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rcvcgers · 2 days ago

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Rotten Apples, pt. 4

masterlist , part one , part two , part three

ao3 link

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: caleb tries his best to apologize but you don't let him. a trip to linkon is what you need! you run into an old friend.

word count: 9.3k words

warnings: extreme loathing, kinda funny, MELANCHOLIC AND SAD, a good mix of everything! mentions of death! not proofread! READER IS MESSY AF

author's note: hi everyone! thank you so much for all the love on the previous parts! please like & leave comments! i love seeing what you have to say! (part 5 is for my smutty girls though ;) just a heads up!)

content warning: sloppy kiss between caleb & reader...tongues.

a big big big big thank you to leura who helped me out with this part! show them some love over on their blog @militaryapple

my rotten apples <3 : @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexireads , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @jexizia , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @young-adult-summer , @bitchyzombienacho , @danicareadssmut , @empressil , @kesiiahthompson

want to be added to the taglist? click here!

How does one react to their ex-childhood best friend showing up and ruining a date that’s also not a date that you’re on with your other ex-childhood best friend that you secretly liked then hated then when he showed back up after his supposed death your feelings for him have become so utterly complicated that you can’t comprehend if he actually likes you or not?

No, really, how do you react to that in a completely normal way?

The question kept you up for hours on end, lingering in the depths of your mind as you tried your best to feel like a human being again after your disastrous night with Caleb and Her.

Your dreams were infested with images of her smug smile and the way she showed up unannounced. You know that her motivations aren’t pure. They are full of hate and are malicious.

Do people change? Yes. They do. Sometimes they change for the worse instead of getting better.

The image of her smug expression haunts your mind. She floats into your thoughts. Caleb didn’t even try to hide the fact that they were, allegedly, temporarily living together. Her hunter business brought her to Skyhaven for whatever reason, which he also didn’t give, and it ended with you passed out on the floor of your apartment with an empty wine bottle in hand.

The morning after the date-that’s-also-not-a-date went wrong, you were quite hungover. You sat up from your floor in complete and utter pain, shuddering from the morning light that struck your eyes like daggers. A silent hiss escaped your lips as you army crawled into the kitchen. Trying to pull yourself up to the kitchen sink was a struggle in itself.

Your legs kept giving out on you. You succumbed to the floor plenty of times. Groans and cries filled the quiet apartment, your fingers scraping against the cabinets. After an hour, you finally got a good grip on the edge of the sink, gasping as you pulled up your basically dead body, and flicked on the water. Your dry mouth was met with crisp, ice cold water. Your morning long thirst had been quenched.

You felt unstoppable! That is, until your phone started ringing…from the opposite side of the apartment.

That trek was less strenuous thanks to the oasis that is your kitchen sink. Once your phone was in your hand, you felt the surge of another victory bubble from within your uneasy stomach.

The feeling was quickly shot down when Darryl’s name flashed across your screen.

“Hello?” Your throat is raw from dehydration.

“Where are you?!” Darryl’s voice booms from the other end of the call. You move the phone away from your face and wince. You put the call on speaker and set it on the floor next to you.

“I think I’m going to need to cash in one of my sick days…” You crumble to the floor and ball up into the fetal position.

This is one nasty ass hangover.

“A Colonel is here asking for you.”

Your body shocks to life. The nausea you once felt fades into nothingness. You force your body upright and stare at Darry’s name on the screen.

What the fuck did he just say?

“What the fuck did you do?” Darryl yells at you through the phone.

“I didn’t do anything!” You immediately retort. “I’m going to use a sick day today. I’ll work overtime tomorrow! Okay! Bye!” You hang up the phone and slide it across the floor, landing in the bathroom.

Minutes pass. Silence fills your apartment.

Did…did Caleb come looking for you?

You shake your head at the thought. It could literally be any other colonel! There’s Colonel Heath and don’t forget about that time you helped Colonel Diana on a top secret project! Yeah! Diana was the one who reached out to you!

Not the insanely hot guy from your childhood that you’re supposed to hate but can’t help but salivate over when you think of him in his uniform.

Yeah! No! It totally isn’t Caleb who you ran away from last night!

There’s a knock at your door. You aren’t expecting anyone…who could it be? Your legs still feel like jelly but you push through, wobbling to the door. pressing up against the door with a rough landing, you peer out the peep hole to see a head of black hair in front of it.

The man’s posture straightens and his deep purple eyes seemingly lock onto yours. He’s in that damn Colonel uniform too. You gasp and push away from the door. Stumbling backward, and in a good stroke of luck, you tip onto the couch and yelp, covering your mouth.

Caleb calls out your name, his voice muffled through the door. His knocks are more feverish now. Your body flinches with every knock.

“Hey…I know you’re in there. I’m sorry about last night,” Caleb’s voice doesn’t bring you the solace and comfort it used to. “Can we please talk? I can explain everything.” You don’t respond.

Why should you? He’s the one who put you through so much god damn emotional turmoil. Years of being led on and his innate sense to always go to her has messed with your head. Your last therapist could barely make sense of things when you explained it to her.

“Alright…I get it. You need distance. That’s fine. I’ll be here…you have my number. Oh, and I brought you some food…I think there’s good chance you’re hungover.” Caleb sounds…defeated. It’s a strange thing to have to listen to. Usually he’s this upbeat, happy-go-lucky guy that always knows what to do or say to make things better.

But you…you have officially stumped Caleb.

He has never felt so lost in his life. He knew that he was in this position because he couldn’t have a backbone when it came to her. That’s his fault.

Caleb wishes he could explain to you that he asked her to leave. He even took her to a hotel where she can stay for the rest of the stay. And the cherry on top?

He didn’t pay for it!

His eyes stare at the door’s peephole. He squints, wanting to see any kind of movement within the very minuscule amount of light that seeps through. There’s nothing, though, so he sets the large plastic bag of food down onto the floor. The Colonel hesitates for a split second, swearing that he hears something behind the door.

Again, nothing.

This is a routine that the two of you fell into over the course of a month.

Caleb showed up, unannounced and unwanted of course, and placed a token of his affection by your door. Some days it was greasy food for the hangovers you were bound to have when you went out with friends, other times it was flowers for an achievement you got at work.

Every time he knocked on the door, you hid in your bedroom, tucked away under the covers, silently begging for him to go away.

When he eventually left, after begging for a solid twenty minutes to see you and your beautiful face, you creeped outside the door to see what he left behind.

The days you were feeling low, Caleb left you comfort food and a note that said he’s proud of you for pushing through the day.

The weekends were usually the days he came to bring you flowers. He brought a different kind every day and somehow managed to get them wrong every single time. You didn’t even waste another second looking at them before dumping them down your hallway’s trash chute.

There was a time when Caleb dropped of an expensive bouquet of roses. You caught him right before he snuck into the elevator like the stalker he is. You picked up the bouquet and signaled for him to stay where he was, putting the brightest and most plastic looking smile on your face.

The look on his face was priceless! Caleb inched closer to your apartment, a smile slowly growing on his face. His smile died when you stepped out of the apartment with the bouquet in one hand, scissors in the other. You snipped every single rose, letting them fall to the ground before you slammed the door behind you.

His constant acts of affection were, quite frankly, getting on your nerves. It didn’t help that your neighbors kept banging on your door asking for you to clean up the messes he left behind. Now that was just tedious.

You should have left a note for Caleb to clean up the mess he made.

One day, you were late for a team dinner that Darryl was throwing to celebrate his promotion. How he got promoted, you’d never know. At least he wouldn’t be bothering you anymore. That’s all that matters.

You swung the door open, headphones over your ears, and jumped at the sight of a blue and orange box. It was small in your hands. A small jingling sound came from the inside when you shook it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement. Caleb dipped behind a couple waiting for the elevator. You raised an eyebrow and walked to the elevator, watching as his eyes grew bigger and bigger.

The elevator dinged right when you shoved the box into his chest, crushing the small, glass butterfly he had bought for you.

Caleb’s eyes fixated on the eye bags under your eyes. They were heavily sunken into your skin and were a deep purple color. Even your cheekbones popped out. You slowly blinked at him, your body slightly swaying despite there being no wind inside the hallway.

To Caleb, you looked like a shell of yourself. A phantom that sucked the soul straight out of your body, leaving behind a semblance of the woman he’s grown so fond of despite you throwing all of his effort back into his face.

“Take the stairs.” You told him before disappearing into the elevator. The doors slowly closed and he watched as you wiped a tear out from under your eye. The sad thing is that he obeyed your order like the lovesick puppy he is, dying to catch a glimpse of you before you disappeared into a taxi.

Are you not taking care of yourself? Have you not been eating the food I’ve gotten you? Do I need to take matters into my own hands? His thoughts began to race as soon as you were out of sight.

Caleb wanted to rip his heart out of his chest and hand it to you if it would mean that you would forgive him for what he’s done. If you wanted him to kill a thousand Wanderers, he would do it. Hell, he even managed to get Darryl fired for you after overhearing you talk about how much you hated him.

Caleb is ready to give you the world. All you have to do is say the word and he’ll spend the rest of his days, all the way until his dying breath, to make it a reality for you.

It’s been a month since the disastrous date night, not that you were counting the days or anything.

You totally still aren’t heartbroken over the fact that they have ruined your self esteem and essentially made you a hermit. Isolation was the only way you were able to feel comfortable in your own skin and yet it was so incredibly lonely to be stuck with your own degrading thoughts with Caleb serving as a constant reminder as to why you’re only good enough to be someone’s second choice.

Never the first.

“You’re coming, right?” Your friend shouts from over the phone. “You better get on the train! You are not missing out on my bachelorette party just because you don’t want to run into him!”

Your laugh is half-genuine as you shove clothes into your suitcase, not even bothering to fold them because you simply do not have the energy to do it.

“I’m leaving in ten minutes for the train right now, I promise.” the suitcase struggles to zip shut but you eventually get it to close after sitting on it. It crashes into the ground and you shriek, stumbling next to to it. You barely manage to catch yourself, your first laugh in a month fleeing your mouth.

The sound shocks you. You go silent, hand covering your glossed lips, and laugh some more.

You didn’t know you could do that anymore! It had been so long since you’ve heard the crackle in your laugh, the way you could sense the joy within the sound even if it came from a clumsy mistake.

“Are you okay?” Your friend’s voice lulls you back into the room. You nod despite her being unable to see it and laugh again, covering your mouth. She laughs. “Alright then, I’ll see you in a few hours!”

Your suitcase suddenly feels light when you pick it up from the ground. Has all of your depression finally left you body? Are you starting to feel whole again after feeling so worthless?

You slide the suitcase across the floor and slip your shoes on with a blossoming smile. Things are finally starting to look up for you! Hell, even your shoes slipped on with ease instead of you struggling to put them on for ten minutes! Maybe you could get a coffee before you hop on the train out of Skyhaven!

The front door is pulled back and you are ready to brace the day with a smile on your face when—!

Caleb. He’s here. At your door. With another bouquet of flowers.

Your smile falls from your face and any oxygen that was once in your lungs has been sucked out by his presence. The only thing you can do is stare up and into his violet eyes. He holds out the bouquet to you, daisies to be exact, and the white petals burn into your soul.

“These are for you,” Caleb takes your hand and you’re unable to stop him. He slips the bouquet into your fingers and you stare at the skin he touches, a burning feeling imprinting into your skin. “I just wanted to come by and—”

“Beg for a second chance? Again? I’m not interested, Caleb,” you push forward, your suitcase sliding right into his calves. He doesn’t flinch. Caleb watches as you wiggle your way out of your apartment, slamming the door shut, and shoving the key into the hole.

“No, that’s not it, actually,” he says with a chuckle. He moves your luggage to his side, watching as your lock up. When you turn around, you snatch the handle back from him, creating distance between you two. “I’m leaving for a week long patrol in the Deepspace Tunnel. I just wanted to see your face before I go.”

“Well,” you huff, shoving the suitcase in front of you, hauling it down the elevator, “you saw it. You can leave now.”

“Can you please just…hey! Talk to me!” Caleb quickly follows after you. He uses your Evol to cement your luggage to the ground. You tug on the handle. When it doesn’t budge, you turn and glare at him.

If only you had an Evol. Maybe then you’d return the favor by striking him with lightning or maybe you’d suck all the air from his lungs and make him gasp for air.

Okay…maybe not. That’s a little violent.

“Let me go, Caleb.”

“All I’m asking for is five minutes of your time…please. I need this,” Caleb steps towards you. He softly grabs your wrist. You don’t immediately pull away, eyes fixated on his. Your bottom lip trembles. Your heart thumps behind your ribs and butterflies erupt in your stomach. The scent of his cologne fills your nose, pulling you out of your trance.

This is not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to be over him, not falling in love all over again!

“You’re pathetic, Caleb.”

Your words are venom. They burn into his skin and for once: Caleb is silent. There is no comeback. There is no funny one liner that he can say to diffuse the situation. There is not a single god damn thing he can do or say to get your malice to disappear.

“This past month has been hard on me. Your constant gifts and notes at my door make me feel nothing but irritation. You’ve ruined so many of my days simply by being here. All I wanted you to do was leave me alone. And you couldn’t even do that.”

Caleb blinks away the stinging feeling in his eyes. His lips part and you can’t help but look away, your eyes turning glossy.

“I need to be alone. That means I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be reminded of you and I especially don’t want to hear your voice through my door begging for a second chance. I’m done, Caleb.”

“That’s not fair—”

“You know what wasn’t fair? Was having to be your third wheel throughout my entire childhood,” your voice trembles, rising in volume. You smack the area over your heart, tears now rolling down your cheeks. “I have always been your second choice. You know I basked in the days you gave me your attention when she was sick and stayed home from school? It felt so good to be in your light, to be someone who actually meant something to you. And now all I get are the scraps that she didn’t want. Wake up, Caleb! I’m done!”

His Evol releases your luggage and you turn to the elevator. White petals catch your eye and your step hesitates for a brief second, halting you. You stare the bouquet, the yellow bulbs in the center mocking you. Without wasting another second, you storm back over to Caleb, whose shoulders slump and his eyes are on the ground. You smack the bouquet into his chest.

“I don’t even like daisies,” a quiet sob flees your mouth. Caleb’s once bright eyes darken. He stares at you, fists balled at his sides, unable to tear his gaze away from yours. His breath grow heavier the longer you stand there.

He doesn’t say anything. It unsettles you. All he does is walk around you, slamming the stairwell door open, and evaporates into the darkness.

You need to get away from Caleb. From Skyhaven. Suddenly, your friend’s bachelorette party seems like the perfect place to escape for the weekend.

Linkon is brighter than you remember. It’s sunny with a crisp wind that carries your hair in different directions. The city is a lot different too. Restaurants and shops you once knew are now gone, replaced with big chains, but there are a few standout smaller places that catch your eye.

The path from the train station to your parents’ house is the same, much longer than you anticipated, but is the same regardless. On the way home, you decide to stop by your favorite mom-and-pop shop. You were hooked on their candies as a kid.

Their sweet and salty chocolate caramels melted in your mouth. They have the most perfect chocolate truffles that paired so well with their homemade fruit tarts. During the summer, they worked with the ice cream parlor next door and combined their sweet treats for the perfect combination.

As soon as you see the red and white stripes of their shop, your pace quickens, feet traveling even faster. A sweet treat never hurt anybody, right? Besides, you need some chocolate and caramel clusters to fill in the void that Caleb carved into your soul.

The suitcase’s wheels try their best to keep up with you, dragging along the sidewalk with loud scrapes. The shop’s sign grows bigger and bigger with every step you take.

You’re so close to the sweet taste of victory. Your hand reaches for the door, about to snatch the handle and burst inside, when the door swings right into you, the wood hitting the dead center of your forehead.

Your body tips backward, suitcase rolling away and towards the street. The concrete isn’t a nice bed to land on. The back of your head smacks against the concrete and your vision goes black.

Holy shit, you think, did I just go blind?

Commotion stirs from all around you and the culprit drops to your side. His voice is muffled and you can barely make out a word she’s saying. She raises her voice and you wince, the volume causing your instant headache to worsen into a migraine. A man’s voice replaces her panicked muffles.

A hand sneaks under your back, slowly sitting you up from the ground. Sunlight breaks through the darkness, your eyes slowly focusing on the figure in front of you.

His head blocks the sun from your eyes, specks of dust illuminating as they float by, a pair of sharp hazel-green eyes focusing on you from behind glass and thin metal frames. The man moves in slow motion, your lips parting, as he checks out your pupils. His black hair falls over his forehead and he leans in. He smells like fresh laundry and an icy day. The scent is comforting to you.

