours.

"Princess" he whispered, the weight of it carrying a thousand unspoken words behind it, "You are so goddamn beautiful." He handed you your flowers and scooped you into his arms bridal style as he stepped onto the boat parked at the end of the dock and you gasped. He had hung string lights around the entire boat and had piled the bow high with blankets, pillows and your favorite takeout. You squealed with delight. It was so JJ, so perfect. Your mind flashed for only a moment to your first date with Carson; you had worn an impossibly uncomfortable dress and he'd taken you to a five-star restaurant that was exorbitantly expensive where he proceeded to send his food back. Twice.

You shook your head, unwilling to waste another second thinking about the past. You split your dinner with JJ and settled next to him at the wheel as he navigated to a quiet, secluded strip of the marsh just as the sun set in a brilliant show of a thousand colors that ignited the horizon, the only sound around you the gentle lapping of the waves against the boat and the cicadas.

As the breeze picked up and the stars blinked to life, you settled deep into the blankets, nearly nose-to-nose, staring into each other's eyes and giggling like a couple of kids as the boat rocked you gently from side to side.

"This is so beautiful, JJ, thank you" you whispered. You were a little choked up as you thought about how much work he had put into this, all for you.

"Yeah? You're happy?" he asked.

"Of course I'm happy" you said, as you saw something shift behind his eyes.

"I just didn't want you to have any regrets coming down here. I know that took a lot for you to do. A massive amount. I don't think I'll ever understand what that meant for you. I didn't have to give anything up... I just got the girl in the end." His brow furrowed in confusion at how that could be, unused to being on the receiving end of so many gifts from the universe as he looked at you. "I keep pinching myself, every day since you first came back. Even that first night on the couch, I was terrified I'd wake up and you'd be gone, finally realizing what a mistake you'd made. I-I don't even have air conditioning" he said, laughing half-heartedly, but you could hear the raw emotion in his voice, the fear, the tenderness.

"JJ, I have never been happier or more scared in my life. But there's something so right about you, about us. I have no regrets. I'll never have any regrets when it comes to you."

It was only a matter of seconds before his fingers were tangled in your hair and he pulled you on top of him to straddle him, pressing you chest to chest as his lips moved tantalizingly against your own. Your head was dizzy with the feeling of him pressed into you, engulfing you, and the way his hands roamed your body.

Only a few weeks with him had made you realize that you had never really been kissed, never really been touched before, every movement of his lips against yours completely overwhelmed you, clouding your mind and sending a tingle to every inch of your body. You had only been with one person in your whole life, you didn't know any better, but JJ seemed to do everything with a mind for how it would make you feel.

Now, with his every touch you nearly came undone, his one hand grasping your waist, the other in your hair, his tongue at the base of your neck, relishing how you responded to everything, how your body came alive for him, it drove him absolutely insane to feel you writhe against him, how your fingers grasped for him like you could never get enough.

"Mmm'Maybank" you hummed as his fingers toyed with the hem of your dress that had ridden up significantly at this point, "Don't get overzealous, it's only our first date" you said teasingly, as if you hadn't spent every night for the past two months pressed against him in bed, all too aware of how his body responded consciously or unconsciously to your presence, to the sight of you tangled in his sheets wearing nothing but his t-shirt and boxers.

He pulled away to look up at you, his lips swollen, eyes glazed over and twinkling mischievously as he bit his bottom lip and bucked his hips ever so slightly, pressing himself into you. You bit your lip in return, trying and failing to suppress and involuntary moan that had JJ's jeans stretching so hard against him he wanted to die.

"You sure, princess?" he teased right back, before running his fingers up the inside of your thigh and recapturing the spot at the base of your neck with his lips as you moaned again.

"You don't sound sure" he murmured.

"Jayj..." you were barely able to whisper as his fingers finally grazed you and he nearly growled at how you felt for him.

"You don't feel sure" he said, quieter.

And any pretense you had been trying to uphold about being a self-respecting woman on a first date fell away as you brought his face to yours, kissing him hungrily, greedily. The feeling of your tongue against his was all he needed. Your clothes came off in a dizzying pace of grasping and pulling, desperate to have them off, more desperate to keep your lips and bodies attached, any distance between you feeling painful at this point.

JJ rolled himself on top of you, pausing only for a moment, pulling his lips off of yours much to your dismay. He could have died at the pout on your face at the feeling of your lips being without his.

"You're sure you're okay with this princess?" he asked.

You nodded quickly and reached for his lips again, finding his smile.

"Need to hear you say it, want to hear you say it, princess" he whispered huskily, the words curling your stomach, your toes.

"Want you JJ, all of you... please." Your words and the fact that you were quite literally begging for him at this point sent him.

You had never felt such intense pleasure in your entire life. Nobody had told you that being with someone could be like that. It was readily evident how much you had been missing over the last ten years as you fell apart for him over and over and over again as he worshipped your body. You were insatiable and he was too, like a man starving, he couldn't get enough of you. He swore on his life that this wasn't part of his plan for tonight, but the way you looked at him, hungry, needy, full of lust after so many nights pressed against him, had him in euphoria. Neither of you got any sleep that night, but as morning crested over the horizon, you had never felt more relaxed, more energized, basking in the way your body felt tangled with his.

Carson's threat lingered over you like a storm cloud... "This isn't over, I'm not going to let you ruin this for me." And true to his promise, he was relentless in his pursuit of you, which began to extend past the manicured gardens of Figure 8.

John B was at work at the Kildare Surf Shop, head nodding to the music that filled the store, intently focused on waxing the board in front of him when the front door chimed and Carson Peters walked in.

Carson looked around with narrowed eyes and an air of distaste before his gaze fell on John B. He looked him up and down, taking in his long hair, backwards hat, colorful shirt and the ratty remains of a bandana tied around his neck before clearing his throat.

"Hey man, do you do surf lessons here?" he asked.

"We do" John B said coolly, assessing him quickly. What the hell is this kook doing here? he thought.

"I was wondering if you could tell me who some of your instructors were? My fiancée was here a few weeks ago and took some lessons. We uh had some feedback."

The gears began to turn in John B's head as his eyes narrowed. He walked over to the computer and barely glanced at it before meeting Carson's gaze with a fake smile. "Yeah sorry, no lessons that week."

Carson's eyes narrowed in return, suspicion written clearly on his face.

"Oh-kayyyy" he conceded, "Well, do you recognize her?" he asked, holding out his phone.

John B eyed the picture of you and Carson for a few seconds, really letting him think he was taking it in. "Yeah, nah man, never seen her before."

"Hmpf" Carson grunted, turning to leave and slamming the door behind him.

Later that night, John B was retelling the entire story to you and your friends on his back porch as you waited for JJ to get home from his shift. You were all cracking up at his reenactment of him squinting his eyes to look at Carson's phone as if you hadn't spent every single day at his house for weeks.

As your laughter died down, you heard a car door slam and the sound of heavy footsteps on the front porch followed by a loud pounding on the front door. "Y/N!!!!" the voice shouted "Open this fucking door, I know you're in there!" You stood up quickly, a look of pure panic and fear on your face, which John B registered immediately as both of you recognized the voice at once. John B held one arm out in front of you and put a finger to his lips.

"I've got it, John B, let me talk to him" you whispered.

"Are you joking?! I'm not letting him anywhere near you, JJ would never let me hear the end of it. Stay here" he replied.

He made his way to the front door as you all listened in.

"Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me" Carson said, his eyes glistening with recognition at John B's face as he opened the front door. "Where is she!?" Carson shouted, shoving him.

John B shoved him back, his tone even as he replied, "Get off my property, dude."

