#and why i put broken ceramic dishes in the gravel at the bottom of my planter boxes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

welovekpopscenarios · 6 years

Text

Friction (Fallout!AU Woozi x Reader)

Admin: Mimi

With your rifle damaged, you had no other choice than head to the nearest city to get it repaired. You didn’t expect the person doing the job to be such an insufferable jerk, however. But things become interesting the more you get to know the man repairing your weapon. Fallout/Post-Nuclear War!AU.

Fandom: Seventeen

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Pairing: Woozi x Reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, Woozi and Reader being assholes to each other

Word Count: 3955

A/N: Will I ever stop writing for Seventeen? No. Will I ever stop writing game au’s? Probably not. As I said in my Mingyu one, don’t get put off by this being a Fallout AU, it isn’t that central to the story, and I hope it’s still enjoyable for everyone to read, but just ask me if there’s anything you’re confused about, I’ll be happy to answer! I wanted to write for Woozi bc I absolutely adore him and why not write for your bias wrecker haw haw help. But yeah, this is a classic enemies to lovers trope bc I’m a sucker for that type of stuff. Also just picture Jihoon being like, a weapons mechanic or whatever and being sweaty and working hard and ugh stop it. I really hope you give it a chance and enjoy it! Happy reading, ily all!

- PART 2 -

The heat of the sun bore down on your skin, sweat pooling into nearly every crevice of your body as the sun seared into the leather bonds and cotton long johns that sat on your frame as a pathetic excuse for armour, leaving you more than irritably sticky and exhausted. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you made your way through the tore up streets, dodging stray pipes ready to slice your head off from their position in the walls and climbing over car wreckages whose engines have long been silenced over 200 years ago, eyes half-heartedly scanning the corners for raiders or thugs ready to point their pistols at you and steal the caps stashed at the bottom of your rucksack.

Not that you felt like you cared at the moment, to be quite honest. The blaring sun and the hours long walk, sneaking past enemies and taking out the ones who caught you have, to put it frankly, completely drained you faster than you drained all your water supplies in a single day. A raider could easily pop out from whatever hidey hole he’s dug himself, put a shiny one right between your half-closed eyes, and you’d thank him for putting you out of your misery. You were that tired.

And what made this hellish journey even worse was your destination – and your problem. Some time ago your favourite rifle took a tumble from your position on the broken, open second floor of a house you were staying in one night, and when you hopped down to retrieve it, you were heartbroken to find it smashed at the barrel, trigger bent sideways, and completely useless.

Normally you would just toss the weapon aside and grab the newest one you could find, making do, a common occurrence in the wasteland. But this rifle meant something to you, it was special. It was your first one, given to you by your father before he…well. It was important to you, and you needed it fixed. Unfortunately, you didn’t know how to repair the thing, and so that brought you to start your trek towards the last place you wanted to be.

Diamond fucking City. "The Great Green Jewel" of the Commonwealth.

Diamond City – while a hub of trade, services, security and life – was also home to complete nutters and crazies, and that wasn’t even counting the ones trying to kill you yet. Brawlers, thieves, con-artists, and now synths were apparently added to the mix, the city was a complete shitshow, to put it kindly, and to put the icing on the sweetroll, it was all controlled by a racist asshole who liked to keep his civilians as obedient as he thought he could. But, that being said, the city was the only successful one in the Commonwealth, booming with activity, and the only one you somewhat trusted closest to you.

And so you walked for days on end; starving, parched, and sick of it all. Your lips were cracked and drier than the trees standing in the countryside, feet more swollen than a Super mutants head, and limbs moving slower than a Brahmin cow. But still you walked. And by the grace of whatever sadistic deity left above, you reached the entrance of the city, the guards shifting in their positions and shooting you suspicious glares. The one directly outside the gates lifted his gun to you, standing straighter, prepared to shoot you down where you (barely) stood should you try anything. Not that you had the energy, even if you wanted to.