“Follow my finger,” his voice is unemotional. He holds a single finger up and in front of your face. He moves it from left to right but your eyes don’t move. He says your name and a piece of your dead heart awakens, a flurry of hope and sweetness tingling on your tongue.

“Zayne?” You whisper. Are you seeing things again? Or has another childhood friend suddenly entered your life during a time of need?

“You may have a concussion. Please, allow me to take care of you.”

Take care of you.

You nod, eyes following his finger back and forth. Another digit sprouts up and you immediately say “two” without him needing to ask. The corner of his lips perk up for a split second before falling again.

“Where did you come from?” He asks.

The people around you begin to disperse, moving on with their day. The woman who hit you stays behind, though, nervously chewing on her nails while watching Zayne assess you.

“The train station.”

“Further back.”

“Skyhaven.”

His hazel eyes are softer than you remember. The green hues fight with the yellow and brown tones, ending with a delicate balance that you always liked to look at when you were kids. He still wears glasses, no contacts for him, and his shoulders are so broad.

“What’s my name again?”

“Zayne,” you exhale. He nods and rises to his feet. He extends a lightly scarred hand to you, which you take, as he helps you from the ground. Zayne turns to the woman beside you. His fingers curl around your elbow and he pulls you to his side.

“She will be fine. I’ll take her from here. You may leave,” Zayne tells the woman. His voice doesn’t falter. It remains steady and it puts your heart at ease.

“I’m so sorry…” the woman stares at you but you wave her away with a smile.

“It’s okay. It happens to all of us,” you try your best to reassure her even though no, this does not happen to all of us. You just happen to be one unlucky girl.

The woman nods and bows her head in shame, scurrying away. Your eyes follow her but Zayne steps in front of you. You tilt your chin up and cock your head to the side. His features are as sharp as ever. The tip of his nose brings his whole face together, matching the thin metal rims of his glasses.

“I see you’re still clumsy,” Zayne blinks at you. You take a second to process his words.

“I wouldn’t really say that I’m clumsy,” you quip back, “I’m just…very unfortunate with the timing of things.” Zayne’s eyebrow perks up.

It’s silent. The two of you stare at each other as the world passes you by. The difference from your previous experience with another person from your past is that this feels comfortable. You feel safe, that if anything were to happen, Zayne would stick by your side and protect you.

He wouldn’t run away to go find a certain someone and make sure that she’s okay first before chasing you.

“How have you been, Zayne?” You fill in the silence, placing your suitcase in front of your body. He watches, his careful gaze noticing every little detail, before they’re drawn back to you.

“I’ve been well. And you? I heard you are a successful translator for the DAA.” You can’t help but chuckle at his words. His brows knit together and he takes a step towards you. “Did I…say something wrong? Are you not translating?”

“No! No, I am translating, I mean, so yes to that,” you stumble over your words like a girl who has a crush on him. You clear your throat and rub the red mark on your forehead, the dull ache behind your eyes making you want to curl up and disappear since you can’t even form a coherent sentence. “I wouldn’t call myself successful, though. Unless you count success as sitting in a cubicle all day and doing whatever work they give you.”

“You complete projects with no problem. To me, that is the definition of success,” Zayne gently moves your hand off of the suitcase handle, his fingers curling around the small bar. His hand looks comedically large against it.

It has you wondering what his hand looks like compared to his medical tools during surgery.

“Where are you staying?” He asks the question so casually. It’s…comforting.

“At my parents’ house. I’m housesitting for them. Hey, do you remember Isabelle?” You move to Zayne’s side. He nods and hums in response. The two of you start walking in the direction of your house, which isn’t too far away from Downtown Linkon. “Well, it’s her bachelorette party this weekend and she had decided for me to go, so naturally my parents decides it’s a great time to go on a weekend vacation themselves.”

“Ah. I see. They deserve a good break. It’ll be good for you to have some time alone outside of the bachelorette party as well.” Zayne doesn’t look at you while he speaks and yet you feel so seen. You nod and look forward, a smile spreading across your face.

The walk home is beautiful. The trees sway with the wind, pastel petals flying and swirling around the two of you. You reach a hand out and catch one. The delicate pale pink petal rests in your hand. You hold your palm out to Zayne to show him.

“It’s a petal.”

“Yes, yes it is.”

“It’s…pink.”

“Observational as always, Zayne.” That earned a quiet chuckle from him. He sped up in front of you, leaving you behind to match his quick pace.

The familiar sight of the front yard comes into view. The bricked walls are still devoured in vines and there’s even a bountiful garden outside with colorful flowers and butterflies that rest on the petals. A warm smile spreads across your face as Zayne holds open the white picket fence for you. He follows behind as you rush up the front steps of the porch. You unlock the door and swing the door open, the familiar scent of your mother’s floral perfume flowing from the house.

This is home. This is a safe space where you know you can escape and not have to worry about the outside world coming to hurt you.

Zayne slides your suitcase inside the home, watching as it disappears down the wooden floors and into the tucked away kitchen. You smile at him, stepping inside and kicking your shoes off. He stays outside, watching as all your walls come down.

“Thank you for walking me home. I’m sure you were busy with…hospital things,” your laugh is breathy. Zayne catches himself smiling at you, forcing the grin away.

“I just got off my mandatory emergency room shift. I have the next day off until they need me back,” he informs you. You nod and lean against the wooden door.

“Oooh, look at you go Zayne. Earning a much deserved break. Please, do tell, how do you intend to spend your day off?” You ask, leaning forward, closing some distance between you two.

“I would like to spend time with you,” Zayne is as straightforward as ever.

You’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat.

There are no butterflies in your stomach, though, like they’d be with him.

“With me?” You repeat. He nods, taking a step closer. You suck in a breath and take in his fresh scent.

It’s clean like a sunny day. You can see you and Zayne holding hands, running through the school halls to catch a glimpse of the school librarian and P.E. teacher sneaking into the teacher’s lounge together.

“I fail to see how this is…interesting,” a young Zayne told you. You shushed him, looking into his sharp, hazel eyes.

“They’re in love! It’s always nice to see people find their person!”

Zayne’s grip on your hand became tighter in that moment.

“I…I would love to go to dinner with you,” you smile at him. He nods. The corners of his lips twitch and he turns to walk away. You grab his wrist and draw him back to you, eyes wide as you look up at him. “What time should I be ready by?”

“Hm…does seven sound good?” He asks. You nod and release his wrist. “I’ll pick you up.”

Zayne hesitantly leaves your close proximity. He steps down the stone pathway, his eyes staring at the flowers, which just so happen to be your favorite, and turns to face you when he reaches the perimeter of the front yard.

“Hey, Zayne?” You call from the door. He moves his hands into his pockets, tilting his head at you. “Can we do something casual tonight?”

Like the godsend he is, Zayne nods then disappears down the street. You close the door, back pressed against the combination of wood and glass, and let out an excited squeal.

Seven o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. For once, you were excited to go out for dinner with a childhood friend. You knew that he wouldn’t bring any unnecessary interruptions nor will it be cut short due to external forces coming to get you. Besides, Dr. Zayne is one mighty fine date.

He also made you his first choice.

You sit in front of the door, foot tapping against the brown wood. Your hair is neatly made, all loose strands tucked behind your ears, a simple make up look painting your face, and a casual, floral dress to match. You even made sure to wear simple jewelry too to complete the outfit.

6:55 P.M.

Where is Zayne? He’s typically early, he always has been.

Maybe you’re too eager for a night of normalcy with an old friend. This whole trip to Linkon begins to seem like a complete and total waste. You’ve lost hours of precious time, that you selfishly planned to rot on the couch and watch your guilty pleasure television show, on finding an outfit for a night out with Zayne. You knew you shouldn’t have set your expectations so high for a bar that Zayne will never be able to reach.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You lunge to the door, swinging it open. A smile blossoms on your face when you see Zayne standing before you. His hands remain behind his back. He wears black slacks matched with a black button up, his sleeves fastened at his wrists.

“For you…a welcome gift for your short time back in Linkon,” Zayne pulls his arms from behind his back, revealing a bouquet of your favorite flowers matched with delicate baby’s breath. In his other hand is a box from the mom-and-pop shop you never were able to go into. You take them from his hands, your heart swelling with joy.

“Thank you…thank you so much,” you look at the flowers and candy box. A piece of your joy feels sorrowful…bittersweet.

A piece of you wished it was him standing in Zayne’s place. You wished it was back when you were teens when he could have realized that you were in front of him the whole time.

“Um,” you choke on your breath, gesturing behind you, “let me go put these in a vase, then we can go!” You quickly turn on your heel and hurry towards the kitchen, leaving him behind.

“Alright,” his voice is faint as the sound of the door closing echoes throughout the house. You grab a glass vase from one of the cabinets, filling it with water.

You refuse to have this outing be ruined by your…complicated feelings for Caleb. He simply cannot have a chokehold on every aspect of your life. He occupies the hallway outside of your apartment, not the space inside, so the same principle should be applied here, right?

“There is a street fair tonight that I thought looked fun to attend,” Zayne says from behind you. You turn, the water splashing around the inside of the vase.

You set it down on the counter, watching as Zayne removes the covering from the bouquet, his grip keeping the flower stems bunched together. He slides them inside of the vase with ease, eyes focused on the delicate petals while your eyes fixate on his. The doctor finally turns his gaze to yours, eyes meeting from a small distance.

“It’s…casual like you asked for.”

“It sounds like a wonderful time,” you respond, waiting for the butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

They don’t.

It is an ideal spring night in Linkon City.

Vendors line up along the city street with large food trucks parked in a half circle at the end of the street. The view overlooks Linkon’s large river. Boats float by with their red and green lights twinkling, reflecting against the calm water. There are even a few booze cruises that pass by with music playing from speakers and the inhabitants’ laughter floating across the channel.

A healthy distance remains between you and Zayne when you get to the street fair. You remain close enough for others to know that you are there together but just far enough for people to know that you two aren’t together.

Zayne follows you as you rush to one of the vendors’ stalls. Their table is filled with glasswork, much like the butterfly that hangs from your bedroom window in Skyhaven. You gasp, clasping your hands together. Zayne watches you from behind, an amused chuckle leaving his throat, your excitement infectious.

“These are so pretty!” You smile, eyes scanning the different glass trinkets. The business owner smiles at you. A look of recognition flashes across his face, the man now pointing at you.

“I…I remember you!” He exclaims. Both you and Zayne stare at him, your heads tilting to the side. “You were my very first customer! Ten years ago, you bought an orange and blue butterfly from me! If it weren’t for you, I would have packed up shop a long time ago!”

“I still have your butterfly! It’s hanging in my apartment right now! It’s my favorite decoration,” you smile at him, turning to Zayne. He was there when you bought it, you know, having been the one who gifted you the last collar you were missing.

“Wait here! I’ll get you another butterfly for your collection! Wait here!” The owner turns around and begins to dig through his boxes in a fury. You nudge Zayne’s side, catching his attention, and wiggle your eyebrows at him. He shakes his head and looks away, keeping his hands inside his pockets, a habit he picked up since becoming a surgeon.

The owner turns around and holds out an intricate, medium sized glass butterfly. It hangs from a thin metal chain that is decorated with pearls and reflective pieces of white glass. The glass is a shimmering iridescent purple color, matched with lighter blue and pink glass, held together with flawless welded metal. Underneath each of the wings hangs a short metal chain, adorned with the same sparkling pearls and white pieces of glitter glass. Its wings are outstretched and the owner holds it next to a lamp, showcasing the vibrant hues against a white backdrop.

“It’s...gorgeous. You’ve outdone yourself!” You chuckle, impressed with the man’s skill.

“It truly is a work of art,” Zayne adds to your compliment. The owner’s smile grows, showing all of his teeth, overtaking his entire face.

“Let me wrap it up for you!” He boasts and turns away from the two of you.

You watch the owner delicately places the butterfly in parchment paper and bubblewrap, taking extra precautions with the fragile piece. Zayne’s eyes burn into the side of your face, watching as you stare at the man with awe and wonder in your eyes. Once he passes over the piece, you and Zayne say goodbye, making your way deeper into the street fair.

The two of you partake in many activities and games. Zayne wins a mini plushie of a snowman, which you insist that he must have, and you even win a bet in a quick game of darts, popping more balloons than he does.

You sit at a plastic table, placing the black bag with the butterfly inside on the table next to you, as Zayne waits at one of the food trucks. His snowman plushie sits next to your dragonfly plushie, leaning against each other. You look around as people pass you by, engrossed in their own conversations. Your smile from before has yet to disappear.

A band begins to play live music from a stage not so far away. You turn to watch, the sound of the band’s guitar making your body sway along to the beat. The singer’s voice is beautiful too, as she sings a lovely melody about love and how distance will never keep her away from her lover.

A figure sits in the chair across from you. You blink and turn your head, expecting to see Zayne, but are met with Caleb’s hardened gaze, scowl on his face. Your back straightens, goosebumps littering your skin.

“Caleb…what are you doing here?” You look towards Zayne, whose back is facing you, “you need to leave. Now.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to Linkon.” His voice is snappy. His lilac eyes flit to the plushies that lean against each other. His eyes narrow when he turns his attention back to you. “Are you here with someone?” His voice is low, dangerous. You swallow the spit in your mouth, nervousness flooding your body.

“I am, actually. Now if you could leave—”

“You’re in my seat.” Zayne stands behind you. He holds a bowl of strawberries, covered with a heavy pour of chocolate, and two forks in his hand. The snack is a perfect combination of Zayne’s sweet tooth and your love of fresh fruit.

“I’m fine where I am, thanks,” Caleb snaps at Zayne. His eyes never leave yours, though.

“Suit yourself,” Zayne responds. He sets the bowl down on the table. He pulls the empty chair out from beside you and sits down. Caleb huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“What are you doing here with him?” Caleb’s eyes are cold. There is no warmth behind his purple hues. Just a bitterness that you can taste on the tip of your tongue.

“I thought you said you had a Deepspace mission or whatever, why aren’t you there?” You ask. Before Caleb can respond, Zayne speaks.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead? Was your grave not comfortable enough?” Zayne shoots back, his words just as icy as Caleb’s are venomous.

“Enough,” your hand moves to Zayne’s forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He looks to you, eyebrows raised. What? It’s a fair question. When you shake your head, he nods, relaxing into the plastic chair.

Caleb watches, heart burning with fury as you touch Zayne so casually. He remembered when just a little over a month ago that he was the one you were touching, your fingers unable to break free from his rough skin.

He was the one who you were laughing with, not him. Caleb was the one who you wanted to share a dessert with, not this lame ass doctor who sits beside you.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Caleb’s eyes dart back to yours. You shrug and lean forward, fork in hand as you poke a chocolate covered strawberry, popping it into your mouth. “I deserve an answer.”

“You think you’re entitled to a lot of things,” you turn to Zayne, signaling to him to have a bite. “It doesn’t mean that you’re going to get what you want.” Zayne takes a bite from a strawberry, granted it’s more chocolate than it is fruit, and nods at you.

“It’s delicious,” he murmurs to you. You smile and nod, going in for a second bite.

Caleb uses his Evol to move the bowl away from you. You glare at him, leaning forward. He matches your movement and your faces are inches apart from each other, darkened and angered gazes burning with nothing but passion.

“Stop being difficult,” you snatch the bowl back and pull away from the Colonel. He doesn’t budge, though, and remains where he is.

He watches as you and Zayne share nonchalant glances. Zayne holds the bowl for you two and lets you have first pick of the contents.

It sickens him to watch. Out of all the people in the world, you just had to be with Zayne, his childhood rival despite always acting like a friend towards him.

“Why are you with him?” Caleb pushes his luck by asking again. When you don’t respond, his fists clench. Zayne’s eyes flicker to the Colonel’s hands, up to his glare, before looking back at the strawberries.

“I’m surprised you aren’t here with her.” Zayne’s words freeze your body. You stop chewing, the strawberry becoming sour at the mention of her name. You chew slow, begrudgingly swallowing the bit of fruit.

“Fuck you, Zayne,” Caleb stands from his chair, slamming his hands onto the plastic table. You look up to the dark haired man, watching as he holds his hand out to you. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?! He’s clearly using you against me!”

“Caleb. Go home. I’ll dismiss the fact that you followed me here and interrupted Zayne and I’s time together,” you breathe out. Your anger cools, lingering under your skin. The numbness you once felt returns to your body, leaving you feeling more indifferent than depressed or furious.