Carson let out a maniacal laugh as he took in the rundown house, getting right in John B's face, pointing at him "I will sue you for all you're worth, I will take your piece of shit house, your piece of shit car, I will make your life a living hell for what you've done to her, what you've done to all of us!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, man. There's nobody here--"

"--I know she's here!" he shouted, brandishing his phone in John B's face again. He could see his map app open and a blue dot blinking right over his house with your name on it. "I called our phone company and tracked her location." Then, louder, mockingly, "You hear that, sweetheart? I know you're in there!" A moment of silence passed as your friends turned to you, eyes wide, mouths agape and you covered your face with your hands.

"Did you ever stop to ask yourself why she doesn't want to see you?" John B quipped, bitterness rising in his voice at the way Carson was yelling at you. "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she's literally not your fiancée anymore?"

Carson's head snapped to him before lunging and tackling him to the ground.

"Stop it!" you shouted, running out of the house as the boys rolled around in the dirt and sand. "Carson, stop!" He heard your voice and shoved John B away, brushing himself off as he stood up and took in your appearance dressed in JJ's black sweatshirt and a pair of denim cutoffs. "Thank God you're okay, what are you doing here?" he asked accusatorily. "Nevermind, it's not safe, come on, it's time to go home." He waved you forward like you were a lap dog that would simply fall in line and follow him to his car.

When you didn't move and he took in your face, your eyes scrunched in confusion at the words coming out of his mouth, he continued impatiently, "I forgive you, okay? You don't have to do this anymore, you've made your point. I get it." He waved at you again, trying to hurry you along. He's lost his mind you thought.

"You think that's what this is about?" you said incredulously, your voice rising, "Me making a point?!" you laughed, "Carson, I'm happy here--"

"--You're happy here?" he said laughing back, mockingly as he looked around, "With him? With this?!" he gestured to John B, his house, his yard, kicking an empty beer can on the ground for emphasis. "With JJ" he seethed as he looked at John B. He was clearly confused, thinking John B was JJ, but your heart had stopped beating. How did he know his name?

"What did you just say?" you asked.

"I called the phone company, sweetheart, I pay the bills. They sent me every phone call, every disgusting text message--"

"--At least I had the decency to break up with you first!" you snapped. "And not that I owe you any explanation, but this isn't JJ. He's not even here."

Carson's eyes narrowed as he looked at you, his tone changing icily. "Well, I look forward to meeting him" he said simply, letting the unspoken threat linger in the air. "You should know your parents are on their way, I let them know that I'd found you. I'm sure they look forward to meeting the white trash you've chosen to throw your future and their future away for."

John B moved to lunge at him before you grabbed him by the shoulders. Carson jumped back nervously, eyeing John B like a rabid animal before dusting off his shoulders and walking back to his truck. As you watched him speed into the distance, John B put his arm around you and walked you back inside.

You hung out for awhile longer, but Carson's visit had left you all in a somber mood. Truth be told, you were struggling with the way he was insisting on ruining everything you had built here, crashing your fairy tale, insulting you, JJ, your friends. Your friends’ eyes shifted to you in concern and pity after getting a small glimpse at what it was you had been running from the past few weeks.

You rode your bike home after that, wanting to curl up in JJ's bed, wishing more than anything that he was here with you now. It was dark enough that you didn't notice the truck parked in the street that followed you at a distance, slow and quiet with its headlights off until you pulled into your driveway. It found a place to park out of sight but close enough to watch you unlock the door, flip on the lights and busy yourself inside, your movements clear through the large front window.

Carson watched you with equal parts rage and delight. Rage at the sight of you in another man's home and delight that he had finally tracked you down, one step closer to restoring perfect order to his life. He perked up at the sound of a dirt bike coming down the street and sat straight in his seat as he saw your reaction too, setting down what you were doing and running to meet the figure at the front door, arms flung wide as you jumped into his arms. Resentment seeped further into Carson's veins at the fact that you had never greeted him like that. Not once in ten years. As he leaned closer over the steering wheel, he clocked the uniform the figure was wearing, the vest, the bowtie, the mop of blonde hair and he began to laugh out loud to himself, giddy in his realization. A busboy from the Island Club? You have to be fucking kidding me. He picked his phone up and dialed.

The next day, JJ was back at work when his manager came to find him to tell him he was requested by name by a customer on the back patio.

When JJ pressed him with questions, his manager’s eyes shifted slightly before telling him to attend to the customer as quickly as possible. Confused, JJ wandered outside to see a middle-aged man, dressed impeccably, sitting alone at the bar with two drinks in front of him.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked kindly enough.

The man turned to look at him, his expression not unkind, but his gaze deeply scrutinizing, like he was trying to judge JJ’s entire character as his eyes brushed over his long hair, his crooked bowtie, his shark tooth necklace and the rings on his fingers that were tapping against his thigh anxiously. JJ tried to stand a little straighter in response. After a moment, the man smiled good naturedly and gestured to the seat and the drink next to him.

“I uh appreciate that, sir, but I can’t accept that during my shift. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

The man turned to him knowingly, “Take a seat, JJ.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked, his anxiety rising.

“No, son, you don’t…” the term grated on JJ as he thought of the way his father used to use it… “but you seem to know my daughter very well” he continued smoothly, meeting JJ’s eyes with a cold glare and JJ’s heart plummeted.

Shiiiiiiit he thought. Not quite how he had imagined meeting your dad.

He slid onto the seat, clearing his throat as he leaned in, "Sir" he started, his mind racing, realizing he had an opportunity here to mend things, to help put things right for you, to make your dad see that despite his long hair and minimum wage job, he would do anything for you, anything. He needed to make him understand. He felt like a little boy again, desperately seeking his own father's approval as familiar feelings of fear began clawing at his chest. Your dad simply held up a hand, stopping him before he could start.

"Look, I get it" he said.

I really don't think you do JJ thought as he opened his mouth to say so.

"You love her, don't you?"

JJ was taken aback. He took a deep breath and wiped his hand over his face. Of course he did. The words danced on his lips every night as he held you against him, every morning when he woke up next to you, every day he came home to see you, in the home you had made together. He was madly in love with you, desperately trying to find the right way to tell you.

He exhaled deeply, "Yes sir, I do."

Your dad met his eyes. "Good, I'm glad we can be honest with each other. You seem like... a nice young man, JJ. I can tell you care about her." The words sounded both genuine and condescending at the same time, the tone behind them holding a hint of mockery.

"That's how I know you'll do the right thing here. She's made for more than this, son. She has a future and friends and a family that love her and miss her dearly. She has a life and security, one that I'm afraid you just can't provide for her. It's time for her to come home. I know you think you can make her happy and, hey, maybe you can with boat rides and surfing and all the silly things she didn't get a chance to do when she was younger. But what happens in four months? In six months? In the winter when the tourists are gone and your novelty has run out and you're struggling to pay your mortgage and she begins to despise you and the decision she's made?"

JJ's mouth had run dry as this stranger verbalized every one of his deepest fears. Fears he had tried and failed to push further and further away: that you would come to regret your decision, that he would never be enough for you, that you would decide to leave him one day, just like his mom had, just like his dad had. He wasn't good enough for them, for you, for anybody.

"What happens then?" your dad pushed further. He could tell from the pale look on JJ's face that he was hitting his mark. "Carson is smart. He won't wait around and I don't blame him. He's a godsend for even coming down here to try to salvage this. He's what she deserves, son. You've got to stop making this about you and start making this about her." He slid an envelope towards JJ before standing up, finishing the drink in front of him in one sip, gripping JJ's shoulder and walking away. JJ watched him leave before hanging his head in his hands, swallowing the fear and the tears that had bubbled up inside him. He stood to leave, turning back and grabbing the envelope at the last minute, flipping it open to see more cash than he'd ever seen in his life. He swallowed the bile in his throat as he shoved it in his back pocket.

JJ didn't come home after work, and he wasn't answering his phone.

You had gone from anxious, to worried, to downright panicked, pacing around the house with all sorts of worst-case scenarios running through your head, about to call John B to borrow the twinkie and go out looking for him when you finally got a text from JJ. "Sorry baby, I have to stay late to help out with some things, don't try to stay up."