“Hold up,” he grunted, shoulders hunched into a defensive position while you wavered in place, swaying slightly side to side in order to keep yourself upright. “Who’re you and what’s your business here?”

You tried to reply, you really did, but all that came out was a lousy croak of your name, followed by a short coughing fit. “I’m here for weapon repairs,” you managed, breathing heavy, and so completely done with this conversation already. As if you were going to make the city any worse.

The guard shuffled, moving his balance foot to foot, as he mulled you over, eyeing you head to toe. A guard taking watch on the rafters whistled to grab his attention, the young mans’ eyes flitting upwards to him in surprise.

“Let em in, Kookie. They ain’t gonna cause any problem, and they’re just here for business. Just let em through,” he ordered, the toothpick in his mouth moving with each syllable that rolled off of his tongue, scratching at his back lazily as he leaned against the railings. The guard – Kookie – furrowed is brows in uncertainty, eyes flickering between your deadpan face and the other guard. He licked nervously at his lips, fingers fumbling around his rifle.

“But, Johnny, Mayor McDonough said-“

“McDonough said keep the bad ones out. And my excellent judge of character says they ain’t a bad one,” he drawled, fixing Kookie with a look that screamed ‘are you that dumb?’ “McDonough also don’t want anything stopping business in his city, especially a greenie guard. That’ll look very bad on you, kid.”

Kookie look like he wanted to say more, but what could he say? He was only new, and Johnny has been manning the entrance for years. He has to trust his superior. Nodding in satisfaction at Kookie’s compliance, he turned his gaze to you, flashing a smile enough to rival the Cheshire Cat’s you’ve seen in those books your father showed you when you were little. “I’ll open up the gate for you. Head on in, dollface. Welcome to Diamond City.”

You were too dead to make a comment on the nickname, instead throwing a lacklustre salute in Johnny’s direction and ignoring Kookie’s scowl as his eyes followed your form, heading deeper into most popular civilisation in the Commonwealth.

What struck you first was the lights, the entire city lit top to bottom in various types – open flame, bulbs, neon signs, even floodlights – the entire city illuminated and glowing, which only served to highlight the mass of citizens sprawled throughout the area. The noise levels were high, something you weren’t used to unless it was from the occasional scream of pain in the distance. The noise was filled with chatter, people actually having conversations, or promoting their trade from their stalls scattered throughout the centre, and music from the city’s radio station echoed throughout the space faintly, creating an almost happy atmosphere as you walked to the centre.

It was completely alien to you, to see this many people together and not have them try to shoot you, or watching them fight, or any other negative you could find in the book. It also made you do a double take on the city’s reputation. While you were cautious of the metropolis, a seed of mistrust planted firmly in the pit of your gut, you reasoned that the city wouldn’t have stood for as long as it did if it really was full of lunatics and thugs. Maybe this place wasn’t that bad.

Maybe.

When your jaded eyes landed on what looked to be a restaurant in the very centre, manned by one of those Protectron robots and wearing what looked to be an absurd chef’s hat placed neatly on his metallic head and stirring a large pot, you nearly wept with relief, dragging your heavy legs and plonking yourself on one of the stools, burying your head into your arms on the counter in front of you and heaving the longest sigh you think you’ve ever made in your existence.

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?"

You slowly raise your head from its place in your arms, eyes searching around the area for the person who addressed you, only finding one guy sitting a seat away from yours, slurping on noodles contentedly.

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?"

You faced forward, the lights on the Protectron gleaming as he spoke, the waves in his voice bouncing with an electronic twinge. You shot him a confused stare, but he was unperturbed as expected of a robot, continuously stirring his large pot of noodles automatically.

“What?” you asked, positively baffled. Were you too tired to understand basic speech now?

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?"

You heard a chuckle resonate near you from the only other occupant at the noodle bar. He shot you a friendly grin when you turned your head, still chuckling in pity at your expression.

“Just say yes,” he told you ominously, and while you narrowed your eyes in distrust, you did as instructed.