You feel dead.

Zayne stands, his hand resting on your shoulder. His touch is warm and comforting, something that you’re unable to find within Caleb’s current demeanor. Your eyes dissociate and you stare into nothing, tears stinging your eyes.

“Let’s not cause a scene,” Zayne cooly says, “I’ll make sure that she gets home safe. Let’s not ruin her night.”

“Stay out of this, Zayne,” Caleb snaps at the doctor, “this is none of your business.”

“You made it my business by coming here and demanding answers from her,” he narrows his eyes from behind his glasses. “Why does it matter who she is with? Would it have made a difference if it wasn’t me? I bet you’d still be having a tantrum over it.”

“I’d choose your next words very, very wisely,” Caleb’s fists ball up. You look at his hands, noticing a blur forming around his hand.

“You didn’t care for her when you were younger, so why start now?” Zayne speaks as if he’s not under any pressure. “She has always been your backup.”

“What did you just say?” Caleb pushes the words through gritted teeth. “Since when have you been friends with her? You were always a loner.”

“I’ve always been friends with her,” Zayne relaxes back into the chair next to you, “you were too busy with her to notice.” You look at Zayne, a frown overtaking your face.

The night, which is now ruined, leaves you feeling cold and hopeless. You turn and stare into the distance, watching as happy people pass by, looking at the three of you with weird looks and hushed whispers. You shake your head, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

You wouldn’t be in this predicament if it weren’t for Caleb. You wouldn’t have been made out to be some kind of social pariah that has to be avoided at all costs if he had just stayed away. Your night with Zayne has become that of a public spectacle, one that you don’t wish to be a part of anymore.

“We’re leaving.” Caleb demands. Zayne moves to defend you but you shake your head and sigh. You pat his hand and wipe a tear away from your face.

“I’m going to go with him. It’s the only way to get him to calm down and I don’t want either of you ending up on the news for murder,” your sad attempt of a joke earns no laughs. Zayne releases a deep, long sigh. He nods and reaches over, grabbing your dragonfly plushie and places it inside the black bag that holds your glass butterfly. You take it from him and weakly smile.

Caleb circles the table and takes your wrist into his large hand. His calloused palm is rough against your gentle skin. He pulls you up from the chair and you move with him, unable to fight against him anymore. You can feel his Evol wrap around your waist, hugging it tightly as he begins to move you away from Zayne.

“Thank you for tonight, Zayne!” Your voice is hoarse. He waves and takes off his glasses pinching the bridge of your nose. You turn your attention back to Caleb, the heat of your anger turning back to a boil when your eyes land on the smug smirk on his face.

It’s not long before you are back home. You watch Caleb’s back, his muscles tense and flexed, as he unlocks the door to your childhood home. He steps to the side, his Evol guiding you inside. You storm down the hallway and into the kitchen. He slams the door shut and follows you, watching as you set down your belongings onto the table.

Caleb feels his body slowly calm down. He knows that you’re safe. You’re here with him, nobody else. Now he can finally explain what you mean to—

You slap him across the face, tears welled in your eyes, silently falling down your cheeks. Caleb doesn’t flinch, turning his face turning back to face you. Your fingerprints appear on his cheek, a light pink color contrasting against his tan skin.

“Do you feel better now?” He asks in a calm voice. You shake your head. He nods. “Go ahead. Get it all out.”

“Fuck you!” You yell at him. “Why the fuck did you have to ruin my night with Zayne?! We were just hanging out!” You smack your balled up fist against his chest. You grab his shirt and shake him back and forth, your anger taking over your body. “I hate you!”

“You don’t mean that,” Caleb shakes his head.

“I do. I fucking mean it with every fiber of my goddamn being,” you spit the words at him and push away, creating distance between you two. Caleb follows close behind, unable to handle being far away from you despite your already close proximity. “You’re always there! You can’t seem to catch the hint that I don’t fucking like you! You are a parasite that I can’t seem to get rid of! I want this nightmare to be over!”

You rush up the stairs, heading to your bedroom. Caleb is close behind, his eyes glued onto your back. You dip to the right and find yourself in your room. Your walls are covered with posters from magazines your mother got you, mixed in with photos of you and your friends from high school. Neither Caleb or her are in any of them.

“Is what he said true?” You turn around, looking up at Caleb. “Am I just your backup plan? Did she reject you so now you’re coming for your consolation prize?”

“No!” Caleb yells the word, barely able to breathe.

“Then why are you here?! Why are you playing with my head?!” You cry out, throat becoming raw from your yells.

“Because it’s always been you!” Caleb shouts. You pause, shrinking into your shoulders. “It’s…it’s always been you. I know that it sounds ridiculous. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to hear it or believe it either but it’s true. I am in love with you. I always have been. I’ve been in a constant denial about it but I finally realized that it’s you.”

You shake your head at him, bottom lip trembling. What he’s saying can’t be true. It’s all one big mind game that he’s playing with you. You’re his prey, weak and helpless, while he has all of the ammunition to bury you.

“The only reason I ever stuck around her is because it was expected of me. Everyone saw it. Our friends teachers, Zayne…you. You all saw that I was devoted to her so I felt the need to be what you all expected of me. To be her protector, her guardian! Hell, the only person who saw through the rouse was Gran! She always pushed me to go to you but I was a fucking idiot and didn’t listen.” His voice cracks.

Your feet remain cemented into the ground, unable to move. He inches closer to you, his eyes refusing to leave yours.

Your hearts pound inside your chests, beating the same bittersweet beat. He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek. Caleb wipes away your tears with his thumb, his touch so inexplicably warm against your skin. Chills run down your spine.

“Every room I walked in, I looked for you. I wanted to take you to the homecoming dance but she made sure that I forgot about it so I came up with some lousy excuse to cover my ass. Every game I didn’t attend was because I didn’t think you needed me. I should have showed up. I was an idiot who didn’t fight for you. I should have chased you down and kept you close to me instead of her. That’s a mistake I plan on repaying to you for the rest of our lives,” his voice lowers to a whisper. “I’d rather you hate me but be in my life than be out of it. I can’t lose you. Never again. I can’t go through that pain.”

“Caleb…” your voice trembles.

“You’re the one I want. You’re the one I love. You’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. I need you in my life. I can’t live without you,” he admits, unable to stop the words from leaving his mouth.

You reach up and grab his wrist, enamored by his words. You squeeze his arm and he sighs, looking at your touch before his eyes return to yours. He cups your other cheek, holding you in front of him, both of your breathing heavy.

“Fuck it,” Caleb mumbles under his breath.

He leans in, his lips crashing onto yours, capturing them in a slow yet fiery kiss. You gasp but immediately melt into him. You pull away for a brief second, your breath mixing with each others. He opens his mouth to say sorry but you draw him back in, pulling his head back down to meet yours.

The kiss your share is both bittersweet and filled with nothing but longing and desperation. Caleb pushes you backwards, guiding you to a nearby wall, pushing you up against it. Your lips parted, acting as an invitation for Caleb to slip his tongue inside, his tongue toying with yours.

A quiet whimper escapes from your throat, hidden by the sounds of ravenous kisses. The two of you become breathless, lips swollen, chests rising and falling. Caleb pulls away, despite his aching body begging him not to, and rests his forehead against yours.

You stand in his grip, mind dazed, feeling the tip of his nose graze against yours. You open your eyes to meet his. He grazes the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away leftover saliva from your kiss.

“I don’t care how long it takes for you to forgive me. I will wait for centuries if it means that I can see the light in your smile, the way your exude warmth to those who need it. I will give up my life as a Colonel if you don’t want to see me at work. I just want to be able to hear your jokes and laughter and be a part of your life because…I love you,” he whispers.

Your breath gets caught in your throat. Caleb stares deep into your eyes, unable to look away or say anything else. You blink, tears falling from your eyes.

Caleb’s words have mended the fractured fragments of your heart. He’s healed the torn open seams of your agony and has made you feel whole again. His admission has you captivated. Your shared kiss left you wanting more despite the warning bells sounding off inside your mind. It makes you want to slide into his arms, to wipe away the salty tears that fall from his violet eyes while also wanting to run away and hide from him so that he’ll never be able to find you ever again.

You’re moved by his love but can’t deny the fact that it has come too late.

There are too many open wounds and scars that time and words of love simply cannot erase or fully mend. It leaves you even more confused than before. Your head hurts. Your body aches. You feel like you’re about to pass out into his arms and fall into a sleep you’ll never wake up from.

“Caleb,” you breathe his name out. He looks at you, hanging onto the way you said his name, the way your hand fits perfectly into his. “You need to leave.”

You tear your hand from his. He stands in front of you, unable to comprehend what you just said. He watches as you back away form him, your hearts shattering by the actions you take.

“Why? Why are you pushing me away?” Caleb pleads. He takes your hands but you rip them away. Your force yourself to look away.

“I…I don’t know how to feel. I’m so utterly confused right now,” your throat feels like barbed wire is being fastened around it, slowly turning tighter and tighter until you are unable to breathe. “You…you need to go. Please. For my sake.” You move behind him, hands attaching to his broad shoulders, forcing him towards the door.

Caleb doesn’t fight against your touch. He moves with your momentum, his mind having gone blank. You guide him down the stairs and to the front door, opening it for him as he steps out. He turns to look down at you, his chest aching at the sight of your trembling body and silent cries.

You begin to close the door but his hand stops it, the glass within the wood rattling.

“Will you…will you please think about what I said?” Caleb whispers, looking down at you. You nod. He removes his hand and watches as you close the door., vanishing into the darkness of the home.

#rcvcgers writings #lads caleb #caleb x non!mc reader #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads rafayel #lads zayne #lads sylus #lads xavier #love and deepspace #loveanddeepspace

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tanddiscord · 2 days ago

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I do not actually agree with this.

On some level, sure, but also... I had real trouble understanding social hierarchy, and in fact, where I recognised it, I was fairly obedient to it. It's just that hierarchy is actually really complex. Its not just "person a is above person b, who is above person c" but "Person a and b both have roles and positions of power, and while a generally is considered above b in the hierarchy, in many situations, b will effectively outrank a, (a classic example of this is an article i read once, on norse medieval law, where the wife was generally considered secondary to the husband, but where the wife was the absolute authority for anything to do with the house, and if she told the husband to go sleep in the barn, there was fuck all he could do about it. Now how accurate that article in particular was, is unclear to me, but those sorts of relations are EVERYWHERE, and many authistic people struggle to filter out those neuances, and ends up perceiving it all as noise ("if a is in charge sometimes and b sometimes, then is no one in charge?" is the sort of thinking you end can up with)) I did not understand sarcasm as a kid, at all. It took years of active training to learn it. Now I love it. My father still cannot engage with jokes based on 'lies'. A joke like "what do you call a pile of cats? A meow-tain!" just gets him to go "Actually a group of cats is called a clowder, it comes from the same root as 'clutter' and-", and it can take him for someone to say "dad, its just a joke" for him to go "oh, right, yes, sorry." Not understanding some forms of humour does not mean not having a sense of humour though, my dad loves comedy shows. Some autistic people absolutely are rude. Horribly so. And even those of us that aren't, generally do have vocational moments where, yes, we are. A momentary lack of ability to connect the social dots, leads to rude questions, rude statements, rude observations. This is not a 'actually autistic people are angels who can't lie, you just hate the truth!' thing, its a 'sometimes the brain misfires, and does not realise why something would be rude or hurtful, and they cause emotional harm to others for no good reason' thing. Meltdowns, while never about 'nothing', are not indicators that the people around them are bad people. Are you suggesting that the parents of any autistic child who has a meltdown, due to a problem they are unable to communicate, or overstimulation, or under-stimulation, or any other number of things, are bad people because they did not perfectly handle a person whom it is exceptionally hard to handle? There are people with several doctorates, specialising in this specific part of autism, and even they could not possibly prevent every meltdown if a child in their care had certain problems. There are countless reasons for why someone has a meltdown, and many of them don't make sense, just have to be learned and adapted to, especially with those unable to communicate the problems for themselves. Fuck off with this 'autistic people are perfect actually' bullshit. We're humans. Nothing less, sure, but also nothing MORE, and honestly, insinuating we're more, is MORE infantilising and patronising than the morons that dismiss us for being "retards". "Look, just because Maurice doesn't get your sarcasm jokes doesn't mean he doesn't get humour at all. Try puns, he loves those." is a billion times better a response than. "Maurice is a perfect gem! If he doesn't laugh at your jokes, it's because you suck! Maurice is the god-arbiter of all humour!" Like, what even is that? Come on. If your response to bigorty is just as polarised and factless as the bigotry, and also defines an entire group as being 'this exact way, actually'... guess what, you're also a bigot, you just hide behind "But my bigotry says you're one of the good ones!". Check yourself. Might have ended up a bit harsh here, but also fuck off anyway. I am tired of seeing this sort of stuff all the time.

One of my favourite parts about autistic people is how you can use other peoples' reflections of them like an echolocation bullshit detector. Like they personally do not need to do shit for this to work, they just passively emit their own autistic vibe that bounces off every surface around them, and you can assess another person's level of self-awareness by how they reflect it back.

"Autistic people do not understand social hierarchy" nope, they understand you're supposed to be an authority here, but they won't politely pretend to respect you if they think you're incompetent.

"Autistic people do not understand humour" nope, they just don't politely pretend to laugh to humour you, and you are simply not funny.

"Autistic people are rude" nope, they just don't think it's polite to lie to you, and don't care about trying to tell you what they think you want to hear instead of telling you what they think.

"Autistic people sometimes have emotional meltdowns for absolutely no reason" nope, you're just insufferable to be around and the person with the lowest tolerance of your shit is simply the canary in the coal mine who breaks first.

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ceesimz · 15 hours ago

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new person, same old mistakes

old habits die hard. (light angst -> fluff)

Alexia’s past relationships had left a hefty mark on her, and she hated it. But it wasn’t just them, it was everybody else she’d ever met and sold her soul to. There was something about her that people loved to abandon, which might be surprising to some but to her, no longer.

Oftentimes, she saw herself as the catalyst in all those situations. It had to be something she did rather than anyone else because she was who she was. She was Alexia Putellas, a footballer that was hardly in one place for more than a week at once. Then add on top of that the events she had to go to, the cameras and the fans that followed her, how her name was somehow in the media everyday, and one comes to realise that they aren’t appropriate conditions to love another. She was the only one to blame, there was no other sensical explanation.

It went the same way every time; she met someone, she loved someone, only to become no one. The notorious captain had learned to make peace with goodbyes before the words were spoken, if they ever were spoken. Some left with no warning, and she didn’t blame them, if anything she had to thank them because they were the ones that hurt her the least. They saved a slice of her dignity, a decency the others didn’t bother to give. Whether they didn’t care or didn’t think she deserved one, she didn’t dare dwell on it too long out of fear of what she may find, and she could never, ever, find it within herself to share it with anyone.

It was a problem in her life and her life alone, the ones that did stick around didn’t need to know about it, so she gave them no reason to suspect such a flaw in her character. She didn’t talk about it, didn’t let it shape how she acted in front of the world, but in the moments she was quiet, it was there. The awareness that people left was something she carried with her everywhere without meaning to. And as a result, she’d learned not to expect permanence – the other shoe had to drop at some point.

The only place it didn’t bother her was the football pitch, which wasn't a shock. Nobody could abandon her in the world of football, everyone either wanted to meet her or be her. As long as she worked hard to maintain her fitness and her technique and everything that made her definitively admirable in one aspect of her life, then she at least had something to fall back on.

Despite having gone through countless breakups, each more painful than the last, there was still a part of her that wanted to believe things could be different. She was a person that persevered and she prided herself on that. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, it plagued her mind more often than she’d ever admit. Every new conversation carried the possibility of an ending, every connection came with the knowledge that it would be another thing she looked back on rather than growing into the future with. Nevertheless, it never stopped her from putting herself out there.

If she gave herself some slack, she would come to realise that that was something admirable and rare in itself. not everyone trusted the world the way she did, even after all she’d been through, but she still did.

And it led her to you. It led her to lying on her sofa, some hours after a Sunday lunchtime league game, tendrils of her hair still damp and a little wavy where it was fanned out atop your thighs as she rested her head in your lap. Your fingers stroked through her hair, every so often lightly massaging her scalp and hearing her hum contentedly.

Where you both relaxed together, it was the picture of serenity and domesticity. In short, it was all Alexia could wish for. Moments like that, she managed to keep her head in check, because you were there and present to make her past seem a million miles away. But it was a past you were unaware of, through no fault of your own of course, yet none the wiser all the same.