You were happy he was okay, but your heart sunk a little as you crawled into bed by yourself, remembering JJ's promise that as long as you were with him, you'd never have to sleep alone.

You had no idea what time it was when you finally heard the putter of his bike and the soft whack of the screen door as he shuffled into the room, quietly pulling off his clothes and crawling into bed. You were somewhere between awake and asleep but your body immediately responded to his presence as you reached for him. After a moment, you felt him wind his arms around you, tentatively at first, as he let out a deep sigh.

"S'wrong?" you asked, your voice thick with sleep.

He took in the sight of you in his bed, wrapped in his arms, tangled in his sheets, wearing his oversized t-shirt, it was a sight that normally stole his heart. Now, all he could see were the holes in the t-shirt, his dirty clothes on the floor, the squeak of the cheap ceiling fan setting his teeth on edge as his head spun in circles.

"Nothing. Just a long day" he said in response, sounding uncharacteristically short with you, like he was a thousand miles away.

You pouted at that and tried to pry your eyes open to look at him. "JJ?" you asked again, his name on your lips getting his attention finally, "What's really wrong?" you asked again.

He exhaled loudly, clearly frustrated as he fidgeted like he was trying to squirm his way out of the conversation. "It's just..." he tried "...like, what are you doing here? With me? What about your whole other life back home? What happens after the summer's over? What-what happens when you wake up and realize you don't want this, that I'm not good enough for you? That you made a mistake?" His pain was palpable as it seeped through his voice, each of his questions hitting you like a physical blow. Where was this coming from? He was always happy, goofy, oozing confidence around you. This didn't sound like him at all. And that's when you realized these weren't his words.

You sat up fully and he moved to sit up beside you, leaning against his headboard as you crawled into his lap, now wide awake, expression serious as you looked at him with sad, sleepy eyes. His heart crumbled at the sight of you and though he tried to hold back he couldn't help himself from resting his hands on your hips, finding the curves of your body naturally where his hands fits so perfectly.

"Who told you that? Who said you're not good enough? JJ you are more that enough. For yourself, for your friends, but most of all for me. You're more than I could have ever asked for or dreamed of. What happens in six months? I'll be right here, in your bed, loving you. And in the winter? I'll still be here, loving you. How I feel about you isn't going to fade away with time or the seasons, babe."

He broke his eye contact with you briefly, eyes shifting downwards a confused look on his face before a small smirk found his lips that your sleepy brain tried to register.

"Loving me?" he whispered, his eyes finding yours again.

You realized you had let slip how you felt. How you'd felt for awhile now. There didn't seem to be any point in continuing to dance around it.

"Yes, JJ. Loving you. I love you. You have to know that by now?" you said, taking his face in your hands.

He ducked his head again, bashfully, happily, trying to avoid your gaze as his cheeks flushed and he felt himself get choked up. "It's still good to hear you say it. All of it" he replied "I needed to hear that. More than you know."

His hands found the back of your neck and he kissed you with a different sort of passion this time, with longing, with need, with the reassurance that only those three little words could inspire as he spun you onto your back beneath him, his fears draining away, fully this time, at every touch of your bodies, at the feeling of your hands running over his skin, an incomparable amount of love and belonging in the way that you held him. "I love you, Y/N" he muttered against your lips, finally pulling back and holding your face gently in his hands. The look in his eyes was so serious and sincere, it nearly took your breath away. "I need you to know that. More than anything in this world, okay? I love you so goddamn much."

That night he made love to you in a way he never had before, languishing, passionate, slow, achingly slow and full of emotion; his eyes trained on you, his lips never leaving yours, like he had to show you with every part of him what you meant to him. You were sure in the deepest part of your heart you would never be the same again.

When you woke up the next morning, your body felt heavily relaxed from a deep sleep and the night before. You were tangled every which way in JJ's limbs, his arms holding you against his chest. Your eyes fluttered open slowly to find him watching you as he rubbed soft circles in your back and your cheeks pinked under his gaze as you laughed shyly and he laughed back.

"Morning princess" he muttered as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You lifted your eyes to meet his and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Mm'morning handsome" you said back and he pressed his lips sweetly to yours.

His mind was still reeling from the night before, how he had felt the deep, hollow hole that sat heavy in his chest since the day his mom left slowly begin to mend itself, righted somehow by knowing how you felt about him. You were here, with him, for him. His blue eyes searched yours and he saw his love mirrored in them before something flickered briefly under the surface. "All good, baby?" he asked.

"I'm good..." you said hesitantly, not wanting to break the spell on the perfect start of your day. "...But last night... what you said... I know those weren't your words, your thoughts, JJ." You were scared to ask the next question, too afraid you already knew the truth. "Who said that to you? You never told me."

JJ pursed his lips and let out a deep sigh. He promised he would never lie to you, he wasn't going to start now.

"...Your dad... He came to see me at work" he said quietly.

You look horrified and tried to sit up but JJ quickly pulled you back into his arms. "Hey, it's okay, it's alright" he said.

"It's not alright, JJ" you said, your breath coming quicker. "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me and in one conversation he had you questioning if we should be together?! If my feelings for you were real?!" You could feel your eyes brimming with tears as you realized just how close you may have been to losing everything. What if JJ has listened to your dad? What if he had never come home? What if he had broken up with you? Your mind was racing and JJ could see the gears turning in your head as you began to panic.

"Hey, look at me, princess" he said, cupping your face gently, turning you to look at him. "I don't want you to ever question how I feel about you, nothing that anybody says could change that. He's not going to scare me away from you. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

You nodded to him, letting him know you understood and he pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

"It shouldn't be like this" you whispered. "It's not fair to you and it's not fair to me. I don't want to keep running from my past. I want my parents to acknowledge my future, my choices, my decisions."

"What are you suggesting?" he asked cautiously.

"I need to go talk to them" you said, your voice resolute even as the feeling of dread washed over you.

"Then I'm coming with you" he said.

"JJ" you cautioned, gearing up to tell him every reason why that was a bad idea.

"I'm not letting you do this alone. I mean, tell me if that's what you want, but I want to be there for you, with you, please?"

You really did want him to come with you. You didn't want to do this alone, but you also didn't want to drag him down with you either, he was already on the receiving end of so much negativity from your parents, and from Carson.

"Please?" he repeated. "Let me be there for you." And just hearing that he truly wanted to be with you through the good, the bad and the messy warmed your heart.

"Okay" you said, relenting.

He smiled and pressed a kiss to your lips again. "Me and your dad go way back, this will be great" he said, eliciting a laugh from you as you whacked him with your pillow and he laughed back tickling you, doing anything he could to keep that smile on your lips for as long as possible.

You reached out to your parents and agreed to meet them for lunch, absolutely refusing to go to the Island Club, and instead, after significant arguing, settling on more neutral territory at The Wreck.

JJ tried on three different shirts before settling on what he wanted to wear. He even tried combing his hair, but you quickly ran you fingers through it, mussing it all over again. He was adamant that you leave an hour early, not wanting to be late. Your heart squeezed at how much he cared about this, about trying to make things right. He could tell you were nervous, even if you wore your nerves much better than he did. He took your hand in his and squeezed as you walked inside. Sure enough, you were way too early for your reservation, so he tugged you outside to enjoy the view of the water, hoping that the chance to see a few dolphins in the river might calm you down and keep your mind off of things.

"Richard, really, I don't know about this" your mom tutted as she stood in the dirt and sand parking lot of The Wreck, her three-inch heels sinking into the ground as she clung to your dad's arm and he tried to steady her up the creaking, uneven wooden front steps.

As they walked inside they looked around in disdain at the kitschy seaside décor: rusted crab traps, fake bass and neon beer signs on the wall. Your mom actively tried to avoid touching any surface unnecessarily as they navigated around the crowd looking for you.

Your dad saw you both first, eyes landing on the tangled mop of JJ's blonde hair, his jaw twitching in frustration as he guided your mom to the back door.