“Ye-es,” you dragged out the word, confusion lacing your tone and a brow raised on your dirtied face. The robot’s metal claws picked up a bowl from the table, monotonously spooning noodles into the chipped ceramic dish and pushing it towards you when he was finished.

“That’s Takahashi, he cooks the noodles here,” the man explained, inclining his head to the robot who happily stirred his pot. “The noodles cost 20 caps, just put em in the box on the bar.”

Nodding in understanding, you took the sufficient caps from your bag, placing them in said box and promptly digging in, practically inhaling the food your stomach cried out for in the past few days, barely even feeling the burn on your tongue as you swallowed the savoury substance, eyes nearly falling shut in happiness.

“Thanksh man,” you mumbled around a mouthful, too impatient and hungry to stop eating and address the guy who helped you. He smiled slightly at you as you ate, spooning his own a lot more gracefully into his mouth.

“No problem, I was confused when I first got here too. I’m Scoups,” he introduced, hand reaching out to shake your own, his nearly encasing yours whole with how large it was. You returned the greeting once you swallowed. The red glow from the fairy lights strung around the tarp of the noodle bar cast shadows on his smiling face, a genuine smile, such a rare sight in the wasteland. “So, what brings you to Diamond City? Looking for a place to stay?”

You licked sauce off your lips, swirling your noodles absentmindedly in their bowl. You nodded, nails tapping against the table. Scoups bobbed his head in understanding, folding his thick arms on the countertop. “Do you know anyone who can repair weapons?” you asked, and Scoups grinned, mischief swirling in his dark orbs.

“Look around,” he laughed, a wave of his arm accentuating his words, your eyes roaming the space that was littered with all types of services – from mechanics, armourers, merchants, even a hairdresser. “The better question would be where can’t you get it repaired. Pick your poison. But if I were you, I’d go see Woozi. He’s the best in the City for a reason. I’ll take you to see him after you’ve finished eating. You look exhausted.”

You smiled at him in gratitude, one he returned amiably, and finished your meal, listening to him as he explained the layout and manners of the infamous Green Jewel that was Diamond City. A short while later with a belly blissfully stuffed and feeling rejuvenated, you followed Scoups as he led you to one of booths in the city, this one covered with various bits and pieces from weapons hung around the sides and a simple metal sign with ‘Woozi’s’ carved into it hanging high above. Scoups didn’t walk the full distance to the stall, only pointed out its location and mumbling a ‘good luck with him, you’ll need it’ and a ‘see you later’ before he was heading off in the direction of what looked to be a bar.

Edging closer to the stall, you could see the parts more clearly, the grey of the booth littered with scopes and barrels along the walls, some weapons sitting on display on random boxes for all to see, looking in better condition than any gun you’ve ever seen, even shiner than anything you’ve ever seen. Standing at the entrance, the stall was smaller than expected, only bearing the essentials and locks for protection. Sitting at a workbench was who you suspected to be the man himself, fiddling with a shotgun and a look of utmost concentration upon his face that could only ever be found on the most skilled marksmen.

Sweat lined his forehead, falling from his hairline and down his temple, and the occasional oil mark was splattered across his face, on his cheeks, chin, even the bridge of his nose. His teeth bit into the skin of his lower lip, the flesh red and plump from constant worry, and his eyebrows were furrowed almost angrily, as if frustrated with his work, twitching every so often in annoyance, nostrils flaring with every heavy breath that ached to leave his chest. He was definitely one of the better-looking men you’ve seen in the wasteland – a strange feeling in your chest spreading through your tired limbs the longer you stared at him. He had a strange allure, certainly, a man dedicated to his craft with an air of no nonsense about him that was a well needed trait for survival. And that tingly feeling in your stomach was certainly strange, perhaps even more alien to you than the city you stood in.

“You’re in my light.”

Huh?

“What?”

A sharp exhale left the lips you’ve been focusing on far too much to be normal just moments ago, his gloved hands placing the shotgun down carefully and shifting in his stool to face you, pulling the gloves off finger by finger as he stared at you with an expression that almost made you flush with embarrassment, as if you had just done the most stupid thing possible.