“What are you thinking for dinner tonight?” You wondered, keeping your voice even and low so as to not disturb the peace in the room. The woman below you gave no reaction for a little while, to the point you thought she was asleep, until she opened her eyes and smiled softly up at you.

“There is the ingredents for your favourite.” The blonde murmured in her thick accent, the little trip-up of her English bringing an amused look to your face.

“Ingredients.” You gently corrected her, which she often told you to do. But at times like that when her grammar and pronunciation was the last of her concerns, was when she made the majority of her errors. She was a perfectionist, or tried to be at least, in all avenues of her life, you just didn’t know the root cause of why.

“Eh, ya sabes a qué me refería.” She grumbled with a click of her tongue that made you laugh a little. “I will cook for you, sí? No choice.”

“You had a game today, you don’t need to.”

Before you could even finish your sentence, she was waving you off. Then you said something that was intended as harmless, not knowing that it’d feel like the end of the world for your girlfriend of just a few months.

“You love me too much.”

A phrase that was simple to speak held far more weight to it than anyone outside Alexia’s mind could ever realise. The thing was, she’d been told that exact thing before, right when someone she once loved walked out on her, where that was the only reasoning she received. It ate away at her constantly.

She cursed herself for it, because with her it was always either too little or too much.

‘You’re hardly ever here, I deserve someone that is.’

‘You’re too much for me.’

‘You don’t appreciate me enough.’

‘You love me too much.’

Relationships were the one thing she couldn’t win at, when funnily enough it was the only thing she felt she needed in her life.

She wanted another Champion’s League, she wanted to win the Euros, she wanted an Olympic medal. She wanted to win every single match she played. Yet she didn’t need any of those. She’d come to realise that, aside from her family, the sole thing she needed was you. And she had ruined that. Again. Like she did with everyone else. This time the heartache was immeasurable, because of who it was she’d messed up with. Or assumed she’d messed up with.

It took a while for you to notice what you’d done, by the time you suspected something was wrong the sun was long gone and the two of you had gotten into bed. Where you both normally lay together, engulfed by the duvet and each other, the footballer couldn’t have left more of a gap if she tried.

She loved you too much, so she gave you space. That’s how her thought process worked. Whatever she had to do to make you stay, she would do it even if it killed her. But God you’d be damned if you didn’t dig her out of the worthless rut she’d been thrown into the last few years.

And thankfully, for the sake of your futures and her life, you were a little less scarred and a little more aware than she was. You shuffled over across the bed and put a delicate hand on her shoulder, letting her know you were there. She didn’t move a muscle, not even an inch. The only thing she did was try to hide the slight shallowness to her breathing, which in the silence of the room, was a very futile attempt.

“Ale, what’s wrong?” You whispered, still not getting any sort of reply. “Alexia. Talk to me, please.”

“‘tas bien, amor. Es nada.” She mumbled hoarsely.

At that point you could feel her shoulders shaking under your hand, and knew there was something far more concerning going on with her than you initially realised. You were right, couldn’t be more right; the midfielder was minutes away from delving head first into a panic attack.

With one short sentence from you, a mere five words, you’d unknowingly dredged up years worth of repressed memories and wounds she’d hidden from herself and the people in her life. Just a few months with you and there she was, nearly sobbing as you lay next to her. She hadn’t done that in any other relationship. It was either her breaking point, or the start of something new. Something better for her, much healthier, where she was valued wholeheartedly without a shred of doubt. Whatever it was, you knew you could tackle. Whether that be with her, for her, or to stand by and watch her. On this occasion, it was all three. And that didn’t put you off in the slightest.

“No, it’s not nothing.” You argued, sitting up and trying to urge her to do the same with your hand on her back. Somehow that only led to her crying harder, her whole body wracking with the sobs leaving her throat as she turned to hide her face in her pillow. “Ale, sit up. We need to calm you down, you’ll make yourself feel ill.”

At that, she gave in. She allowed you to help her up and sit her back against the headboard, your hands clutching hers tightly as she squeezed her eyes shut so she didn’t have to see you looking at her so pitifully. Would have just made her feel worse. First she loved you too much, then she cried like a baby. It was one thing after another and you shouldn’t have to deal with that, it tore her in two that you did. Never did she want to break like that in front of you, or anyone for that matter. Worst part was that it was far too late to do anything about it.

“You’re going to end up having a panic attack, you’re hyperventilating. Breathe for me, nice and deep. There you go.” You instructed, and she followed along with all her might because there was no way she'd put more on your plate when you already had a blubbering, emotional mess to deal with. You didn’t need to witness a panic attack from her on top of that, it’d be immeasurably embarrassing for her and she didn’t think she could ever look you in the eye if things went that far. “Keep going, you’re doing perfect for me, Ale. Like that, little more.”

Not so long later, her breathing was finally under her control again. Though, her emotions weren’t. Tears continued their path down her cheeks and you stayed in front of her, thumbs running over her knuckles as she came back to herself. Her eyes were red and swollen, and they had a heaviness to them that made your chest ache. All you could do in that second was pray she opened up to you.

“What got you like that? That was almost pretty bad.” You smiled sadly, raising a hand to delicately wipe away some of the drops on her face, only for them to be replaced by more. Her mouth opened and closed a couple times, like she wasn’t quite sure what to say. She was caught between two minds; should she open up to you? Or save you the trouble, the drama, the theatrics and the sympathy?

“I…” She breathed out shakily, not daring to meet your stares. She settled for the one thing that seemed suitable. “Sorry. I am sorry.”

“You’re sorry? What for?” You frowned in utter confusion, shocked that’s what she landed on when it was the last thing you would expect from her. In fact, you wouldn’t ever expect it from her, not after the state she had just been in.

“Sorry for a lot. A lot of things.” She stated insecurely, chancing it and glancing up at you before immediately averting her gaze again. There were too many feelings present on your face that overwhelmed her, that she felt she didn’t deserve. Just another thing on your plate.

“Explain for me, Ale, because I’m lost. I don’t know what you’re apologising for.” You prompted her, squeezing her hand that you still held while the other landed on her knee.

God, where to start.

“Sorry for… this. Sorry for, uh, being me. Being a footballer and spending too many weeks away. Sorry for lo-” Whatever she was about to say next seemed to be too much for her, but when you went to tell her she didn’t need to be sorry for anything, she broke your heart in a rather unconventional way. “Sorry for loving you too much? I am sorry for that the most.”

How on earth could she apologise for that? When she was the most loving, caring, adoring, thoughtful, and selfless human you’d ever encountered, nevermind be loved by?

Then you realised, it was a much deeper problem than you ever could have assumed. As you sat there in front of her afterwards, you slowly started to connect the dots too. This breakdown linked a lot of things together like a red string dating back to the very first date you met.

You scrambled internally to find the right things to say because you were speechless, more than you had been in your life beforehand. There were so many things rushing through your mind yet you knew it was next to nothing compared to how Alexia must have been feeling. That revelation was what kicked your head into gear.

In a split second, you went from being sat in front of her to having her in your arms. You caught her off guard with the speed you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her in, desperate to have her close to you so that your actions matched your words. You realised this broken woman with a desolate heart needed all the love she could get, to the point where she’d have to accuse you of loving her too much.

“You don’t need to apologise for anything. Not a single thing, Alexia, and I swear my life on that.” You told her sternly, ensuring she took in everything you said and more. There was simply no way you were leaving that bed before she knew she could never do any wrong by loving you. “I love you for you. Not for anything else. I love you for who you are, for being a footballer, for loving me how you do. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

The girl stayed silent, her forehead dropped against your shoulder as you kept up the strength of your embrace. From the way she let herself drown in it, you knew she needed it far more than words could describe. Needed you.

Neither of you moved for quite some time. A lot needed to be said but getting it all out there and then wasn’t what was best. No matter what her mind told you, you weren’t going anywhere that wasn’t with Alexia in your life. You’d wait a year, five, ten, forty years if you had to for her to explain why she had apologised. And where she stayed in your arms, Alexia was beginning to recognise that, finally. It was a few months later than you’d hoped but better late than never, and it was worth it when she leaned back and gazed at you with gratitude so evident on her face.

“You…” She started, though she trailed off, because she had no words in any and all languages to be able to voice how… astounding you were and how thankful she was. Whether you’d approve of it or not (she knew you absolutely wouldn’t) she would happily take the years of torment and heartbreak if the end product was a life with you.

Fixing years worth of emotional and psychological damage from past relationships wasn’t a one-conversation job, nor could it be done overnight. It’d last for a while into the future, but the knowledge that she hadn’t scared you off and that you had said the right things for now was more than enough for the both of you. Alexia’s ability to trust, even after all she had been through, was a unique thing. It only came from someone that had faith in the world and saw beauty in it even in its darkest moments. You didn’t know the full lengths of it then, but when she felt she was in a place to tell the whole story of her past, it would turn into something you cherished and would be in awe of her for, daily. How she found you, trusted you, chose to love you and accepted all that in return with no visible qualms was astonishing to you. And you would make sure she knew it.

But back in her bedroom, you let go of her with a kiss to her cheek before you moved down the bed for you both to lay down again, this time with the intention of sleeping without descending into a panic attack. Though that was wishful thinking, because your minds were individually running a million miles per hour where you lay, limbs tangled with Alexia’s head on your chest. A question slipped off your tongue before you could stop it.

“Why are you so… insecure, Ale?”

You physically felt her recoil, felt her cower in on herself, and went to rush out an apology before she lifted her head up and looked at you. She addressed you with earnest and honesty, giving as much as she could in that moment.

“It’s a long story. Not for tonight.”

That was enough for you. You nodded and placed a hand on the back of her head, gently willing her to lay back down again. She did, with ease. And you thought that was that for the night.

Some time passed, the hands of the clock on the wall ticking away as you traced your fingernails up and down her back in a soothing gesture. There was so much on your mind yet you couldn’t land on anything before the next thought came bounding along and pulled you into yet another possible scenario that the love of your life had gone through. All possibilities were terrible, and it killed you that she’d suffered in silence with them all for so long. Until she spoke up about them, there wasn’t anything you could do but love her, which you were content to settle for. If it were up to you, however, she would hand over a hitlist straight away in the case of a possible purge event.

When you least expected it, she spoke up again. It was past midnight at that point, the pair of you exhausted yet minds reeling far too much to be able to relax anytime soon. One step at a time, you would take. Progress was still progress, no matter how little or large.

“A lot of people in the past have, uh, hurt me. In relationships. They always leave. Always walk out on me. I worry you will do the same.” The only thing you could do was hug her tighter. Nothing you could do or say would be remotely close to healing her, to rid her from those memories. All you could hope for was that being there was enough, and for Alexia, it was more than enough.

“I will never leave. I promise, I will never leave.”

They were words Alexia had heard in the past. Just like the ones you said previously. Yet you were the first person she genuinely believed.

Too long, she had surrounded herself with the wrong people, tried to fit into the wrong crowds just to find someone to keep her bed warm. Meeting you had opened up a new world for her to step into. Your world had a particular rose-tint to it, one she initially didn’t trust because everything seemed too good to be true. But with you, someone so sincere and selfless, how could she not trust you? You were worth losing everything for, but for the first time, she believed with everything in her that it wouldn’t end like that this time. Only a few months of knowing you had told her that, and she didn’t know how she had ever settled for the people she once knew.

Luckily, that wasn’t her problem anymore. Not with you around for the rest of her life.

—

everything about my writing lately from ideas to length to execution has been abysmal lately and i feel a tad (very) ashamed of that but once things settle down in my life i hope to get back on top of everything :') thanks for putting up with my bs as always and the reverie fic will be finished soon, trust <3

#alexia putellas x reader #woso x reader #woso fic #alexia putellas #woso #woso community

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haikyu-mp4 · 1 day ago

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Bad flirt – Sakusa x reader wc 591 – f!reader, brother!Hinata

Every time you saw Sakusa, you seemingly seethed with annoyance. Hinata thought back to his friendship with Kageyama in high school, when they would bicker endlessly to the extent that people thought they were the ultimate rivals, and decided that what you had with Sakusa- it must be love.

And what kind of brother would he be if he didn’t play Cupid?

He constantly dragged you along to events with the jackals, as those were the only events Sakusa occasionally attended. He would try to include both of you in conversations and even drinking games. Unfortunately, his plans always failed, as you would either avoid the curly-haired man or bicker with him endlessly.

Hinata told himself that all it would take was a small kiss and you two would realise your feelings for each other.

Your brother sat down beside you on the couch, while you watched him with suspicion. Like a proper lady, he crossed one leg over the other, rested both hands on the upper knee and cleared his throat delicately.

“Sister, dearest. May I ask about your thoughts on my teammate, Sa-“

“No.”

“Okay, worth a try.”

He needed a new approach. He needed help.

No, not from their other teammates.

From alcohol.

“Sakusa,” Hinata cooed as he slung himself into the seat beside him, unceremoniously clinking his beer into Sakusa’s glass of red wine, which in turn made the poor man anxiously grasp the tall glass so it wouldn’t fall.

“Hinata, be careful,” he scolded the energetic and undeniably drunk volleyball player.

“Why do you hate my sister?” he queried back in a whiney voice.

Sakusa scowled immediately, looking at the table instead of him. “I don’t hate her, she hates me.”

“She used to say you were so hot before I joined the jackals,” Hinata revealed. It looked like Sakusa was forming some profound thoughts from this information, but Hinata was not on the same track. “I guess you should never meet your heroes. Or celebrity crushes.”

Atsumu didn’t give them any more time to sit over there and be boring, pulling Hinata with him back onto the makeshift dance floor. This left Sakusa alone with his thoughts and a sudden flashback to when he first met you.

What the hell did I do?

“What’s your problem with me?”

Your jaw fell and you couldn’t move your eyes from Sakusa, who had somehow found his way to your apartment and was now trying to catch his breath. His shoulders were hunched and he had one hand on his hip.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked in return, making him roll his eyes.

“Sho told me you used to like me, what happened?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish before you ultimately frowned, but Sakusa’s eyes betrayed his focus and strayed to the pout on your lips.

“You clearly don’t understand flirting,” you mumbled.

If there had been a cricket in the hallway of your apartment building, you would’ve known, because the silence that settled was so crisp you swore you could’ve touched it.

“You call that flirting? I thought you hated me for no reason!” Sakusa finally declared indignantly.

“I thought you were flirting back…”

Sakusa worried he might get whiplash from how suddenly your tone changed into sadness. He blinked and stuttered to find an answer, leaning on the door frame.

“I would have. Your flirting is really weird though, can we try another way?”

And that is how Hinata led Sakusa right into your arms without even meaning to.

masterlist

requested by @yaomomvs for my event, anything for you <3

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bonnie-the-butcher · 3 days ago

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Rip Tide | Chapter IX

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.129 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Y'all I am so sorry for taking this long to update, my whole entire family is in my house at the moment and they are all insufferable, pls send help. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You try to swallow your embarrassment along with your pride, hands still resting firmly against your brother's shoulder, but it's to no avail.

He doesn't budge, and neither does the shame.

Kareem is between you still, but you can't even look at him. – Leave. – He repeats. – You are a guest, not the owner. If you want to take up something with an employee you can do it in your own time.

He stutters, scoffing out a laugh as if he was being victimized. – She is my fucking sister, dude you don—

Kareem cuts in: – It still wouldn't matter to me if she was your wife. – His voice is ice, and he stands just as still as a glacier. – This isn't the time or place for you to come here shouting. So please. Leave before I make you.

– Excuse me?!

– You heard him, John. – He does another double take at your tone. – Please. This is my job now. You know just as well as I do how much we need this. Don’t make a scene right now.

– You have a lot of nerve.

– And you have a girlfriend and her whole family out there not to blow it all for. So leave! Make a good impression. I’ll make sure to give you the time to humiliate me when the paycheck comes.

You don’t give him the time to respond.

Like the whiny teenager he probably thinks you are, you shove him out the door and barely refrain from slamming it. Standing, face buried in your hands, back pressed against the door, in front of your new boss.

So much for good impressions.

– You’re the people-reader. – Kareem hums. – But I was right. He is a piece of—

– Please. – He makes no effort to hide his distaste as you raise a hand. – Look, I’m really really sorry about this, you can’t even imagine. – You take a deep breath, knowing you’ll be hearing about this forever. – You know how family is. John’s just— The words hang in your throat. – been very in his head since dad.