When your mom finally saw you, it was like her heart let out a sigh. She was relieved to see you safe and well, her mind spinning the last few weeks over what might have happened to you. She took in your denim shorts, which she thought were entirely too short, and the loose-fitting top you had on; it was actually quite cute but she wouldn't dream of giving you the satisfaction of saying so. She took one look at the boy you were standing with and nearly turned around; his hair desperately needed to be cut, his clothing was second-hand and the rings on his fingers made her scrunch her face in confusion and distaste. He was so different from Carson in every way... She turned back to you, trying to piece it all together.

Your hair desperately needed to be cut too, she thought. She longed to brush it like she did when you were a little girl. Her heart clenched as she watched this rough-looking boy reach out gently to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. You glowed at him with a thousand-watt smile, which made her falter, and not because of her heels on the rickety floorboards. She sincerely had never seen that expression on your face before. She had known you your whole life, through every happy moment, every birthday party, every surprise, every gift, yet she'd never seen that look. You looked so happy, so peaceful, so full of joy, she put a hand on your father's arm to stop him from disrupting the moment in front of them. He looked down at her in confusion until he saw her expression, eyes totally transfixed on you and he followed her gaze.

JJ leaned over to whisper something in your ear and you laughed, a full-belly laugh that radiated like the summer sun, blushing your cheeks, your eyes squeezing with joy. It was a sound your dad hadn't heard his little girl make... in years. In fact, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. It broke something deep deep within him, and when he looked back at his wife, he realized she could see it too. You were... you again. A you they had long forgotten, perhaps long given up on as they got caught up in the business, the wedding, everything... Maybe they had been wrong all along. Maybe they had made a huge mistake. His wife looked up at him as he looked down at her, his head bowed, resigned, ashamed, knowing she felt the same way.

As they approached you, your mom cleared her throat, breaking the two of you apart as you turned to face them. Upon seeing them for the first time in months, you didn't want to admit that you'd missed them, but you had. At the end of the day, they were still your parents. You took a shaky breath and JJ reached for your hand, looking down at you and shooting you a quick wink, we're in this together.

Lunch went.... much better than expected. It was undoubtedly tense at first and there were plenty of awkward gaps in the conversation, but your mom actually enjoyed the fried seafood and very strong mixed drinks, though she'd never admit it to anyone else. It was clear your parents were still unsure about your life here, but shockingly they didn't argue the point. They let it go. They couldn't argue with how happy you were now that they'd seen it in person. They were just happy to be here, with you, talking to you again. You couldn't put your finger on what had changed their mind, but you could tell your mom watched your interactions with JJ closely, the way he looked at you when you were talking, how his fingers tangled with yours on the table. Maybe they were starting to see what you had hoped so desperately to explain to them: JJ was it for you.

After lunch, you walked out together alongside your mom as JJ trailed behind you with your dad.

After a few moments of silence she said quietly, "Y/N, I owe you an apology." Your eyes fell to her, the shock clear on your face as you heard the words you never thought you would. "I lied. I told you I would support your decision if you wanted to leave Carson and I didn't. I'm sorry. You deserve so much more than Carson and the way he treated you, sweetie. You deserve... hell, everyone deserves to have someone look at you the way that boy looks at you." You both looked back and JJ caught your eye, smiling at you.

"It may take some getting used to" she pressed, "I'm not sure how ready I am for all of... this" she said, gesturing broadly to you, JJ, The Wreck, your new life in general and you smiled and laughed at her reaction as her words began sinking in. "But I respect your decision."

That was all you had ever wanted to hear.

You hugged her closely, tears brimming your eyes.

JJ followed a few steps behind you, chatting with your dad about deep sea fishing, an activity that both of them could agree on. Watching you and your mom warmed his heart. It was so nice to see you with your family, with something he'd never had. Getting a glimpse into your dynamics made him realize that all families were messed up in one way or another, but he admired you for making yours work.

"Sir, I wanted to return this to you" he said, pulling the unmarked envelope out of his back pocket and handing it back to your dad. He looked utterly ashamed before meeting JJ's eyes directly and sticking his hand out. JJ looked down and shook it, your dad's grip strong, but not crushing his hand. "Take care of her" he said simply. The weight of it and the or else that lingered wasn't lost on him. Nor was the fact that your dad had essentially just given him his blessing, trusting him with his daughter, his only daughter. "I will. With my life, sir" JJ said earnestly, never breaking eye contact. Your dad nodded at that.

Just as you felt you were getting as good of an ending on this day as you could have wished for, you noticed a truck in the parking lot and the figure leaning against it, waiting for you. Carson saw you and your mom first, arm in arm, and quickly misread the situation, running up to you. You tried to back away from him just as your mom said, "Come on, Carson, we're leaving." She tried to shepherd him away from you. "Come on, dear, what's done is done and it's time we all accepted it. We can talk in the car, I know Richard and you have a lot to work out." He yanked his arm out of her grasp and grabbed you brusquely just in time for your dad and JJ to see it.

"Carson!" you shouted in surprise, trying to wiggle out of his grasp as JJ came up behind you and your dad moved to hold your mom.

Carson's eyes landed on JJ, transfixed. He was seeing red and he squeezed your arms tighter in response; you could feel the beginning of bruises starting to form where his fingers pressed into you painfully.

"JJ" he said, his face twisting like the name was sour on his tongue.

"Carson" your dad warned, "It's time for us to go, let her go, we'll take you home, we can discuss things on the plane."

His eyes didn't leave JJ’s and he didn't even acknowledge your dad. JJ looked right back at him and you felt his hand curve protectively around you waist, pulling you out of Carson's grasp and against his chest. Carson's eyes flicked to JJ's hands on you and that's when he snapped, his eyes finally finding yours.

"I can't believe you would slum it with someone like him. You're a whore, Y/N, you disgust me."

"HEY!" your dad yelled as he moved to come to your defense, but JJ beat him to it, as he let you go, placing you carefully behind him before shoving Carson back with both hands.

"That's real rich coming from you, buddy" he said as he got right up in his face. The boys were similarly sized, JJ had maybe an inch on him. Carson was fairly athletic but right now he couldn't match the crazy in JJ's eyes upon hearing what he had to say to you.

"You can say whatever you want to me, but you don't talk about her like that. Not in front of me, and certainly not in front of her parents." JJ grasped the front of Carson's shirt, walking him backwards towards his car as he continued, "She has tried every way to kindly tell you no. And I am begging you to give me one reason to explain it to you myself." You had never seen JJ so riled up before, his voice a low rumble.

"Alright, alright man" Carson mumbled, putting his hands up in defeat. JJ eyed him closely for a few seconds, chest heaving before he let him go. Carson hung his head for a split second and just as JJ turned to walk back to you, Carson swung, a sucker punch intended to connect with JJ's jaw. JJ saw it with just enough time to dodge it and all of his fury was unleased as he reloaded and punched him right back, sending him onto his ass in the parking lot as blood immediately began gushing from Carson's nose.

Your mom shrieked and your dad quickly caught up to them, a hand on JJ's chest to hold him back as he looked down at Carson. JJ was breathing heavily and shaking out his knuckles as Carson squirmed and cried. Your dad looked down at Carson, then back to JJ, nodding at him with a newfound level of respect.

"With my life, sir" JJ repeated as he turned to walk back to you and wrapped you in his arms, your mom reaching to pat him on the back.

You couldn't wait to get back to the chateau to tell your friends everything that had happened, recounting every gory detail as they cheered you on and JJ iced his swollen knuckles. You were giddy. You were glowing. You finally felt like you had it all, the boy, the life you wanted, and your family by your side. Somehow you had found a way to make it all work. You knew it would take time to figure it all out, but as you looked at the blonde boy next to you, you knew you could do anything with him by your side. He caught you glancing over at him and pulled you into his lap, nuzzling into your neck as you laughed. "Hey" he whispered out of earshot of your friends, "Sleep with me on the boat tonight?" you nodded eagerly and before long you both piled the boat high with pillows and blankets and he guided you through the marsh, back to your spot.

