Safeway Pyongyang // Reader x Countryhumans

Ultraviolence

     TW: Graphic depictions of abuse 

      She had been just sixteen, a slave to the clown, working at McDonald's to try and supplement her mother's income to lift them both out of the projects, when the day that would decide the rest of her life came about.

       She hadn't even supposed to be working that day. One of her co-worker's had called in sick (code for hung-over), and Y/N had skipped school to go in.

      It had been a slow lunchtime, and she had been dozing off at the counter when several men in black suits, equipped with earpieces, had stormed in and ousted the few other customers. Y/N had jolted up, thinking that there was an emergency, only to come face-to-face with him.

     America.

     "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he had laughed. "Where's the fire?"

    Y/N had been tongue-tied, unable to comprehend her situation. Here was her Countryhuman, in her rundown Detroit McDonald's, whose only claim to fame previously had been the time someone found an aborted foetus in the men's bathroom.

    Eventually she had found her voice. "Sorry," she had apologised. "It's just that the most famous person we've ever had here before is the crackhead who wears a cape and calls himself the King of the Bronx. You took me by surprise."

      America chuckled heartily. "Oh, I like you. Come eat with me."

      If you had told Y/N before then that she would have one day been sitting at a McDonald's table sharing Big Macs and a fifty-piece nugget meal with the United States of America, she would have died laughing.

      Her manager, the only other person working, had been forced to serve them, glaring at Y/N all the while.

      "What's his problem?" America had loudly whispered.

     "I think he's just jealous," the girl had whispered back.

       A ten-minute meal turned to a two hour one. America had been funny and insanely charismatic, cracking jokes and making her laugh. Y/N had listened eagerly to his stories about himself, and found herself happier than she had in a long time.

     When America had checked his phone and stood up, Y/N had felt a sinking in her chest- her mood had immediately dropped.

      "This was fun," America had said. "You should give me your number."

      Y/N's heart fell further. "I, um... I don't have a phone," she blurted, looking down, embarrassed. "I can't afford one."

'Fuck, why did I say that? Now he knows I'm a projects kid.'

Like anyone else would be working here.

     America took his shades off and rubbed them with his shirt. "Don't worry- I'll figure something out." He had grinned. "I'm the best at it."

     And sure enough, when Y/N got home that night and had been heating up the water for her shower, a knock had come at the door. When she opened it, a black car sped away, leaving a matte box on her rotting wooden step. Opening it revealed the latest iPhone, and a slip of paper.

      'Call me,' it read, complete with a smiley face wearing sunglasses.

     And she had.

      She had loved America- he had made her feel special. He took her out for lunch, bought her clothes that he'd thought would look good on her, treated her like an absolute princess. He had his flaws, she thought, but she was willing to overlook them for how much he did for her, how much she got from him.