You don’t have to finish the sentence. Kareem gets the memo as he watches you flitter towards the oven to check on the pie, and he watches you move before walking behind you silently, leaning against the counter with his brows raised. – I get it. – He hums, crossing his arms over his chest. – But Routledge, you said it yourself, you need this job. Don’t let your family, your boyfriend, your best friend, your fucking parakeet, whatever, blow this for you. Believe me, the Camerons won’t appreciate your family drama. They’re complicated enough as they are. Don’t give them a reason to fire you.

You swallow, nodding. – I won’t. I promise.

– This isn’t on you, Routledge. This— He gestures exaggeratedly towards the kitchen. – Keeping this? it’s on the people around you, it's on them not to be around. Best thing for you, it’s to keep them away.

Funny. Even when things aren't your responsibility, somehow, you still have to be the one doing the work.

– Yes, chef. – Your shoulders feel heavier now, but you look straight at Kareem, the way a mature adult is supposed to do. – I won’t fuck this up. For either of us. Scout's honor.

– I know you won’t.

– Cause you’ll beat my ass otherwise?

– Damn right.

– Let me get this pie out of here before we come to blows, then.

He only laughs, clapping a hand over your back softly as you take the gloves from its handles and open the oven door.

The pie is apparently perfect, the sickly sweet scent of peach and syrup wafting through the perfectly savory golden crust. Your mouth waters as you set it down on the counter.

The smell takes you back. You didn’t make the connection when Rafe mentioned the pie, but John was right. This was your father’s favorite thing. The only thing you and him could do together. A pie for thanksgiving, one for his birthday, one for John’s birthday.

It had been your only marker of a decent day a long time ago.

And today it almost cost you your job. – I’ll take that there for you, if you want.

You’re almost startled, so deep in thought you barely realized Kareem was there, his gloved hands extended and ready even as a cautious look gleams in his eye.

– It’s fine, Kareem. – You laugh. – I know you don’t want to.

– Damn right I don’t want to. But that’s what partners are for. – He helps you remove the desert from the pan and set it on the dish. – We average each other’s misery.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. – You think I’m miserable?

– With a brother like that, it would be a wonder if you weren’t. – You raise your brows at him, and he raises his glove-clad hands in response. – Hey, I’m just saying. Keep him away.

– You’re forgetting the part where he’s Sarah’s boyfriend.

– Holy shit, that's right. That piece of sh— He stops himself short at the face you make. – I'm sorry. I just can’t believe your bad luck.

– Wow, Kareem. That’s really sweet of you.

He frowns:

– Yeah, I'm sorry. That wasn't nice. – You set the pie down with a flourish, watching as the golden crust gleams under the kitchen lights. Kareem eyes it like it’s a ticking time bomb. – C’mon, let me take that there for you, – He offers, already reaching for it.

You snatch it back, scandalized. – Absolutely not. I don't want you to think I have no dignity.

He laughs.

– Dignity? That’s cute. You do realize he’s still there, right?

– I’m well aware.

– And you're also aware that he clearly is an idiot?

His shit-talking is starting to irritate you. – You talk an awful lot of crap for someone who has known him for twenty seconds.

– Look, Routledge, I've been nineteen before. 20 year old guys are types. And your brother is the entitled-freeloader-type, the man-child type. That little temper tantrum? They don’t grow out of that. Most of the time, they actually grow into it.

Well, there goes half your social circle.

– And you say you don't read people.

– People. – He stresses. – Assholes are another thing entirely.

– Okay. You’re gonna have to watch it. – You don’t know where the defensiveness came from. John and you weren't the “don't talk about my family” types. In fact, you were sure that, lately, John's favorite hobby was talking shit about you. So you breathe in deep and take the pie, ready to end this thought before it takes root. – I'm taking the pie and when I'm back we can both talk shit about someone else, together.

Kareem pinches the bridge of his nose. – Fine. But when he inevitably makes some smart-ass comment to embarass you, I want you to remember that you did this to yourself.

– Noted.

He gestures to the door with a grand sweep of his hand, and pulls it open. – Go on then, noble knight. Face thy dragons.

You scoff, chuckling as you balance the plate like a prized trophy. – You're a peach.

– So I keep hearing.

You step out and the door quietly clicks into place behind you. The hall is quiet, you barely hear murmurs from the dining room. But you catch your brother’s eye from the crack in the door, and he averts his gaze immediately, almost groaning as you step into the room.

– There you are. – Ward’s voice is a hum: monotone and content. – If you’d taken any longer, Rafe would have started a riot.

– Well, the peace corps have arrived.

Ward laughs, but Rose is not impressed. – Too bad she doesn’t get paid extra to be a comedian.

You can hear her husband begin to speak as you put the pie down, but it’s Rafe who cuts in, his hand on your arm, yet his eyes set on his stepmother: – Don't listen to her, newbie. Rose's just bitter cause she can't cook for shit.

Her scoff is like the swish of a blade, you almost feel the need to recoil.

– I don't need to cook, Rafe. I work. – You don't miss the venom that splatters on you, but where your mouth remains shut, Rafe's is twisted into a smile:

– Oh, you work, huh?

– Yes. I don't understand your tone.

– John B knows something about that kind of work too, don’t you John B? Freeloading off someone who actually makes their money by working.

It's Ward who cuts in then: – Rafe! Don’t get into this now. Is it so much to ask that we have one dinner in peace?

– He started it.

– Don't be childish, Rose. It doesn't become you. – He looks at you, nodding, almost relieved, as you take his plate. – Thank you, miss Routledge. That looks great.

– Yeah. Do me next, newbie.

– Can you fucking stop it?! – Your brother's voice cuts through the room. Even Sarah looks taken aback. – These innuendoes, this stupid shit you’re doing, it’s not funny Rafe!

– We don’t curse at this table, John.

– It was Rafe! He's the one—

– My son just asked for a piece of dessert. I understand you are protective of your sister, but he didn't mean anything by it.

Rafe laughs, the only person at the table that does so. And he squeezes your arm in his hand as he hands over the plate. – Does your brother always get so worked up when he sees someone working, or does he just extend that courtesy to you?

– Rafe! – Ward shouts, but his son ignores it.

You turn to take the plate from Rafe’s hand, ignoring the way his fingers linger against yours. His grin is lazy, almost triumphant, like he’s already won some invisible battle.

John is seething. You can feel it radiating off of him, the white-knuckle grip around his fork. Sarah tries to talk to him, the soft murmurs of her voice reaching your ears even as the words evade you, but your brother doesn’t seem to listen.

You clear your throat, ignoring the tension as you look back at Rafe. – How do you want the slice?

His eyes flick to yours, slow and deliberate. – I don't know. – He chuckles. – But I bet you like it with a lot of filling, don't you?

He licks a crumb off his hand, eyes locked onto yours.

John slams his hands on the table. – Are you fucking kidding me?!

– Language, – Ward warns.

Rafe tilts his head, expression all mock confusion. – What’s the issue, Johnny Boy? Can’t a guy appreciate a good pie?

– You’re disgusting, Rafe! – John spits, pushing back his chair. – You don’t even pretend to hide it anymore, do you?

Rafe just laughs, dragging his fork through the pie like he’s got all the time in the world. – I have no idea what you’re talking about. – He pops a bite into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly. – Damn, newbie. You did put a lot of filling in this. Real sweet, too.

That's it.

John lunges.

The chair screeches, his fist flying toward Rafe’s face—but Rafe’s faster. He ducks back, chair tipping precariously before he catches himself on you.

You pull him towards the wall before John can near you, his back against your chest, your back against the concrete, heart hammering in your chest.

– Jesus, John B! – Sarah hisses, her hands gripping his shirt, his arms, his hands. But it's fruitless, like trying to put a leash of a bull.

Ward stands in a startle, pinching the bridge of his nose. – Sit down, John.

Your brother doesn’t move, chest heaving. He’s vibrating with rage, fists still clenched at his sides.

Rafe just grins. Smug. Pleased. You can feel the chuckle he lets out vibrating through his skin as your hand remains on his shoulders.

– You’ve got a nasty temper, huh? – He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as if the whole scene was just a mild inconvenience, and then looks at you. – Jesus. Look at what you did, John B.

His eyes are wide, his voice is soft. You’re still holding him when he reaches for you, and yet you still flinch when his hand nears your face.

– I'm— Your breath is caught. – I should go back. Clean up.

Rafe catches your arm. – Hey. Hey, it's okay. He's leaving. Right, John B? Why don't you get your unemployed ass down to the Cut, huh? I bet someone could use you to mow their lawn. Or maybe that’s too complicated for you.

John lunges again, and this time it takes both you and Sarah to shove him back.

– Get off me!

– That’s enough, – Ward finally snaps, voice just sharp enough to cut through the chaos. His gaze levels on John. – You don’t raise a hand in my house. Do you understand me?

Your brother glares at Rafe, still breathing hard. – He started it.

Ward sighs, exasperated. – He was eating dessert.

– Oh, come on, – Sarah mutters. – Dad, you don’t even believe that.

Ward’s eyes remain on his daughter for a moment, but just as he opens his mouth, Rafe keeps firing:

– Yeah, John B. Chill out. We’re just having some family bonding time. I know you don't get a lot of that. What with the way you treat your sister, I doubt she wants to spend any time with you at all.

John’s fist connects with a sickening crack.

Rafe’s head snaps to the side, his weight falling back on you before you latch onto the edge of the table. For a second, there’s only silence. The scrape of the chair legs. The sharp inhale from someone—maybe Sarah.

And then you move.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. You reach for Rafe, clinging to his arm, hands skimming his face, his shoulder, searching for the damage.

You don’t know when your heart started racing, but you feel your ribcage ache with the speed.

– Rafe! – You breathe. Your pulse is buzzing in your ears, shaking within you. You feel like you might break apart.

He doesn’t answer right away as you hold him, steadying him. He just blinks, dazed, the emotions flitting through his face like a carousel: Confusion at first, then anger, and then something softer, something pleased. A slow smirk curls on his lips. But there’s blood—on his mouth, at the corner of his lip, smeared across his chin.

– Shit, – you whisper. – Jesus Christ. – He exhales through his nose, wincing as you press your fingers to the swelling. – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

– What are you sorry about? – You don't register the laugh. The way his body relaxes as you touch him, how he leans into the pain instead of away from it.

You just see the blood on his lip.

The noise rushes around you like a vortex, you can’t even pay attention. All you see is Rafe, his eyes blown out just as they were that day at Barry's, and your hands shake as if the life was leaving him all over again.

– Just—just let me see, – You murmur, tilting his face toward you. – I'm sorry, Rafe. God, I'm so sorry.

– It's not your fault, baby. – He whispers, barely a hum.

John’s still there. Still heaving, fists clenched at his sides. But you barely notice him now. Your world has narrowed to the warmth of Rafe’s skin beneath your hands, the way he lets you touch him without protest. It isn’t the moment for you to ponder on how easy it is to die, but you feel your back pressing against the back of the chair Rafe would’ve fallen onto if you hadn’t caught him, and suddenly he feels like a newborn puppy. All soft, thin skin and whiny whimpers, something so delicate the world around him feels like a deathtrap.

You tighten your hold on him.

– Are you kidding me? – John’s voice is raw. Furious. It feels like he’s screaming at you from above. Like you and Rafe are sitting at the bottom of a river, the sound so muffled you barely realize its there. Your hands feel heavy as they move over his skin. – Him? You’re worried about him?

You don’t look up.

Your eyes are set on the blood at the corner of Rafe’s lips. It’s on your hands now, but it isn’t warm anymore. You don’t know why that thought scares you.

You can’t look away.

But Rafe does.

Even with blood on his lip, he’s still grinning, slow and smug.

– Aww, come on, Johnny Boy, – He drawls. His voice is rough, but not from pain. From something else. Something satisfied. – There’s no need to be jealous. She might like me better than you, but then again, that’s not very hard, is it?

John moves again, but Ward steps in this time. His voice is low, final. – Get out.

– Mr. Cameron I—

– You nothing, boy. You’re not gonna come into my house and be violent and disrespectful. I don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour here. Get out.

John doesn’t move. Not right away. His eyes flicker to you again, searching. Maybe he’s waiting for you to tell him something—anything—that will make this okay.

But you’re still touching Rafe.

His pulse thunders under your hands. You try to focus on that, pull yourself away from your thoughts. But you can’t. You’re still hovering over him, checking the cut on his lip, fingers light against his jaw.

His bones feel like glass beneath your touch.

John lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head before turning away. Sarah is the one to pull him back, her voice soft as she mutters something under her breath. The front door slams behind them a moment later.

But the sound takes none of the tension from the room.

You sit in the silence, Rafe’s pulse under your hands.

One, two. One, two. One, two.

Ward sighs.

– Rafe? Son, are you okay?

Rafe doesn’t acknowledge him.

Because he’s looking at you.

His eyes are hooded, his smirk lazy. You try to pull back, but his hand wraps around your wrist, keeping you close.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t whine, doesn’t groan.

Just sits there.

And smiles.

– I'll— I’m gonna go get some ice for you. – You’re shaking. You barely catch a stumble on your step as you sit Rafe down and rush to the kitchen. – Kareem. – You call him once, twice, a third time, but he doesn’t answer. The back door is ajar. His things are still on the table.

You shouldn’t be worrying about him.

So you turn. Your feet move before you mind does, and you’re rushing to the walk-in refrigerator.

Your fingers fumble as you wrap the ice cubes in a washcloth, pressing them together too tightly, the cold seeping through the thin fabric and stinging your skin. Your pulse is still thrumming too fast, rattling in your ribs, your breath unsteady as you step out of the kitchen.

And then you see him.

You almost jump back.

Rafe is waiting just outside the doorway, leaning lazily against the wall, his head tilted slightly, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, something distant, like he’s not all the way there. His lip is split, swollen, a smear of red still clinging to the corner, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he looks amused.

He exhales a short laugh, running his tongue along his teeth like he’s testing for more damage.

– Gotta give it to him. Your brother might be a bitch, but he's got a hell of a right hook.

You don’t laugh. Your stomach twists as he steps closer and leans against the shelf before you, that same strange look in his eye. Your grip tightens around the washcloth. – Rafe—

– Relax, baby, – he drawls, his voice softer now, slower. His hands bracket your arms, your skin is buzzing, like someone turned a light switch in you. – You look like you’re the one who just got hit.

You frown, shake your head. You can’t stop shaking it. – I’m fine. – Rafe laughs. He’s not acting right. He’s too relaxed, too loose, and there’s something almost sweet about the way he’s looking at you, like the punch knocked a different side of him loose.

– You might have a concussion, – you mutter, reaching out before you can stop yourself. He leans into your touch, holding onto your wrist as your fingers brush his forehead. – C'mon, let’s— let's sit you down.

He doesn’t fight you as you guide him toward the counter, settling him onto the cool surface. He’s still watching you, his head tilting slightly, studying you like he can’t quite figure you out. His hands twitch at his sides, restless, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

– You’re frowning. – He chuckles, like it's funny, and presses a finger between your brows. – You look really cute when you’re worried.

You push his hand away, the words flying over your head.

– This is gonna sting a little. – You step between his knees, pressing the ice against his lip, and he hisses softly at the cold. – I'm sorry.

– You said that already. – Rafe exhales, the sound more like a laugh than a groan. – I'll forgive you if you kiss it better.

You glare at him, but it’s weak. He grins anyway, his hands coming up, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing absently down your arms. It’s light, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

– You’re shaking, – he murmurs.

– The freezer. – you hum. – It's cold.

– Mm. – His fingers drift to your shoulders, then to the ends of your hair, twisting a lock between his fingers. He eyes it intently, pressing the strands between the pads of his fingers as if trying to assess whether or not they are real. – Dunno. Feels like something else is making you nervous.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him, focusing on the ice pressed against his skin. You can feel the warmth of him, the way his legs bracket yours loosely, the way he just lets you tend to him.

It feels too much. Too something.

You have to stop yourself from backing away.

He exhales again, this time slower, his breath warm against your wrist. – You always this nice when a guy you like gets hurt?

You don’t answer. You just press the ice against his lip a little harder.

He hisses again, but when you pull the washcloth away, his lips part slightly, tongue flicking out to chase the cold. His eyes search yours, heavy-lidded.

Then, softly, almost teasing:

– You sure you don’t wanna kiss it better?

Rafe hums, low in his throat, his fingers still lazily playing with the ends of your hair. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, his grin widening just slightly. – Still hurts, y'know? – He murmurs, tilting his head, exaggerating the movement like he’s testing the ache. – You really gonna leave me like this?

– You're gonna be okay.