Once you had anchored, you wasted no time curling into JJ's arms, tangling your fingers with his, running yours gently across his bruised and busted knuckles.

"Thank you" you said quietly, "I don't know if I said that already, but, thank you."

"Always happy to defend your honor, princess" he said, smirking.

You laughed quietly, "I'm serious, JJ. You've stuck by me through a lot. My parents aren't easy but... they like you. I've never seen them warm to someone that quickly…” A pause. “…I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, you stole my heart, it's no surprise you stole theirs too."

He laughed quietly in an attempt to mask the way your words began to choke him up as he looked down at you, running his thumb across your cheek, basking in the way you were looking at him, like he hung the damn moon. And for just a moment, he let himself think about what it would be like to have a family. Maybe he would never have the one he was born into, maybe yours would find a way to accept him one day, but his heart raced at the idea of another family. Of you and him, of a few little ones running around, of the way he would do anything to protect that, to make it something better for both of you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself, but at the same time, when he looked at you, he saw that future with you so clearly, one he hadn't even known he'd wanted until you came into his life. Fuck he was crazy about you.

Your eyes searched his, trying to decipher the way he was looking at you, a look in his eyes you'd never seen before. It made you want to blush and pull him closer all at the same time.

"What are you thinking so hard about, JJ Maybank?" you asked, lifting your hand to cup his face.

His mind wandered to the sizeable amount of cash he had been saving to buy a new boat, and the perfect diamond ring he had seen in the window of the jewelry store a few weeks ago as he turned his head to kiss your palm and then each of your fingers, knowing how perfect that ring would look on you. Soon.

He had sworn he'd never lie to you, but for once he thought this little white lie was worth keeping from you.

"Mm'just thinking about how much I love you" he muttered, pressing his lips to yours. "I don't think you'll ever understand how much you mean to me, princess" his voice thick with emotion and sincerity, "But I can promise you, I am going to spend every day of our lives trying to show you."

taglist: @gillybear17, @a-j-stuffs, @princessbl0ss0m, @lucky7rosie, @sweetestdesire, @softcoremaybank, @idli-dosa-reblogs, @alimaybankkk, @stormberry-12, @everydaydreamer, @slut4drudy, @loveu-always, @ietss, @palmwinemami, @m-indkiller, @ephemeral4, @dilvcv, @always-reading

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cha-melodius · 1 year

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oh man, okay, so, firstprince, Harrod's food hall

(In which I take Henry's canonical skill at recommending cheese to its logical extreme. This got longer than I intended because I kept waxing rhapsodical about cheese [only half joking]. I hope it lives up to your wildest dreams!)

chamel’s fandom fest info | read all the fics

Will You Brie Mine?

(firstprince, 5.8k, T; read it below or on AO3)

“Ah, Alex,” he says with a soft, fond smile curving his lips and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes, like he’s pleased to see him.

Alex pointedly ignores the way that something in his stomach swoops.

“We have a new Manchego in this week that I think you’ll love,” Henry continues.

Right. Henry’s pleased to see him because Alex is his best customer. Alex assumes so, anyway. Surely no one else buys this much cheese on a weekly basis.

He hadn’t meant to start this little routine. June had been telling him since he moved to London that he had to go to Harrods and visit the food hall, so he’d gone just to be able to shut her up about it. And sure, it’d been reasonably impressive and he’d gotten some tasty stuff out of the trip, but he probably wouldn’t have been back if he hadn’t wandered by the cheese counter and caught sight of the most beautiful man he’s ever seen standing behind it. Alex hadn’t really spent much time contemplating his sexuality until he was suddenly confronted with floppy golden hair, ridiculously full lips, the finest cheekbones he’s ever seen, and broad shoulders only emphasized by the contrast of the green apron tied snugly around his narrow waist.

(It had still taken him several weeks of visits to the cheese counter before he realized why he was so drawn there, and a few more to come to terms with the fact that he really, really wanted to kiss the man behind it.)

Unfortunately, he’d been caught staring and had to play it off like he was particularly interested in cheese. He likes cheese, don’t get him wrong, but he never really thought too hard about it. Now he’s in pretty much every week to see Henry and has learned more about cheddar and brie and gruyere than he ever wanted to know. His fridge is always full. He brings cheese plates to pretty much every gathering he’s invited to. It’s kind of becoming a problem.

He hasn’t stopped visiting, though.

Today, as Henry tells him all about the Manchego, Alex tries his best to listen and not fixate on the mole next to the corner of Henry’s mouth or the way his shoulders strain the seams of his white uniform shirt. It’s not a particularly easy task for him, in all honesty.

“Would you care for a sample?” Henry asks, as if Alex has ever said no to him.

“I’d love one,” Alex tells him instead of saying I’d like to sample you.

The Manchego is quite good. Alex buys a chunk and takes it home, along with a baguette and a bottle of wine that Henry recommended to go along with it, then stands in front of his refrigerator and contemplates how absurdly pathetic he is.

