chaesoo smut.

new york city, baby.

WARNING : g!p rosé // broken up jisoo.

Words count : 4.9k

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Friday night. Roseanne already had two hours of dance class, another two about musical theory, and another three for her acting classes. It is an understatement to say that she is tired, and as much as she wants to head back home and sleep for twelve hours, someone has to work to pay for her bills. Roseanne changes into a pair of comfortable sweatpants that still barely hid her penis—the rare medical condition she could explain, but only with diagrams.

So usually, she doesn't bother. Not that anyone knows about it anyway.

Roseanne jogs to her taxicab and unlocks the shiny, yellow vehicle. Her friend from musical theory hooked her up with the job of driving around Roseanne's favourite city for pay. While yes, it could get hectic, people don't know how to ask politely, and every cab is pretty much driven by an asshole, Roseanne makes do.

Roseanne pulls out of the curb and she drives around, the Broadway station playing softly as she steers through the streets she knew as well as the back of her hand. She plunges into the darkened streets in search of a passenger who was hopefully not to drunk that they would vomit all over her upholstery. She rounds the street, along the edge of Harlem where the crumbling apartments were. Roseanne spots a brunette girl darting out of one of the buildings. The girl starts and waves at her, so Roseanne steers slowly to the curb.

She is beautiful, the girl that is now her passenger. Roseanne adjusts the rear view mirror so she can see this angel. She looks dishevelled and frayed, like she's been awake for thirty-six hours straight, running on pure adrenaline, pure emotion, and pure coffee. She looks so sad, and for a beat, Roseanne wants to do everything in her power, as minimal as that is, to make this pretty woman smile.

“Where to?” Roseanne asks, her fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

“Stadium Motor Lodge, please.” The angel husks. Even her voice is weary, and Roseanne feels her heart break. “It's in the Bronx…”

Roseanne taps the GPS for a few seconds and selects the destination. She pulls out of the curb, turns on the meter and hums softly to herself. However, Roseanne's on edge. Her eyes are darting from the road to the rear view mirror, as if she is terrified that the ghostly pale angel will disappear from her backseat. She tries so hard not to start conversation, to keep this as a strict business transaction, but Roseanne fails. It's not her style.

“What's your name?” Roseanne asks. The angel jolts, as if Roseanne's voice is an electric current that coursed through her lifeless body.

“Jisoo…” She murmurs.

“Hey Jisoo,” Roseanne smiles at the rear view mirror, feeling her skin tingle as Jisoo smiles back, albeit a small one. “I know it's not any of my business, but… you look so sad, and you're so pretty… Did something happen?”

Jisoo looks at Roseanne, stunned. The dim orange lights of the streetlamps illuminate the alabaster skin of her passenger, and then her eyes: hazel and radiant, as if they are gems that are worth more than diamonds. “I… I don't…” Jisoo takes a deep, ragged breath. “Is it that obvious?” She asks weakly.

Roseanne makes a left. “In my acting class, we have exercises where we try to read emotions and I always guess right.” Roseanne stops at a red light and switches the radio off. “And as I said, it's not my business. But I care enough about people to listen.”

Silence follows, and Roseanne focuses on the road ahead. It is late, almost midnight, which means that most of the people who are still awake are probably in clubs getting drunk and partying, or doing something else of importance for them. The streets are not empty—after all, this is New York—but compared to the madness of rush hour, it is a graveyard.