– Dunno. – His hands drift, tracing up your arms again, then down, smoothing over your shoulders like he’s trying to work something out of his system. – I feel like I’m aching everywhere, baby.

He shifts slightly on the counter, his knees brushing against your hips, the warmth of his skin burning through your clothes. His voice is quieter now, softer, coaxing. – C’mon. Help me out here.

You shake your head. – You’re beat up, Rafe. You aren't making any sense.

– I’m not making sense? – His laugh is breathy, and his hands tighten briefly on your shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into your skin. – You’re the one standing between my legs with your hands all over me. Feels like you wanna help.

You don’t dignify that with a response.

But his gaze doesn’t waver. He tilts his head again, mouth curving into something dangerously close to a pout. – It really hurts, you know. Really hurts.

You sigh, hands itching to press onto his mouth and shut him up.

He's like a child. He pulls you around and he backs you into a corner, then his eyes widen, his lips pout, and you just have to do what he wants. – Please? – He whispers. Batting his eyes and tilting his head to the side just like your mother often did when she wanted something, from your dad, from her boss, from that guy at the drugstore she was always talking to.

It didn’t matter.

She always got what she wanted.

And so did Rafe.

You find yourself looking at the door as he pleads again, sliding a little closer until he can press your hips between his legs.

So you do.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in and press a peck to his lips—so small, so fleeting, you barely feel it. But you do feel the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten against your shoulders, the way his whole body seems to go still, just for a second.

His mouth parts slightly as you pull away, and then he lets out a slow, pleased exhale, his voice low, almost smug.

– Forgot how good you kiss. – His grip shifts, hands sliding up the curve of your shoulders again, thumbs pressing into the dip of your collarbones. He’s already leaning back in, already chasing another taste, and his voice dips into something softer, something almost desperate. – Just one more.

But before he can close the distance, you press your hand to his chest, stopping him. It’s not forceful—not a shove, not a hard rejection. Just a quiet barrier, a gentle push.

He doesn’t move back right away. His lips part, his brows furrowing, like he wants to argue. Like he wants to beg.

But then—

– Rafe.

The voice cuts through the thick air between you like a knife, sharp and immediate.

Rafe’s shoulders go tense beneath your palms.

Your hand drops as he exhales slowly, his entire body stiffening, his easy smile fading into something angry. – What do you want?

Ward Cameron steps further into the kitchen, his presence like a cold gust of air. You straighten a little, keeping your eyes to the ice. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick between you and Rafe before settling on his son.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t soften his tone.

– You were reckless.

Rafe scoffs, shaking his head. – Oh, here we go.

– You knew exactly what you were doing, – Ward continues, ignoring him. – That mockery at the table was cruel, Rafe. The things you said, I'm surprised she didn't punch you.

Rafe rolls his eyes. – Oh, please—

– Don’t interrupt me, boy.

You felt like you were twelve again.

You might not know the man, but you knew that tone. — It was your father’s go-to, when he wanted you to feel guilty, or inadequate, or whenever he got bored of pretending you weren’t there.

For a second, Rafe almost looks like he might listen. His jaw tightens, and his hand clenches into a fist against the counter, but he doesn’t speak.

Suddenly you wish you could hold him.

Ward crosses his arms, his jaw clenched. – You know damn right you wouldn’t like it if someone spoke about your sisters that way.

Rafe lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. – Yeah, well, I’d never be as much of a cunt as John B is, so we don’t have to worry about that.

Ward’s expression hardens. – Watch your mouth around me, Rafe! I'm not one of your little friends!

– He’s right. – Both men turn toward you, surprised. – Rafe’s right.

You wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if you didn’t say anything, but you’re regretting that instinct even as your eyes meet the floor.

You shift slightly, exhaling through your nose.

You don’t resent your brother. You know what he was trying to do—protect you, in his own stupid, thoughtless way. But the problem with John has never been his heart. It’s always been his temper.

– John doesn’t know when to stop, – you say. – I know he was trying to look out for me, but that’s just it—he doesn’t know when to stop. If I don't walk away when we fight, eventually he just— Your voice dies in your throat. The bruise around your arm throbbing. – It's just like dad all over again.

Rafe doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, watching, waiting. Then he turns to his father. – I told you so.

Every last bit of calm on Ward's face vanishes:

– Every time I think you’re getting better… – He scoffs. – She’s not shifting the blame, Rafe. You were wrong, and you know that.

Rafe makes a quiet, irritated sound. – Can you spend a second talking without making me the bad guy?! The guy is an asshole, dad. He treats his sister like crap, how do you think he's gonna treat his girlfriend?!

You swallow hard, whispering. – Rafe.

He doesn’t listen. – I mean, look at what this piece of shit did now! You wouldn’t imagine he— He grabs your arm, pulling up the sleeve on your left arm. – grabs like a fucking—

– Please!

You don’t know what to do. You grab his hand, you're still holding onto it as you focus on your breathing, trying not to cry.

Rafe stops.

His shoulders shift, almost sinking into himself.

He’s standing frozen before you as if you’d just slapped him, his eyes wide again.

You don’t have to say it twice.

He lowers his head, and quietens his tone, squeezing your hand in his as he whispers – I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That was shitty. I shouldn’t have done that.

The words lingers between you, his father suddenly silent, almost stunned.

– It’s okay. – His hand clutches yours tighter. He almost seems guilty. You pull the sleeve back down. – John does have a temper, but this was a mistake. He’d never hit me, even though he hates me right now. And he’d never hit Sarah either. Never.

You turn, unsure of what else to say, and your eyes fall back on Ward. The shock on his face is not hard to miss, barely a raise of a brow as his lips part open for a moment, he steps closer, placing a hand on his son's shoulder before he can give away anything else. But you catch it. That sudden shock on his face. – Go to bed, Rafe.

The boy’s tone is softer, but no less annoyed: – Dad,

Ward looks at you for a moment, then looks back at Rafe, almost cautious, as if he’s trying something out. – Please, – You feel Rafe’s grip on your hand tighten, and loosen again.

– You should rest. – Your voice is sweet, you know that. It's a low blow. But the shock on Mr. Cameron’s face stirs a question up in you. You’re not exactly sure of what that is, but there’s something there you need to probe.

And though Rafe hardens for a split second, you feel some tension leave him along with a breath as his eyes meet yours. His expression softens, his jaw unclenches, but he looks like a kid who's just been told off, all unkempt anger and barely restrained complaints.

So you keep going. – I'm gonna get you some painkillers. – You brush your fingers over his hand, soft, quick, thoughtless, but he chases that touch as you move away to get him some water and the naproxen in your purse. You can feel him watching you as you fill a glass with water, and when you put your purse next to him, he starts looking at it, playing with the clasps and toying with your keychains. – Here. You should close your blinds, and have some tea. I can bring it up to you.

He breathes, laughs. The stress in his face turning into something like amusement.

He lays your purse on his lap, patiently taking the pill and the water. His eyes still cling to you as his throat bobs, draining the cup as quickly as possible.

He seems so much calmer as he hands the cup back to you.

It worked. – Thanks, newbie. – He hums, with half a smile on his face, almost resigned. – I hate tea, though. File that for later.

– Filed. – You nod. – Do you need anything else?

– Yeah. – You're glad to hear him laugh, lighter now, with ease. – For you to quit doing those puppy dog eyes at me. It's breaking my heart.

You take back your hands, putting them over your eyes. Rafe chuckles, and you can see the smile even with your eyes closed— Sweet, soft— It's even sweeter when your hands fall back beside you again. – Better now?

– Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow?

– Eight AM on the dot, just like my boss told me to.

– That’s a good girl. – He hums, and stands, his eyes darker, his smile wider as he stands barely an inch away from you, and then moves again. – Night, newbie.

– Sleep well, Rafe.

The last you hear of him is a hum, something between a chuckle and a sigh, as he walks out of the kitchen, ignoring his father entirely.

Ward exhales slowly, his fingers smoothing over the cuffs of his sleeves. His gaze lingers on the door Rafe just walked through, his expression unreadable.

Then, suddenly, his eyes flick over to you.

You stiffen, instinctively straightening your posture. Your hands twitch at your sides, unsure whether you should be standing at attention or making yourself small.

– I’m really sorry about all of this, – You blurt out, voice steady despite the tension. – I didn’t mean for any of it to—

Ward lifts a hand, cutting you off mid-sentence.

– I don’t need your apology, – He says simply. – I need professionalism.

You nod quickly. – Yes, sir.

His lips press together, but not in disapproval. If anything, he seems almost pleased. Not overtly—nothing as obvious as a smile—but in the way his eyes narrow just slightly, as if filing your response away somewhere important.

He studies you for a long moment before speaking again.

– You handled that well, you know, given the situation.

You don’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment. You don’t know if you want it to be.

You're not sure you agree either, as the remnants of a racing pulse are still running slower under your skin.

– Thank you, sir.

– I have an older brother. – He says, almost like an afterthought. – He treats me just like that, like I'm the problem, as if I'm not the one who works. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face if I showed up to my place of work and he was there. Most people would have let their emotions get the better of them. Especially with Rafe.

You tilt your head without realizing, but you nod, and even if half-unconsciously, he keeps going.

– He gets that from his mother. Nothing in this world pleases him more than getting under people's skin. – Ward’s gaze flicks to the washcloth still clutched in your hands, the ice inside melting slowly, dripping down your wrist. His head tilts slightly, considering. – He didn't get under your skin, though. I thought you would punch him, with everything he kept throwing at you. But you de-escalated him at every turn.

– That's my job.

He hums, and you can see him file that response somewhere in his mind.

– How old are you?

The question throws you for a second, but you don’t let it show.

– I'll be eighteen in a couple of weeks, sir.

His brows raise slightly. Not in surprise—more like interest. Like he wasn’t expecting that answer, but it fits into whatever equation he’s solving in his head.

– You worked at The Wreck before this?

– Yes, sir.

– For how long?

– Three and a half years.

He makes a quiet noise in his throat, almost amused. – Started young, then. – You nod. – And what did you do there?

– I was a roast chef.

His lips twitch, like he’s waiting for something more. – A good one?

You hesitate, but not for long. – Yes.

That earns a small nod from him, his gaze flickering over you like he’s weighing something, testing something.

He watches you a second longer, then exhales, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. There’s a sense of finality in the movement, but it's not dismissal. It's not exactly approval either, but he seems pleased, the way a child is pleased when they figure out their homework.

– You can leave after you clean up. – He says. – I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’s not a compliment, but it feels like it. The fact that there is work tomorrow after such a giant crisis is the greatest reassurance you can receive.

And as he walks away, you realize that Ward Cameron isn’t just assessing you.

He’s pleased with what he sees.

The relief sinks into you like a carbon tablet, and it fizzles out slowly as you go through the motions, cleaning, putting away and writing down the rough draft for tomorrow’s breakfast. Halfway through 8 PM you realize that Kareem won’t return, so you follow Ward’s orders, and gather your things to leave.

The night air is thick and warm as you step outside, the damp heat of the island settling against your skin as you clutch your purse to your side. The driveway stretches long and empty before you, the distant glow of the streetlights barely cutting through the dark.

You exhale, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Walk or call someone? Neither option seems particularly appealing at the moment. Walking means at least forty minutes alone in the sticky night air, but calling someone—JJ, since he’s your only option now—means answering questions you don’t have the energy for.

You’re still mulling over your options when you hear it.

Footsteps behind you.

You turn, and there he is.

Ward Cameron stands in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim light spilling from the house. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze is focused—zeroed in on you with that same unreadable expression.

There’s something familiar about it. Something you’ve seen before.

On Rafe.

That realization sits uneasily in your stomach, but you push it down, straightening as he steps closer.

– You’re not driving? – he asks, voice smooth. Casual.

You shake your head. – I don’t have a car.

He hums, as if he already knew that.

– How were you planning to get home?

You hesitate. – God gave me legs, figured I should use them.

His gaze flicks toward the road, the dark stretch of asphalt cutting through the island. His lips press together, but this time, in something closer to disapproval.

– I’ll drive you, – he says simply.

It’s not a question.

– Oh— You shake your head quickly, forcing a polite smile. – That’s really not necessary, sir. I can—

– I insist.

You swallow. – I don’t want to be any trouble.

His head tilts slightly, studying you. Then he exhales, slow and measured, as if he’s amused by your reluctance.

– You think it’s trouble to drive one of my employees home?

You don’t know how to answer that without making it worse.

His eyes flicker, something sharp and knowing flashing behind them. – It’s late, – he says, like that alone settles the matter. – And I’d rather not hear about something happening to you on your way home.

The words are simple, but the weight behind them isn’t. It’s not concern. Not exactly. It’s something else—something quieter, something calculated.

Something distinctly Cameron.

He doesn’t give you another chance to argue. He just gestures toward the car, expectant, almost commanding.

You hesitate for half a second longer, then nod.

Because really, what else can you do?

You slip into the passenger seat as he slides behind the wheel, the doors shutting with a quiet finality.

The engine purrs to life, and as Ward pulls out of the driveway, the silence between you settles thick.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His grip is firm on the steering wheel, his posture at ease. But his gaze—steady, focused—flicks toward you briefly, that same unreadable look lingering.

The same look Rafe always has.

You exhale slowly, shifting your gaze out the window.

The drive stretches ahead, the road dark and winding.

And you’re not quite sure where you stand anymore.

The low hum of the car engine fills the silence between you, steady and rhythmic. The road stretches dark and empty ahead, the occasional flicker of streetlights casting brief shadows across Ward’s face.

You keep your gaze out the window, watching the shapes blur past, but you can feel his attention shift. The weight of his gaze settling on you, sharp and deliberate.

– You seem to know Rafe well.

It’s not quite a question.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

– I— You hesitate, just for a second. – I wouldn’t say well.

Ward hums like he’s considering that. Like he doesn’t quite believe you.

– So how did you two meet?

You knew this was coming.

Your pulse ticks up, but you keep your face even, your voice smooth. Lies are easier to tell when they aren’t really lies. When they’re just stretched-out versions of the truth.

You inhale, carefully measured. – We were supposed to go to a party together. – Ward doesn’t react. Just keeps driving, keeps listening. – But he got sick, – you continue. – I stayed with him and drove him home.

A pause.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s something—something—about the way he exhales through his nose.

Like he’s remembering something.

– And when was that? – he asks, almost casually.

You swallow. – A couple days ago.

Ward laughs. But it’s not really a laugh. More of a sharp exhale, dry and humorless.

– That makes sense.

You stiffen slightly. – What do you mean?

Ward doesn’t answer right away. He turns onto a quieter stretch of road, the car gliding smoothly through the empty streets. His grip on the steering wheel is loose, relaxed, but his voice is steady when he speaks again.

– I’ve been wondering what’s gotten into him these past few days, – he says, almost like he’s thinking aloud. – He’s been… different.

Different.

You don’t know what to make of that.

– He’s always been agitated, – Ward continues, his tone even. – But lately, it’s like he’s been looking for something. Distracted. He's at home a lot more than he used to be.

His eyes flick to you, sharp and searching.

You keep your face carefully neutral. – I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.

Ward hums again, low and thoughtful.

– No, – He says. – I suppose you wouldn’t.

But the way he says it makes you think he’s not entirely convinced.

The silence stretches again, thicker this time.

And you get the unsettling sense that Ward Cameron is still putting something together.

Ward doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. It stretches between you, thick and heavy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break it first.

You don’t.

His fingers drum against the steering wheel once. Twice. Then—

– He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?

The question is casual, but the way he asks it isn’t. His voice is light, but his gaze flickers to you, sharp and waiting.

You shake your head. – No, sir.

Ward exhales through his nose. He doesn’t look convinced.

– Rafe can be a handful, – he muses, like he’s not really talking to you, more to himself. – Always has been. He was a good kid, though. Smart.

The words are nostalgic, almost distant, but there’s an undercurrent of something else there. Something measured.

– Still is, – you offer carefully.

Ward huffs out a small, dry laugh. – You think so?

You hesitate. – I think so, sir. – You swallow, all the recent interactions reeling through your mind like a movie. – I'd say he's a people person, though. Read me like a book. My brother too. – He looks at you as you look away. – They did know each other for longer, but, it's like he knows him in his marrow.

– Mm. – He watches the road for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then— You said this was a couple days ago?

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice steady. – Yes, sir.

Ward nods, slow and thoughtful. His knuckles tighten just slightly around the wheel. – That would explain the missing motorcycle.

You still.

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the weight of his words. The way they settle in the space between you, thick with meaning.