Maybe he should make fondue for dinner.

~~~~~

“I don’t get why you don’t just ask him out?” Nora says as they weave their way through the various food hall areas. They’ve already purchased several pastries and a pile of chocolates, though Alex wouldn’t let them visit the wine shop until they’d seen Henry.

If Alex had his druthers they wouldn’t be here at all, but Nora is visiting for a job interview and pretty much demanded that Alex take her to see ‘the hot cheesemonger’ that he’s been talking constantly about for the last six months. (He hasn’t. She’s grossly exaggerating.)

“He’s in the service industry, Nora,” Alex argues. “Being hit on by customers is the worst. You get put on the spot and you have to smile and act all polite while you’re trapped because you’re at your job? I’m not going to do that to him.”

She pops a chocolate truffle into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Mm. You could casually ask when his shift ends and bump into him.”

Alex shoots an exasperated look her way. “That’s not better.”

“Oh, but accumulating the world’s finest collection of cheese in your one-bedroom apartment just so you can see him is a completely reasonable course of action.”

That, he doesn’t deign to dignify with an answer. Anyway, they’re nearing the cheese counter, which means they’re definitely done discussing this. He spots Henry immediately, looking unfairly adorable in his little green hat as he helps an elderly lady pick out some munster, and browses the display cases behind the counter as they wait. The fact that the other employee at the cheese counter doesn’t even bother trying to help him probably says something.

Eventually Henry finishes and turns toward them, though his smile falters slightly when he sees Nora. Weird. Probably Alex is just imagining things, because a moment later it’s back to normal.

“Hullo Alex,” he says, and Alex’s stomach does that swoopy thing at his name on Henry’s tongue, same as it does every week. “You’re early this week.”

Alex ignores the pointed look that he can feel Nora giving him. “Nora is visiting and wanted the ‘whole experience’,” he explains, gesturing with a sideways nod of his head toward her. “We’ve already hit the bakery and chocolate shop. Saved the best for last.”

Henry’s smile widens, and he ducks his head slightly before he looks back up. “Not actually last, though.”

“I mean, obviously Eric over at the wine shop is the best.”

“Of course,” Henry says solemnly. “Good to know where I stand.”

“You know me, always here to put you in your place,” Alex returns. Next to him, Nora loudly clears her throat and gives him a pointed look, and he has to bite back the too-revealing grinning on his face. “Right. Nora, this is Henry. Henry, Nora.”

“Hi,” she says, smiling in a way that makes Alex nervous. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Nora.”

Henry looks bemused by this information, his eyebrows arcing skyward as he glances over at Alex. “Really?”

“Ignore her,” Alex tells him.

“I’ve heard a lot about your cheese, then,” she revises, eyes sparkling with pure mischief.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Alex says. He can feel his fucking cheeks getting hot and prays it’s not noticeable. “Whatcha got this week?”

“Ah, a new one arrived that I think you’ll get a kick out of. Tête de Moine.”

Alex furrows his brow. “Tête…”

“… de Moine,” Henry repeats. “It means ‘monk’s head’.”

“Of course it does.”

Henry huffs a soft laugh. “It’s from Switzerland. This one’s aged four months, and it’s very full-bodied, with an earthy nuttiness to it. The real trick is in the serving though.”

“Oh?” Alex prompts. He has to admit, he could fucking listen to Henry talk about cheese all day. It’s not really the cheese, though; it’s how passionate and animated he gets, sometimes downright rapturous. It’s the spark in his eye and the confidence with which he speaks and the sheer depth of his knowledge.

Behind the counter, Henry holds up a finger to indicate they should wait a moment, then sets about retrieving a small wheel of cheese already set up on some kind of circular contraption. There’s a post sticking through the center of the wheel with a small blade radiating out toward the edge, which has a handle that Henry grabs. In one slow, smooth motion, he spins the blade around the top of the cheese wheel, and a delicate little rosette of cheese appears. Then he pinches it carefully by the base and holds it out over the counter toward Alex. It looks for all the world like he’s handing Alex a flower.

“Like this, it melts in your mouth,” Henry says, and Alex barely manages to avoid swallowing his tongue.

Their fingers brush as Alex takes the little cheese rosette from him, and Alex feels a little frisson of electricity even though Henry’s wearing gloves. Henry watches him expectantly as he sticks the whole damned thing in his mouth—because what else is he going to do with it?—and oh. Wow, that’s really something. It does melt in his mouth and it’s a little funky but not too much?

Henry’s cheese recommendations truly never miss.

“That’s fucking amazing,” he says once he’s finally swallowed it. “And it has to be served like that?”

“The only way to eat it,” Henry confirms. Then he turns his smile toward Nora. “Would you like to try it?”

“Sure,” Nora agrees, and as soon as Henry’s attention is diverted toward the cheese again she kicks Alex in the shin.

He gives her a what the fuck was that? look, and she in turn replies with some significant eyebrow raising and head tilting toward Henry, like he’s supposed to know what she’s on about. A moment later, she schools her expression back to normal as Henry reaches out to hand her a rosette, which she polishes off in about two seconds flat.

“Yeah, it’s good,” she says in her typical understated manner.

Whatever. Alex knows an exceptional cheese when he eats it. “So how do you sell it, then?” he asks Henry.

“Well, you can buy the whole wheel and the girolle to go with it, but I assume you’re not particularly interested in acquiring specialized cheese equipment,” Henry says. Honestly, Alex would probably let himself be talked into it, if Henry was doing the talking. This is definitely becoming a problem. “But I can shave you a collection of rosettes if you think you’ll eat them within a day or two.”

“A bouquet, then?” Alex jokes.

Henry’s cheeks go slightly pink, and Nora kicks him again. Alex ignores her.

“I suppose so,” Henry says.

“All right then. And the wine?”

“A full-bodied variety, like Bordeaux or Côtes du Rhône.”

“Perfect,” Alex says. “I have one at home, so I won’t even need to visit Eric.”

Henry’s lips quirk upward. “A shame to miss out on the best stop.”

“Did I, though?” Alex asks, scrunching up the side of his face in fake thoughtfulness.

It makes Henry laugh, which is pretty much everything.

He can’t even be annoyed that Henry pretty much ignores him to ask Nora about her visit as he works on the rosettes. Then he catches himself thinking that it’s kind of sweet that Henry’s making sure she’s included, before realizing that it’s his job to chat with the customers.

Jesus, Alex is hopeless.

“He’s nice,” Nora says once they’re done and have walked far enough away. Alex wasn’t looking for her approval, especially since probably nothing will ever happen, but still. He trusts her judgment. It feels good. “Also he totally wants to dick you down.”

“Nora,” Alex hisses, eyes going wide as he looks around to make sure no one heard her.

“And you obviously want him to, so.”

“How could you possibly know that after ten minutes?”

“Besides the fact that the entire time it looked like you wanted to eat him instead of the cheese?”

Alex huffs in frustration. “I meant about what he wants.”

Nora stops walking in the middle of an aisle between counters, and Alex drags her to the side so they don’t get mowed down. “Alejandro. Babe,” she says flatly. “The look on his face as he watched you eat that cheese was nothing short of pornographic.”

“You’re imagining things,” Alex scoffs.

“He. Wants. You,” she repeats firmly. “Ask him out. He’s not gonna say no, I promise. Ninety-six percent.”

Alex bites his lip. “Ninety-six?”

~~~~~

Nora’s numbers should be reassuring. Instead, Alex is freaking out. Ok, maybe he wants Henry, and maybe Henry wants him, but he’s never dated a dude before. He’s done precisely nothing with his bisexual revelation, partly because he’s always swamped with work and partly because he doesn’t want to go hook up with random guys. It’s not like he hasn’t kissed a guy before; he flat out made out with Liam back in high school, and it was nice but he still managed to come out of it thinking he was straight, so. That doesn’t inspire much confidence. The idea of kissing another man now makes him weirdly nervous because if he does and if the same thing happens—worse, if he kisses Henry and it doesn’t do anything for him—then he loses all of this. He likes what they have now. He still doesn’t know a lot of people in London outside his office. As ridiculous as it sounds, the cheese counter feels like a lifeline he can’t afford to let go of.

It’s probably better if they just stay friends. Acquaintances. Whatever the fuck they are.

Anyway, Nora is probably wrong. She couldn’t possibly be that certain after watching them interact for ten minutes. He holds firm to this (misguided) belief right up until he makes his weekly trip to Harrods and Henry positively lights up when he sees Alex approaching.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Henry says, not even bothering with a greeting as he immediately goes into the case to fetch something.

“Hello to you too,” Alex says with a lopsided smile.

“Yes, hello,” Henry huffs, “now come here and close your eyes.”

What.

Henry’s not even looking at him, he’s too focused on the cheese in front of him, and Alex has no fucking clue what to make of any of it.

“Uh, Henry? Is this some kind of new thing y’all are doing?”

Henry smirks at him. “Only for mouthy Americans. Are you coming?”

Jesus’ tits. Alex looks around, but not a single person in the bustling food hall is paying attention to them. Henry appears to be by himself at the counter today. With a deep breath, Alex braces himself for whatever’s about to happen and steps up closer to the counter.

“Now close your eyes and open your mouth,” Henry tells him, which is more or less what he expected, but still. Those words, in that voice. It’s a fucking lot.

“Henry, what—”

“Come on, after all this time, don’t you trust me?” Henry teases.

Well, when he puts it like that.

So Alex closes his eyes and opens his mouth, and a moment later a small morsel of cheese is deposited on his tongue—via toothpick, he realizes as he closes his lips around it, and not Henry’s fingers. Thank god, honestly. Fortunately, the flavor of the cheese completely distracts him from how insane all of this is, because wow. It’s hard and a bit crumbly, salty with a tang and kick of smoky, fruity spice that builds on his tongue. There are peppers involved, chiles like he has rarely tasted since he moved here, and the flavor of them just about punch him in the gut with the flavor of home.

He opens his eyes and finds Henry watching him raptly. That’s a lot, too.

“It’s unbelievable,” Alex says honestly. “What is it?”

“Queso de cincho enchilado,” Henry answers, with passable Spanish pronunciation. “Imported specially from Guerrero.”

“What?”

“I did some research and found out one of our suppliers had a contact in Mexico,” Henry explains. “And, well, you’re always complaining how it’s nearly impossible to get Mexican ingredients here, so I thought you might like it.”

Alex’s throat feels like it’s closing up around the emotion that’s trying to choke him. “You ordered it… for me?”

“If any of our customers deserve a special order, it’s you, Alex,” Henry says, a small, soft smile curving his lips.

“Oh,” Alex says.

His brain is spinning endlessly, like a gear never quite able to make contact with the next one. He needs something to make sense of this. He needs… a list.