“I said,” he spoke deliberately slow, like one would when dealing with a child who didn’t understand what they’ve done was bad, and it had sparks of annoyance flashing through you. The nerve of this guy! “You’re in my light. Or are you deaf? Too many beatings to the head?”

You now understood why Scoups wished you luck when dealing with this guy. You needed it, because each passing second only made you want to punch this guy so hard he’ll be headed straight for New Vegas on the other side of the country.

“There’s light everywhere, jackass,” you retorted, glancing around and at the sky. It was still midday, still hot as hell, and just when you thought you were feeling better, you get sent to this jerk who’ll be responsible for fixing your rifle. If you’ll even let him, at this point. “Or are you that petty?”

Woozi looked untroubled by your comment, resting his left elbow on the table and leaning his weight on it, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. A smirk you wanted to kick right off his pretty face.

“I need to be able to see what I’m doing. You don’t get to be the best in the city by doing a half-assed job,” he boasted, looking as smug as a raider who just found a huge box of caps on some poor helpless traveller he butchered.

“Then I suggest find a candle and some matches, day light doesn’t last forever,” you suggested cheekily, pleased with the scoff he gave and downturn of his lips. God, this was infuriating. You don’t know why you’re getting so worked up over this. “I need my rifle repaired,” you settled for getting straight to the point. The sooner you could get into a bed, the better.

“Well, no shit. It’s kinda what I do,” he sassed, his stupid perfect brow raised and dark eyes scanning your form, head to toe. You squirmed under his scrutiny, suddenly conscious of the dust caked on your face, the scars littering your body, the dirt hidden beneath your nails. It was foolish, really. Things like good looks and hygiene weren’t a priority anymore, but for some reason you felt like you should have at least scrubbed up a bit before coming to see this man.

Which was absolutely ridiculous. It’s not like you had to impress him.

Certainly not.

You barked out a sarcastic laugh in response, face dry and showing no semblance of humour whatsoever. “Funny, twerp,” his lip curled into a snarl at the insult, “I know that. I was told to come here because you were apparently good. Scoups sent me.”

“Scoups?” he questioned in faint surprise. He hummed, regarding you thoughtfully before eventually sighing in resignation. “Show me this rifle of yours, and I’ll see what can be done,” he sat up straighter, hands facing palm up and awaiting your prized possession. You reached into your rucksack for the rifle that lay sadly at the bottom, dragging it out carefully and placing it into his hands, watching as that concentrated expression from before returned to his face, looking much older than you expect it to be.

His slender fingers toyed with the weapon, running up and down the barrel, pushing the trigger around and giving it a shake, an awful rattling noise resounding from the simple action and simultaneously putting a grimace on both your face and Woozi’s. After another moment of inspection, he placed the rifle down on the table next to the shotgun and left his stool to rummage through crates of spare parts and tools, metal clanging bouncing against the walls of his booth.

“I’ve never seen a barrel that badly smashed before,” he observed, planting various tools onto the surface of the workbench, the table soon filling with wrenches and screwdrivers and pliers, more than you’ve ever seen in one spot before. Taking a seat once again at the table, he placed the shotgun to the side, focusing his attention on your rifle again as he brought it to eye level, a tut of frustration leaving his mouth. “I can fix the trigger no problem, but the barrel is another story. If I was you, kid, I’d just dump it and get a new-“

“No!” you blurted out, panic putting a fresh weight on your chest. You needed this to get fixed. Woozi stared at you in bewilderment, eyes wide in confusion and fingers stalling their movements. There was a beat of silence as you simply stared at each other; Woozi silent as he awaited and explanation, and you silent in shame, heat crawling up your neck. “Please,” you plead, voice near mute but heavy with desperation. “This gun means a lot to me, and I really need it fixed. I can’t do without it. Please.”