You don’t know what to say. What answer he’s looking for.

Ward exhales, shaking his head slightly. – Doesn’t matter, – He says. – I’m sure it’ll turn up.

Your fingers curl in your lap.

The street lights flicker past, the golden glow casting fleeting shadows across his face. He’s still thinking—you can see it, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way his fingers tap absently against the leather of the steering wheel.

Then, finally, he speaks again.

– Rafe doesn’t take to people quickly, – He says, almost musing. – Never has.

There’s something off about the way he says it. Like it’s not a compliment.

You keep your voice neutral. – I wouldn’t know, sir.

Another hum. Another glance in your direction.

– But you’re here.

You swallow. – I needed the job.

Ward nods slowly, like he’s filing that response away. – Smart girl.

The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should, and you don’t quite know what to make of them. The car stops. You're in front of your house, you realize, and he’s still looking at you. – Aren’t you gonna thank me for the ride?

He chuckles, lightly, and you have to force yourself to smile back. – Thank you for the ride, Mr. Cameron.

– I'll see you soon.

– You bet. – The door doesn't open when you reach for it, you move two other times before you look back at him.

Ward is sitting still.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then as if it was nothing, he smiles again, laughs, and unlocks the door. – Sleep well, Routledge.

You do your best to maintain your smile.

– Thank you, sir.

You step out of the car, your pulse a dull, an erratic thrum in your throat. The weight of Ward’s gaze lingers long after his car disappears down the street, swallowed by the dark.

You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the unease.

And then you see it, right there, bathed in shadow, almost invisible as it leans againt the tree: yellow and red metal.

Rafe’s bike.

The porch light flickers against the metal frame, casting long shadows across the muddy driveway. The sight of it turns your stomach to ice.

What the hell is he doing here?

You don’t think—you just move.

The door creaks as you push inside, the house bathed in stretching darkness. The kitchen window lets in a sliver of moonlight, cutting across the counter in a thin silver line. The furniture sits in silhouette, familiar shapes swallowed by shadows. It feels empty—like the air itself is holding its breath.

You look over your shoulder at John's door.

The only glow in the house seeps from the cracks beneath it, a warm, flickering light bleeding into the hall. His voice is a low murmur, sharp and frustrated, barely intelligible from behind the thick wooden door, tangled with Sarah’s. The words are indistinct, but you can hear the tension, the way it scrapes against the walls.

Your stomach tightens.

If Rafe is here, he’s not with them.

Which means—

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag as you take careful steps toward your room. The ground creaking beneath you, that sound sets your nerves alight.

You push open your bedroom door. The air inside is still. Undisturbed.

The thought barely forms before you turn toward your dresser and freeze.

There’s someone sitting on your bed, but it isn’t Rafe.

Your eyes drag over the cut on the jeans, caked with dry blood. The heavy boots, still powdered by dirt, the black wife beater.

Your stomach drops.

Barry.

He’s barely visible in the dim light, his posture relaxed but… off. One arm draped over his knee, the other flicking something between his fingers. Your lighter.

His gaze flicks to yours, cautious, almost nervous.

– Hey, sweetheart. – He says quietly, his voice is thick, slow, like he’s thinking too much about every word.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He flips the lighter open with a click, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he snaps it shut again. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t grin. He just watches you.

– I— He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. – I know I shouldn’t be here.

You don’t move as he stands, nearing you. His face shifts, almost hurt.

He clears his throat, tapping the lighter against his palm. – Door was unlocked.

You swallow hard.

His eyes flick over you, searching, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not you’re going to kick him out. He shifts slightly, closer than he was before, expectant, uncomfortable.

Then, voice quieter—almost hesitant—

– Can we talk?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvillaintrophy

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anonymousmarshmallow · 3 days ago

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Also, this happens during the hiring games. Every one of them believes it. Only after asking around (and not just the big 3 either, everyone, the nurse staff, janitors, legal, long-term patients). Most of the hospital staff is like 'yeah that makes sense,' and 'they sure do act like it.' Also due to many convoluted reasons they somehow either just miss Wilson or something always comes up right before they mention it. The big 3 deny it cause they don't have to put up with as much House's shit now. But, the contestants all believe both of them were in the closet for reasons and were forced to come out to avoid jail or a lawsuit, which is horrible. Sooooo cut to part of the team trying to be kind and understanding, thinking 'maybe this is why he's such a dick unable to be yourself, and watching other openly express their love while he can't. Of course, he would be bitter. Maybe he's like this to avoid getting close to people because someone he trusted outed him or bullied or blackmailed him once, and he never fully healed. Their all doctors, and they want to help and show support.' This is completely wrong. The other part mainly decides to leverage this situation and "supports" House and Wilson to (hopefully) get cookie points. Chaos ensues.

The nice ones: looking up support groups for the LGBTQ+ and googling how to support someone who just came out, because coming out like this must be upsetting at the very least

House: Stop kissing my ass. That's Wilson's job

Also House: [milking it for all its worth especially during secret Santa] What you'll get your other STRAIGHT co-workers gifts but not me. Is this a hate crime must be?

House: Now that I'm out, it's so difficult with all the patients in the clinic so many homopophobes :(

The nice ones: Covers clinc duty to stop House being exposed to so much hate

The suck ups: mentions how they like Beyonce and RuPaul. Went to a musical once, definitely has a gay cousin or friend, and makes everything go back to being gay and overly defending House fellow people who are equal to them and deserve support. They always supported LGBLT people.

House: [Let's them talk and enjoying them making asses if themselves] Wow, you are so supportive

The suck ups: [says/does something really offensive]

House: [staring in surprise/and a little horror] Little impressed actually going to remember that for later. But I had reasons for medical reasons to what I said, and you don't. Also, you'll get me in trouble with Cuddy, and if you do that, you're fired. [Makes the couple who sued him give a lesson on the LGBTQ+]

The truth doesn't come out until someone catches Wilson on a date and confronts him, either because 'cheating isn't okay he needs to come clean' or 'I can use this and have him talk me up to House' and Wilson is like "What no! I only said that to keep House out of trouble. We never dated. I'M STRAIGHT! N-n-n-not that there's anything wrong wi... I didn't... Look, it was either a small white lie or House goes to jail, and you lose a job. Besides, it's not like I really lied. House is my friend, and he is a boy. He's a boy friend. Yeah, House, he was just messing with you.

The ruse comes to an end with House announcing he had fun and fires someone.

Also, House knows Wilson's dick size because both of them were drunk, and Wilson was shitting on House about not having a girlfriend or whatever making a joke about being bad in bed. Later, at one of their homes, Wilson passed out drunk. House is curious and takes a look and measures.

House would treat two gay patients like shit and get sued for being homophobic and cuddy would go "he's not homophobic, he treats everyone like that!" which does not hold up in court so instead he's like how can I be homophobic when I have a boyfriend? Wilson stand up. Everyone would turn to Wilson (who had ZERO warning about this) and he'd stutter before glaring at House and stand "yes, House is unfortunately my boyfriend"

Then they'd walk out of the courtroom and Wilson would chew him out which House ignores. Cue 3 days layer when Wilson says House needs to clear up they lied about being gay to get him off (ha) and they're not actually dating because he is NOT getting any dates like this. House would walk into the hospital cafeteria and yell "ATTENTION EVERYONE. Doctor Wilson is not my boyfriend." Wilson would nod for 2 seconds before House follows up with "because we're engaged!" and Wilson can't even be mad because why did he think for 2 seconds that House would make it easy for him

House would try to use this as an opportunity to demand less clinic hours (think of it as a wedding gift) which he does not get because Cuddy knows exactly what's going on and she thinks it's hilarious but she needs his ass working

Cuddy: yeah? You two are a thing? How big is he?

House: 5.3 inches

Wilson: how the FUCK do you know that

#house md #gregory house #james wilson #hilson #lisa cuddy #this is poetry #10/10 post #13 #Cuthroat Bitch #Amber

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javierpena-inatacvest · 3 days ago

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Let's Spread Some Love, Y'all

Y'all, I've been trying to type this post out all day with something eloquent and well-spoken about this but I really have nothing better to say than it sucks.

It sucks that for a fandom who is here on this hellsite to celebrate a Latino refugee who is also beloved by everyone he meets for being a human ray of sunshine and kindness, that there are people on the world wide web of Tumblr dot gov that have no problem spreading deliberately hateful, racist content, whether it be directly targeted at BIPOC writers, or indirectly from the inability to look outside of yourself and have an ounce of empathy or understanding towards other diverse perspectives.

And who am I to even be complaining, because I'm about as white as they come, and I'm seeing this from outsiders pov!!! It shouldn't have to effect you directly for you to care about treating people with basic respect and dignity!!! It costs ZERO dollars for you to try and educate yourself, to learn from past mistakes, to make space to listen to what BIPOC have to say about their incredibly valid experiences (both online and in real fucking life!!!) It costs nothing to be kind!!! Or understanding!!! Or to be compassionate and hold yourself accountable when people tell you that something directly upsets them!!!!

And again, these are just my two cents, because I have plenty to do in the process of learning to be better and will continue to do so, and I'm glad to use this space to share my thoughts, please take the time to hear what people directly impacted by this have to say- their voices are the ones all of y'all here need to be taking into account. Please just know that if you are a BIPOC, queer, disabled, neurodivergent, an immigrant, when I say "Y'all" I really do mean ALL of y'all, I hear you, and will do my best to do my part in making this god forsaken corner of the internet a place we can all scream about That Man™️ in peace.

That being said, I have been wanting for a long time to compile a list of recs in general, so I would love to put together a rec list of your favorite BIPOC authors and fics to share, spread the love, and magnify the talent of creators who shouldn't be overlooked!!!

Either DM or inbox me authors, specific fics with POC characters/inserts, any moodboard or art, honestly anything that you want to share, please share it!!! Fluff, smut, angsty, long, short, any character, whatever!! (AND PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, SELF REC YOURSELF, DO NOT BE SCARED TO, Y'ALL ARE WAY TOO TALENTED NOT TO BE). If you are rec'd by someone else and don't feel comfortable being on the list for whatever reason, please let me know!!

Fic recs will be open until Friday, February 28th, and then after that, I'll post the full list and share so we can celebrate some of the incredible talent here!!! 🥰💕

And remember kids, just like Pedro said:

and if any of you feel differently, eat sand and get tf off my blog!!!! 🤠

#Let this fandom just read and write smut in peace I BEG #I know this discourse about this is being beat to death rn and my thoughts don't add much but SHEESH #If Pedro heard some of the nasty #disrespectful things y'all had to say.... 🤨 AND NOT NASTY IN A GOOD WAY #And if you guys hate this specific idea or have helpful suggestions on how to make this better let me know!!#tw racism #tw discourse

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bee-calm · 2 days ago

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tbhk but they're lab-based phd students- because sometimes you just need to make the most self-indulgent au you can think of

nene

marine microbiology

talks to her culture plates, swears it makes them grow faster

tries to put cute labels on her samples then can’t remember what ANY of her shorthand means the next day

forgets her pass and gets locked out at least once a day

algae clip-art in all of her presentations

sings in the microscope room, thinks nobody can hear her singing in the microscope room

once thought she’d re-written scientific dogma then realised she’d put a decimal point in the wrong place

thinks transcriptomics is witchcraft. is currently doing transcriptomics.

brings chocolates for the rest of the lab, is everyone’s favourite because of it

became best friends with aoi when they somehow managed to double-book the flow cytometer

could read those papers she’s been saving for weeks, OR she could spend two hours changing the colour scheme on her figures

amane

materials chemistry, probably something space-exploration-aligned

pure synthesis, if it’s bigger than a kilodalton then he doesn’t want it anywhere near him

if there is an unlabelled round-bottom flask in the lab freezer then there’s a 90% chance it belongs to him. claims he can tell the chemicals apart by Vibes alone (amane voice: nmr is for Weaklings)

worlds messiest fume hood, yet somehow the worlds most immaculate desk-space. (currently the biggest scientific mystery the rest of the lab is working towards)

will tell people (read: kou) that biochem isn’t real chemistry just to cause problems

really good at teaching project students

also really good at scaring the project students by pretending to drink the toxic chemicals

extensive lanyard pin collection

nobody has ever actually seen him go home

has a set of glassware-themed coffee mugs. much debate as to whether or not he just stole them from the lab.

kou

structural biology

just a guy and his 10 litre E.coli grow-up

once spilled an vat of LB all over the bacteria room. legend has it the stains are still there to this day

banned teru from the cryoEM room after he walked in and the entire setup almost crashed

likes modelling structures, wonders why his computer is always running so slowly, fails to consider that the 5 pymol projects he has open at all times may have something to do with it

serial offender for walking home still wearing his goggles

thinks mammalian cell work is witchcraft

incredibly chaotic labwork processes, still somehow gets the results anyway. most common saying: ‘this is not going in the methods section’

once dropped his earring into the liquid nitrogen tank, has still not lived it down

has a framed photo of his first crystal on his desk

ongoing war with mitsuba over whether electron microscopy is real microscopy or not

keeps taking on side projects for other people, has yet to realise that this may be the reason he never gets to go home on time

teru

molecular biology

theory x1000, ask him a question after his presentation and there’s a 90% chance he’s got a bonus slide already prepared to answer it

benchwork also x1000, that person who asks ‘oh can i try?’ and gets amazing results first time on the experiment you’ve been trying to get right for weeks.

cell culture x0, banned from the tissue culture room, WILL contaminate any flask put within 5 feet of him

the machines hate him. the centrifuge keeps trying to eat his samples. the plate reader breaks on him at least once a week.

serial weekender

stickler for lab safety, can and will send out threatening emails reminding people to wear their gloves and lab coats

once drew the entire signalling cascade for his target molecule from memory on the whiteboard in a lab meeting and it was impressive enough that nobody has wiped it off yet

keeps doing horrendous timecourses, can be found taking plate readings at stupid o clock in the morning

aoi

immunology

the flow panels she manages to pull off are a constant subject of awe and horror

likes working weekends because it means nobody can hear her verbally threatening her cell cultures when they’re not behaving

can fit a scary amount of information onto the lid of an eppendorf tube

when stressed can be found hiding out in the plant biology greenhouses. has made friends with some genetically modified tomatoes

rocks up to the lab meeting with publication-ready figures for an experiment she did yesterday

the source of 90% of the passive aggressive post-it notes around the lab

everyone dreads her post-presentation questions. will dissect your experiments and do it with a smile.

started off working normal hours but has gradually become borderline nocturnal over time

teru contaminated her cells once, has been using it as leverage to make him collect things from stores for her ever since

keeps giving akane’s email to sales reps instead of her own so she can get free stuff without ever being contacted by them again

akane

biophysics

scary single molecule data, deliberately puts huge equations on his presentations so nobody will ask him questions

might as well get paid lab tech wages too, chronically stuck on stock solution duty

crashed the lab computer trying to run one of his datasets on it

the only reason the lab has a booking system for the equipment. anarchy would prevail if he wasn’t around.

will go off to do photobleaching experiments and emerge hours later looking like a cave creature

keeps having to fix the equipment that teru breaks

perpetually receiving emails meant for aoi by people who got their names mixed up

also perpetually receiving emails from the company sales reps who aoi told his email to so she wouldn’t have to deal with them

says he needs to stop working weekends, then suddenly it’s saturday and he’s stuck in the microscope room with teru again

has somehow acquired a small army of project students (none of them are studying the same thing as him)

incubation time= coffee time

mitsuba

cell biology

made a cell line, treats it like it’s his baby

trust issues, won’t let ANYONE share his reagents. serial pipette hoarder.

neat lab book, can still somehow never find where he put his protocols or what concentrations he used his antibodies at

could probably win an award for his immunofluorescence images, someone automatically turns the lights off when it’s his turn to present in lab meetings bc he’s guaranteed to have cool microscopy to show

thinks bacteria work is disgusting. ensures kou knows this.