1. Henry went out of his way to order something for him. 2. Henry saw a chance to bring Alex something that means something to him and made it happen. 3. Henry chose not just any Mexican cheese, but something special, something he wouldn’t get anywhere else. 4. Henry cares enough to know him.

Fuck.

With a truly heroic effort, he manages to paste on a smile, shoving the rest of it deep down where he will decidedly not inspect it later. “Well, thank you. It’s amazing. Honestly, I don’t know what to say.”

“That has to be a first,” Henry quips, and Alex protests with a ‘Hey!’ and a laugh, because the only other alternative is having a breakdown in Harrods about cheese.

They fall into something like their regular banter after that, and all of this is fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

It’s totally fine.

~~~~~

The queso de cincho enchilado haunts him. Quite literally, since he bought a large quantity of it and every time he looks in his fridge he’s reminded of what Henry did for him. It feels like a lot. It feels like maybe too much.

Maybe Alex needs to take a step back before he goes spinning out of control and fucks something up, badly.

For the first time in a while, he doesn’t visit the food halls that week, or the next. He’s got a crazy case on his plate at work and can’t afford to spare the time anyway. It’s fine. Henry probably won’t even notice he’s not there.

Then, a couple of days after the day he usually visits, he’s in the middle of a long, brutal run through Hyde Park to try to clear his head when he nearly collides with someone in a wool peacoat and a Burberry scarf.

“Jesus fuck, asshole, watch where you’re—”

Alex cuts off because, when he finally regains his balance and turns toward the person, he looks up into a pair of startlingly familiar blue eyes.

“Alex?”

“Henry,” Alex exhales. He suddenly feels much more out of breath than he did a second ago.

Alex would try to claim that he almost doesn’t recognize him out of his uniform, but that would be a lie. He’d know that face anywhere. Those eyes, those cheekbones, those lips curled into a small, pleased smile. He’s bundled up against the February chill, but he still looks effortlessly put together in a way that makes Alex starkly aware of how sweaty and bedraggled he is in comparison. Alex is so overwhelmed by seeing Henry here, outside the safe realm of the Harrods food hall, that he almost completely misses the beagle sitting, well-behaved, at his feet.

“You’ve got a dog,” he manages. He feels strangely unmoored by the situation.

“That I do,” Henry says with a little chuckle. “This is David.”

Alex doesn’t mean to make a face, but it happens. “Weird name for a dog.”

“It’s after Bowie,” Henry tells him.

“Oh, well. That’s cool.”

A beat of silence stretches between them. Fuck, this is awkward. It’s never this awkward when there’s a case full of cheese between them.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your run,” Henry ventures.

“No, it’s fine. You just surprised me.”

“So you usually berate innocent pedestrians while you’re running, then?”

His teasing surprises a laugh out of Alex. “Fuck off with ‘innocent’, you stepped into my path.”

“Well, yes,” Henry admits. “And I do apologize for that. David was very excited about a squirrel.”

“Oh, blame it on your dog, real smooth,” Alex says, grinning, and Henry laughs. Alex makes a motion toward the beagle. “Can I pet him?”

“I’m sure he’d enjoy that,” Henry says.

Alex squats down in front of David and holds out his hand for him to sniff, which David does and then proceeds to immediately tuck his nose under Alex’s hand and nudge it up onto his head. He’s utterly adorable, and Alex spends several minutes scratching behind his ears and feeling some of the remaining tension bleed out of him—dogs really are magic—before Henry speaks again.

“We missed you at the cheese counter the past couple of weeks,” he says lightly. We, like any of the other employees there care about whether Alex comes in. He’s probably just that weird guy with the cheese addiction to them. He can appreciate why Henry would put it that way, though.

With one last pat, Alex stands again and pushes a hand back through his hair before remembering how gross it is. “Yeah, I got slammed at work,” he says. It’s mostly not a lie. He doesn’t actually need to explain why he wasn’t there, except he feels oddly compelled to. He quirks his lips into a sardonic smile. “Sorry, I know I’m probably a substantial part of your monthly sales quota.”

Henry laughs softly. “You are,” he confirms, a teasing glint in his eye. Then his expression goes more serious. “But that’s not why I was concerned.”

Oh. Henry was worried about him.

“Well, I’ll be back this week,” Alex promises.

“That’s good to hear,” Henry says, and when he smiles his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I should let you go before you catch a chill out here.”

Alex doesn’t want Henry to let him go, although yes, he’s getting really fucking cold in his thin exercise gear now that he’s not moving anymore. He thinks maybe if he wasn’t completely disgusting and exhausted he might ask Henry if he wanted to go get a cup of coffee. Or tea, whatever (he knows, in fact, that Henry’s a tea drinker). It’d be low stakes, friends get coffee all the time, and he could feel things out a bit more. Asking if he wants to get together some other time feels more intentional. Like a date.

They’re not at the shop. Alex could just ask.

“Yeah, ok,” he says instead. “It was good to bump into you, man.”

For some reason Henry’s smile seems to go a little tight at the edges. “It was. I’ll see you soon, Alex.”

~~~~~

It doesn’t occur to Alex until he’s standing in the shower later that he could have asked for Henry’s number at the very least. Now who knows when he might run into Henry again. Maybe he could just haunt Hyde Park during the same time frame and hope that he runs into Henry walking David again. Maybe he should just take Nora’s suggestion to ask him when his shift ends and meet him then.

He’s still contemplating his options when he visits the cheese counter that week. It’s oddly busy for some reason, and he waits a while for Henry to be free. Unfortunately that also means that they’re not going to have as much time as usual to chat, which is quite honestly the whole reason he visits. He’s just wondering if maybe he should come back later when Henry appears in front of him, clearly tired and worn around the edges but no less beautiful for it.

“You guys are hoppin’ today,” Alex says, glancing around.

“Yes, well, lots of romantic cheese plates to sell, I suppose,” Henry sighs.

Alex frowns in confusion. “What?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow?”

“Right, yeah, I totally remembered that,” Alex says, shaking his head as he bites his lip. “Shows you where my head’s been.”

“I hope for your girlfriend’s sake that that’s not actually true,” Henry points out, and now Alex is confused again.

“Girlfriend?”

Henry frowns back at him. “Nora?”

Alex chokes out a surprised laugh. “Oh, Nora’s not my girlfriend. I mean, we dated a while ago, but now we’re just friends. She’s dating my sister actually.” Henry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t ask. Anyway, that’s why she’s trying to move to London—her and my sister, actually—because June feels a need to watch over me or something, I guess. It’ll be good to have them here, though.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” Henry says. “Sorry for assuming, you just talk about her quite a bit.”

“God, don’t tell her that,” Alex groans.

“So no girlfriend, then?” Henry asks casually, or it would be casual if he weren’t avoiding Alex’s eyes and fidgeting with some kind of cheese.

Alex swallows and licks his lips. “Nope. No boyfriend either. I’ll just be hanging out with James Bond tomorrow, I guess.”

“What?” Henry asks sharply, for reasons that are beyond Alex.

“I dunno, Bond movie marathon sounds like a good way to spend Valentine’s Day alone.”

“Right, of course,” Henry says with a tight smile. No explanation for the weird reaction is forthcoming, so Alex shrugs it off. “Our special cheese this week might be kind of moot, then.”

“Why’s that?” Alex asks.

Henry turns away to grab something, and when he turns back he’s holding up what looks like some kind of heart-shaped brie. “Neufchatel,” he says. “From Normandy.”

“The heart shape seems a little gimmicky for the Harrods cheese counter.”

“Ah, but it’s not actually a gimmick. The shape goes back to the Hundred Years’ War,” Henry explains. “The English occupied the region, and the story goes that the French dairy maids who fell for their occupiers gave them as gifts to the Englishmen.”

“Ok, now it makes sense,” Alex laughs. “Of course y’all would sell something that commemorates the people you tried to conquer falling in love with you.”