It must have been the waver in your voice, or perhaps the shake of your hands, or even the dulling of your eyes that had Woozi’s hardened stare softening until was just blank, returning his gaze to the weapon in question. His tongue poked at his cheek and you watched the action, a cold feeling freezing your body in place as you waited in horrible anticipation. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eyes, swiftly looking away when he met your saddened expression, a faint blush blossoming on his skin, and then he was rolling his eyes, huffing out a quick breath and turning his body around.

“It’s gonna take some time, and a lot of supplies,” he announced, his glare having lost the venomous edge it had and instead just a plain old bothered expression similar to an old man’s. “But, I might be able to get it fixed. No promises though,” he added quickly, but you were too elated to really care, body sagging in relief and a grin stretching ear to ear on your muddy visage.

“Thank you so much,” you beamed, that heavy weight lifting off your chest and your heart feeling brighter for what felt like the first time in months. The blush on his face grew darker as he saw you smile, his own smirk growing on his lips as he gave you a sly look.

“Gonna cost you a good amount of caps too so don’t look too happy, sugar,” he drawled, and your joy began to deflate slowly like air out of a tire. Right, the cost. Shit.

“What’s the damage?” you inquired, forehead creasing in worry as you thought of the little cache in your bag. Fuck, you didn’t need this to burn a hole in your savings, you still need to find a room to stay in and get food and drink. Woozi examined his tools and the rifle, mentally calculating the effort it would take to repair it.

“Giving the time and supplies I need, I’d say around…500-600 caps.”

“500 fucking caps?!” you shrieked. “I don’t even have half of that! And I still need to find somewhere to stay!” Fucking hell, you really couldn’t get a break, could you?

Woozi made a hissing noise that sounded like it was half in mock sympathy, shrugging his shoulders in a ‘what can you do about it?’ sort of motion. “Well, I guess you’re gonna have to find some work around the city then. Plenty that needs to be done, I’m sure. In the meantime, I’ll be slaving away over your precious rifle. But it’ll be done. I’m not a genius for nothing. So, will you have the money or does this conversation end here?”

Your fists clenched at your sides, once again supressing to urge to knock his teeth out of his skull, and clearly, he could tell, smirk growing and eyes narrowing in a challenge. “I’ll have the money. Just…please fix that rifle. I’ll pay you when you’re done.”

“Don’t worry, your rifle will get repaired. But I only accept half up front, and the rest when the jobs done,” he explained. Ah, just another bit of Deathclaw shit dropped on top of your day. This’ll leave you with a dent in your caps, hopefully you can find some work soon, or else you’ll be broke and living on the streets without any way to pay for the gun you’ve walked miles to sort.

“Fine,” you grumbled, hands hurriedly pulling the box out from the bottom and pouring them directly onto Woozi’s workbench, watching as some toppled off the edge and onto the floor of his workshop, loud clinks ringing in their wake. At least you still have that other little bag of caps hidden in your spare clothes. Woozi looked pissed at the mess you made, chest blowing up and deflating thickly as he tried to contain his anger. After all, he couldn’t really say much, you had given him the caps.

“There should be around 220 caps in that,” you announced, closing your bag and shifting it on your back. “I’ll have the rest when you’re done. Bye”

And then you were off, walking back into the throng of people of Diamond City, eyes open for any opportunity for work and shoulders slumped in misery. Woozi was baffled by you, to say the least. In all his time working in this God-forsaken shithole of a city, he’s never met anyone quite like you, quite so…like him. He’s met compliant, kind customers, and he’s met outright assholes who he almost refused to service if the pay wasn’t worth it, but you were different. He got a kick out of how much he pissed you off, how your lovely face would scrunch up in irritation, and tasted his own medicine when you threw it right back at him. Definitely more than meets the eye, with you. But as he stared at your rifle, thumbs rubbing against the dents and cracks, he figured that he’d be done with you soon once this was over and never have to see you again.

Oh, how wrong he was.

And oh, what an interesting week this will prove to be.

145 notes · View notes