“I didn’t say it was an admirable story,” Henry protests, flushing a delightful pink. “It is a wonderful cheese, though.”

“Well?” Alex prompts. “You gonna give me a sample of your occupier cheese?”

Henry laughs and shakes his head, but he cuts Alex off a chunk and passes it over the counter. It actually is delicious, ridiculously creamy and velvety on his tongue. It’s also the kind of cheese that’s probably not something you’re going to eat alone, since he doubts it will keep well after it’s been cut into, but…

Alex has to admit, he’s kind into the symbolism of Henry giving him this particular cheese. Not that Henry is giving it to him, Alex is buying it, not to mention that Henry has probably sold a hundred of these heart-shaped cheeses today, but still.

“Yeah, ok, it’s really good,” Alex says, like it pains him to admit it. “I’ll take one.”

Henry blinks at him. “Really?”

“For my date with James Bond.”

A kind of weird look passes over Henry’s face again, but it’s gone as quickly as it had come. “All right,” he says. “I’ll get that wrapped up for you.”

Alex watches Henry package up the cheese, which means he absolutely sees Henry pick up a pen and write something on the inside of the butcher paper that he wraps around it. But Henry also gives no hint as to what it could be as he hands over the cheese and rings Alex up at the cash register. As expected, he doesn’t really have time to linger; there are more customers waiting to be served, so Alex takes his purchase and heads home, the small package burning a hole in his pocket. He can’t very well unwrap a soft cheese in the middle of the London streets or on the tube or something, so whatever Henry wrote remains a mystery until he gets into his kitchen and nearly tears the paper off.

It’s a phone number. Henry’s phone number.

Alex checks the time, and by now it’s after the food hall counters close. With slightly shaky hands, he types the number into his phone and presses call.

“Hullo?” a familiar voice answers, slightly distorted over the line.

“Henry,” Alex breathes. He just saw Henry less than an hour ago, and yet still the sound of his voice sets every one of Alex’s nerve endings on fire. “Um. It’s Alex.”

“Ah. You got my message, I see.”

“I did,” he confirms. A little puff of disbelieving laughter escapes him. “Leaving your number on the inside of a cheese wrapper? Really?”

Henry laughs softly. “I suppose I got tired of waiting for you to ask me for it.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me for mine?”

“If I did, it would have to be for some kind of special order purposes,” Henry tells him. “And I couldn’t use it for personal reasons. It’s against company policy.”

“Oh,” Alex says. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to.”

“Wanted to what?”

“Ask you. For your number. Or… on a date.”

He hears Henry exhale, and then, with immense fondness, he says, “You certainly took your time.”

“Fuck off,” Alex says automatically. Something thrums under his skin at Henry’s answering laughter. “I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he confesses.

“You didn’t,” Henry says softly. “You won’t.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“After six months, I think I know you at least that well, Alex.”

And yeah, Henry does.

“So, uh,” Alex starts, not even knowing where he’s headed with this until the words are coming out of his mouth, “Turns out I’ve got this really romantic cheese that probably shouldn’t be eaten alone.”

“I can confirm it’s better shared.” He can hear the smile in Henry’s voice.

“So you could come over, if you wanted. To my place. Tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. Not just cheese.”

“I’d love to,” Henry says, his voice full of something that fills Alex to the brim with warmth. “I can bring wine?”

Shoot. In his rush to get home, Alex forgot about the wine. So really—

“That’s perfect, baby.”

Alex feels the noise Henry makes over the phone in his toes.

~~~~~

Whatever possessed him to make their first date on Valentine’s Day at his own apartment and to volunteer to cook dinner, Alex is sure he doesn’t know. They could have gone for coffee. They could have gone out to dinner a few days later, or something reasonable that didn’t involve Alex fretting over last minute menu plans and laboring over the stove for hours. He considers something from his Mexican wheelhouse before deciding that sourcing ingredients at this point would be nearly impossible, and in the end he takes inspiration from the Neufchatel and goes French. Coq au vin, potatoes, haricot vert, crusty bread that he picks up from the French bakery down the road. For dessert, though, he dips into his precious supply of dried chiles that his abuela sent him and whips up the batter for a spiced chocolate lava cake that will bake while they’re eating dinner.

So, you know. Nothing fancy.

Henry shows up right on time with a bottle of wine to pair with the cheese and another for dinner, which he’d chosen after wheedling tonight’s menu out of Alex via text earlier. He’s utterly stunning in a blue sweater that looks ridiculously soft, and Alex desperately wants to touch it. Or maybe he just desperately wants to touch Henry.

He doesn’t, though. He greets Henry at the door, and they do the slightly awkward dance of knowing this is a date and knowing each other pretty well, but not knowing exactly what they are to each other yet. Are they on hugging terms? Kissing? Alex sidesteps the question entirely by taking the wine from Henry’s hands and leading the way back into the kitchen.

It’s blissfully not awkward after that, though. The conversation flows easily as Alex finishes up the last bits of dinner. They drink wine and eat heart-shaped cheese and Henry drops light touches on Alex’s hip or his arm or his lower back as they maneuver around each other in the small space. He’s suitably impressed by Alex’s cooking and isn’t shy with his praise, which warms Alex to the core.

It is, all in all, probably the best date Alex has ever had, and by the time they retire to the living room couch after dessert he feels like he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin with anticipation. Something of it must show on his face, because Henry gives him a gentle smile that is clearly intended to put him at ease as he relaxes into the couch, his body angled toward Alex and his wine glass dangling loosely from his fingers.

“I’ve had a lovely time tonight,” he says, nudging a knee up against Alex’s.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Alex replies honestly, putting all of it into the smile he returns. “Me too.” Then he pauses, steeling himself, and Henry must sense it because he just waits. “There’s something you should know,” he says eventually. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Dated a guy.”

Henry’s expression is maddeningly neutral. “But you want to.”

“I didn’t do all of this because I don’t want to kiss you,” Alex retorts. That, at least, brings a pleased smile to Henry’s face. “I just… this isn’t some experiment for me, but some things are going to be a little novel.”

Henry nods and sets his wine glass on the coffee table, then shifts on the couch closer to Alex. He slides one hand onto Alex’s thigh just above the knee, and the other he reaches up to the side of Alex’s face, gently cupping his jaw. “We can take things as slow as you like.”

Alex leans in, inhales the scent of Henry’s cologne. “And if I’m not interested in taking it slow?”

“I can’t say I’d complain,” Henry answers with a soft puff of laughter.

His eyes drop to Henry’s full, wine-stained lips, to the mole at the corner of his mouth, to the other one at the edge of his jaw. They both sway closer, until the tips of their noses nearly brush.

“I have another confession,” Alex says abruptly, and Henry lets out a fondly exasperated sigh as he pulls back again and looks at him expectantly. “I’m not really that into cheese. Or, I wasn’t, I guess. I only really visited to see you.”

“I know,” Henry says, biting back a smile.

“What do you mean, you know?!” Alex demands.

“I mean, it was clear that you didn’t actually know much about cheese, and though you seemed interested, you never really struck me as a connoisseur,” Henry tells him. He takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “That’s why I always hoped, even when I thought you had a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Alex breathes. “So you wanted me…?”

“Christ, from the first time you stopped at my counter, Alex. Now will you please kiss me—”

Alex leans in and presses his lips to Henry’s, and it’s everything he could have imagined and more. Henry’s lips are plush and soft under his, and he tastes like red wine and chocolate and chiles, and Alex already never wants it to end. Kissing Henry is new in the best way—from the way Henry’s end-of-the-day stubble scratches against his own, to the strong hands in his hair, to the sensation of the hard planes of Henry’s waist under his palms—but at the same time there’s something achingly familiar about it. Like coming home.

The more they kiss, the more he realizes that there’s something else that’s different about this kiss: it feels, unmistakably, like the last first kiss he’s ever going to have.

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #rwrb fic #rwrb fanfic #firstprince fic #firstprince fanfic #chamel's fandom fest #my fic

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