[emerging from a 5-hour session in the microscope room] what day is it?????

loves his work, doesn’t act like it (the reagents smell bad. the lab benches are dirty. people keep using the milk he brought to put in the fridge. nobody cleans the water bath. if there’s nothing to complain about, he’ll make something.)

threatens to move to industry at least once a day

outright refuses to do weekends

found the perfect colour scheme for his graphs, considers this the highlight of his entire degree

any minor inconvenience is an excuse to go to the cafe on campus

natsuhiko

innate immunity, infection

zebrafish models

nobody is sure if he bought a tie-dye lab coat or if it’s just that badly stained

has absolutely named his fish (doesn’t actually remember which is which, but the sentiment is there)

forever followed by a gaggle of project students. is constantly reminding them to do as he says, not as he does

incubation times are a suggestion, not a rule (read: keeps getting distracted and leaving his experiments way longer than necessary)

convinced he’s going to be patient zero of the zombie apocalypse when he accidentally creates super-salmonella and infects himself

serial distractor, WILL chat to people while they’re in the middle of a 96-well plate

isn’t going to eat the LB agar, but the temptation is always there

someone bought him the ‘women want me, fish fear me’ hat for his birthday, keeps it on his desk

the confocal microscope hates to see him coming (5 hours is a short session when you’re trying to take z-stacks of an entire fish)

sakura

drug discovery

probably dabbles in synthesis, plays orchestral music while running columns bc apparently it gives them better separation

tea drawer in the office, WILL pull out an entire teapot during their incubation times

best dressed person in the lab, at all times

eternal struggle of dangly earrings versus the samples they’re leaning over

neat handwriting, still terrible at labelling eppendorfs (what are the lids so small for)

incubation times to the second

runs BIG experiments, has mastered the art of the plate plan. made a template which has somehow ended up distributed around the entire department

ceo of not replying to sales rep emails

mildly allergic to the nitrile gloves, the drawer below the tea drawer is the hand cream drawer

earphones + cell culture is the ideal de-stress activity

over-prepares for presentations, will spend 2 weeks rehearsing an informal flash talk

probably the only person who actually sends their lab coat to get washed

mei

tissue engineering

has designed all of her labmates a mug with terrible research-relevant science puns on them

invented side-projects, has probably got a collaboration ongoing with every other lab in the department

bought a label printer for her reagents, has way too much fun with it

thought a week-long experiment was bad? try two months

life goal is to get to try making DNA origami just to say she did it

keeps starting doodle chains on the lab whiteboard

experiment worked= sweet treat to celebrate

experiment failed= sweet treat to commiserate

probably did a masters in the microbiology department, they keep trying to convince her to switch projects back to them bc her streak plating was gallery-worthy

picks up her lab coat and 10 pens fall out of the pockets

sold her soul to parafilm

tsukasa

RNA therapeutics

goes in cell culture with no gloves, still somehow doesn’t get contamination

that one insane person who actually enjoys the stress of working with RNA

doesn’t even do SDS-PAGE but still has coomassie stain all over his lab coat

keeps launching dry ice rockets

homebrewed a microfluidics system in the lab, it makes weird noises at night and everyone is slightly terrified of it

keeps materialising in the corner of the microscope room when mitsuba is in the middle of taking images. the cause of many a dropped slide.

plots his data in excel

worlds worst file names. no system, no dates, just a keyboard smash and a prayer

who needs desk space when you can just move your laptop into the lab

gave into temptation and tasted the cell culture media once. it was disappointing

either the most incoherent presentation you’ve ever seen, or a major scientific breakthrough, no inbetween

#tbhk #jshk #toilet bound hanako kun #jibaku shounen hanako kun #i work in a lab so therefore i have to make the fictional characters who live in my brain also work in a lab #already inflicted this as a thread on twitter #so now you have to deal with it too

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ankababy · 17 hours ago

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A Home (part 7)

Part 1 Part 6

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

You couldn’t avoid this forever, could you Y/N?

(TW: murder, manipulation, vomiting and Y/N’s heart breaking)

Niragi dragged his feet into the living room, shoulders loose with sleep, hair a little messy from however he crashed last night. His eyes were half-lidded as he adjusted to the light, then flickered toward the kitchen.

There you were. Already awake, moving around, hands busy with something. He watched as you grabbed a plate, then shifted to the stove, fluid and soft in all your little movements. You were too fucking light on your feet, too gentle for this world. It was like watching a ghost move through a home that didn’t belong to them.

“You’re up early.” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

You turned to look at him, smiling—because of course you did, because you were you. “Wanted to make sure you guys wake up to breakfast.” you said. “Since you played yesterday.”

Niragi scoffed, padding into the kitchen with a roll of his eyes. “Played.” he repeated, mocking. “You say it like it’s a fucking card game or some shit.”

You shrugged, unbothered, returning to your task. “It is, isn’t it? A game.”

He exhaled sharply, like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t be bothered. “Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You hummed, grabbing something off the counter. “I don’t sleep well anyway.” you admitted easily. “You guys do, though. That’s good.”

Niragi leaned against the counter, eyeing you. “You’re fucking weird, you know that?”

You smiled again, unshaken. “I know.”

God, that annoyed him. The way you never reacted the way you were supposed to. The way you didn’t take the bait, didn’t flinch, didn’t get all stiff and quiet when he tried to be an asshole. He was an asshole. He knew that. He wanted people to hate him, to push back, to give him a reason to hate them back.

But you? You just stood there, making food like some housewife, treating him like a person even though he’d given you every reason not to.

He didn’t get it.

Didn’t get you.

And that made him want to push you more. Break you open, see what was underneath all that fucking warmth.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” he said, tilting his head at you.

You just blinked at him. “Do what?”

“This. Acting like you give a shit.”

Your expression didn’t change, didn’t waver. “I do give a shit, Niragi.”

Something in his jaw tensed. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.

You weren’t lying. He could tell. That was the worst part.

You turned back to what you were doing, calm as ever, as if Niragi’s words hadn’t just tried to scratch at something under your skin. Like always, they didn’t land.

“Sit down.” you told him lightly, motioning with your chin toward the table.

He just stood there, staring at you, like he was trying to figure out if he wanted to listen to you or not.

After a few seconds, he clicked his tongue and dropped himself into one of the chairs with a sigh, legs sprawled, posture lazy. He leaned back, watching you.

You set something to cook, then turned around, leaning your lower back against the counter and folding your arms loosely over your stomach.

“How’d you get along with Chishiya yesterday?”

Niragi’s expression immediately soured. “Get along?” He scoffed. “The fuck are you talking about? I tolerated him, if that’s what you mean.”

You smiled. “That bad?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing at his temple. “Fucking guy is annoying. Stares too much. Doesn’t fucking talk unless he’s got some smug little comment to throw at you.” He shook his head. “Like a little rat with a superiority complex.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of words for ‘we didn’t kill each other.’”

Niragi’s eyes flicked to yours, narrowing. “You want us to get along or something?”

You gave a soft shrug. “Not really. Just curious.”

He clicked his tongue again, shifting in his seat. “Yeah, well. He’s an asshole.”

You didn’t argue with that. You knew that already. Knew both of them were, in their own ways.

Still, you watched him for a moment, noting the way he spoke about Chishiya—annoyed, sure, but not furious. Not hateful.

“You didn’t hate having him there, though.” you pointed out, eyes soft but knowing.

His brows furrowed. “What?”

You tilted your head, your expression thoughtful. “You’re talking like you hate his guts, but you don’t actually sound as mad as you should be if that were the case. Like, I don’t know… Maybe it wasn’t that bad, having him as backup.”

His face twisted in something like irritation, but you could see his mind turning behind his eyes. “Tch. Don’t be stupid. I would’ve done fine without him.”

“I’m sure.” you said easily. “But still. He was there.”

Niragi exhaled sharply, looking away like he was done with this conversation.

You smiled.

That was an answer in itself.

Silence settled between the two of you for a moment, the only sounds in the room being the quiet cooking noises from the stove. Niragi tapped his fingers on the table idly, eyes flicking toward you every now and then, like he was expecting you to say something.

And you did. But not about Chishiya.

“You didn’t have a lot of people watching your back before, did you?”

He stilled.

You didn’t push. Didn’t clarify. Just let the words hang there, weightless, giving him the space to take them however he wanted.

After a long moment, he leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to the side with a lazy sort of smirk. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

You smiled back, unbothered. “I am smart, Niragi.”

He didn’t answer your question. But he didn’t need to.

Because if he had people watching his back before, he wouldn’t be like this. Wouldn’t need to push people away first, just to make sure they couldn’t leave him behind. Wouldn’t have turned himself into something that nobody could get close to.

But here he was. Sitting at your table, eating your food, letting you talk to him like this.

And he hadn’t left.

You heard how Chishiya walked in, as quiet as ever, his presence only noticeable once he was there, lingering at the entrance like some kind of ghost. His hoodie was slightly rumpled, and his eyes immediately locked onto the scene in front of him.

You glanced over at Chishiya and smiled.

“Stop staring.” you teased, waving a hand at him. “Those pretty eyes are making me nervous. Just sit down already.”

Niragi’s expression immediately soured, his head snapping toward you like he just knew that you were going to say some shit that would piss him off.

And you did.

Because right as Niragi’s glare intensified, you hummed, tilting your head slightly and adding, “Your lips are pretty too, Niragi.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“What the fuck?” Niragi shot you a look of pure disgust, as if you had just committed some unspeakable crime right in front of him. “Don’t fucking say weird shit like that.”

Chishiya, meanwhile, just blinked. No real reaction, just a slow, measured look as he finally moved, stepping into the kitchen properly and taking a seat.

“Relax.” you said easily, looking at Niragi with a smile, putting his plate down in front of him. “I’m not hitting on either of you. Those were just the first things I noticed about you two, that’s all.”

Niragi still looked pissed, his brows furrowed like the very concept of you complimenting Chishiya in any way was personally offensive to him.

“Fucking bullshit.” he muttered, shaking his head and stabbing his fork into his food.

Chishiya, on the other hand, seemed mildly intrigued. He picked up the cup of tea you had placed in front of him, his gaze flicking to you as he lifted it to his lips. “The first things you noticed about us?” he echoed, his voice smooth and quiet, like he was picking apart your words just to see what was inside.

You hummed, nodding. “Mhm. First time I saw Niragi, I thought, wow, those are some really pretty lips for someone who runs his mouth so much.”

Niragi scowled. “Shut the fuck up.”

You ignored him, your attention shifting to Chishiya. “And you,” you continued, tilting your head slightly. “your eyes stood out to me first. They’re just… really nice to look at. And intense. Kind of like you could see through people.”

Chishiya didn’t respond right away. Just watched you.

You met his gaze without hesitation, soft and unbothered, because you meant it. None of this was flattery—just observations. Just things you had noticed about them right away, things that had stuck in your mind.

Chishiya’s lips curled slightly at the edges, the smallest hint of amusement flickering through his eyes. “And what about you?” he asked, setting his cup down. “What do you think people notice first about you?”

You blinked at the question, caught a little off guard. Then, after a moment, you shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably that I talk too much.”

Niragi snorted. “Yeah, no fucking shit.”

You gave him a look but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

Still, you turned back to Chishiya, your voice softer now. “But if I had to guess?” You exhaled lightly, thinking. “Maybe that I’m… kind. Or at least, that’s what I hope people notice.”

Chishiya’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, as if considering something.

You didn’t press him.

Niragi, however, made a disgusted noise, shaking his head. “Ugh, fucking stop.” he muttered. “This shit is giving me a headache.”

You laughed, light and warm. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop.” you said, finally pushing off the counter and moving toward them, setting down more food. “Just eat, both of you. You need it.”

Niragi muttered something under his breath, but he did eat.

Chishiya, too, lifted his utensils without complaint.

And you? You just smiled to yourself, watching them for a moment before settling down with your tea.

But then you scoffed, shaking your head as you watched Chishiya eat.

“Don’t eat like that.” you said, voice light, your eyes fixed on him.

Chishiya barely reacted, just flicked his gaze up to you, swallowing his bite of food before speaking. “Like what?”

“Like you can’t fucking see.” you shot back. “Your hair’s all in your face.”

And without hesitation, without overthinking it, you leaned over—close, warm—and gently tucked his hair behind his ears.

It was effortless. Natural. Like you would’ve done it for anyone.

Because you would’ve.

For a stranger on the street, for a friend, for someone you’d only just met. You weren’t selective with your kindness—it wasn’t calculated, wasn’t something you gave out only to people you deemed worthy.

You just were.

And that was what made it so strange.

Chishiya sat still beneath your touch, but he was aware of it, of the way your fingers brushed against his skin so easily, like it didn’t mean anything. And maybe to you, it really didn’t. Maybe you would do this for a homeless man, for someone bleeding out on the pavement, for a person who could offer you nothing in return.

That was the thing about you.

You were open. Too open.

Niragi made a disgusted noise, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, what is this? Babysitting?” he grumbled through a mouthful, chewing loudly just to be an ass. “If he can’t see his fucking food, he can deal with it himself.”

You barely spared Niragi a glance. “You’re just mad nobody’s tucking your hair back.” you said, smirking slightly before refocusing on Chishiya. “There. Now you don’t look like you’re eating through a curtain.”

Chishiya didn’t move right away. Didn’t blink, didn’t react. Just… existed there, watching you. “Hmph.”

That was it. No sharp retort, no sarcasm, no witty comeback. Just a small, noncommittal sound before he went right back to eating.

But Niragi? Oh, he hated this.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Niragi shot at Chishiya, eyebrows knitting together in irritation. “Say something, you weirdo.”

Chishiya didn’t even look at him. “What do you want me to say?”

“That was weird as shit.” Niragi spat. “Fucking act like a person.”

Chishiya did look at him then, lips twitching at the edges like he was mildly entertained by Niragi’s outburst. “Why?” he asked simply. “So you can sleep better at night?”

Niragi clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “God, you’re fucking insufferable.”

You only laughed, leaning back. “You’re both ridiculous.”

And yet, they were still here. Still sitting with you, still listening, still reacting.

And you? You were just sweet enough to make them stay.

You exhaled, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m playing today.”

Niragi barely paused mid-chew before scoffing, looking at you like you’d just told him the dumbest thing imaginable. “Are you fucking stupid?”

Chishiya, ever so observant, simply leaned back in his chair, stirring his tea, watching.

You tilted your head at Niragi. “I haven’t played in a while.” you said, tone light, as if that was all the explanation needed. “I should go before my visa gets too low.”

Niragi licked his teeth, clearly unimpressed. “And you’re going alone?”

You shrugged. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, my ass.” he shot back immediately. “You didn’t take me last time, so you’re not going without me this time.”

Ah.

There it was.

It wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about him—about his pride, about how you left without him before, how you chose to go alone instead of letting him come with you.

You bit back a knowing smile, tilting your head playfully. “Oh? Now you want to play with me?”

“I don’t fucking want to,” he corrected sharply “but if you’re going, then yeah, I am too.”

Well. That was easy.

So you turned to Chishiya. “What about you?”

He blinked slowly. “What about me?”

“Are you coming?” you asked, tone soft.

He wasn’t obligated to. You weren’t asking because you expected him to—this was different. Niragi had his own reasons, his own stubborn pride. But Chishiya?

You genuinely didn’t know why he would.

And yet—

“I suppose I could.”

That was all he said. No reasoning, no explanation. Just… an agreement.

You frowned slightly, leaning in with curiosity. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know.”

You studied him. “Then why?”

Chishiya didn’t answer immediately. He just watched you, like he was calculating something in that pretty head of his, before he finally offered, “Maybe I’m interested.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Interested?”

“In seeing how you do.” he clarified, though something in his tone suggested that wasn’t the full truth.

Still, it was something.

“Hah!” Niragi let out a sharp sound. “You’re so fucking weird, man.”

Chishiya didn’t look at him. “You’re still sitting here.”

Niragi sneered, biting into his food. “Whatever.”

You smiled to yourself, warmth spreading through your chest. “Well, then I guess we’re all going.”

Niragi clicked his tongue. “Guess so.”

Chishiya simply took another sip of tea.

The three of you were waiting, leaning against a cold, concrete wall, the looming neon game arena lights flickering overhead. You were between them naturally—Niragi to your right, arms crossed, chewing on his lip impatiently, and Chishiya to your left, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Excuse me.”

A voice.

A man, maybe around your age, stepping hesitantly toward you, awkward and nervous, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey.” he said, voice a little shaky, clearly unsure of himself. “I, uh, I just— I just wanted to say you’re really pretty, and I was wondering if, maybe, after the game, you’d wanna—”

You blinked, a little taken aback by the sudden confession, but before you could even register your reaction, you felt both Niragi and Chishiya shift.

Not toward him—no, just around you, subtle movements that felt like the equivalent of a pair of guard dogs raising their heads.

You could feel Niragi’s glare like a heatwave, practically burning a hole through the poor guy’s skull. Chishiya, on the other hand, didn’t move much—he didn’t have to. His presence was quiet, but it was there, his steady gaze landing on the guy with a look.

You, however, remained calm.

You smiled, soft and kind, tilting your head slightly. “That’s really sweet of you.”

The guy visibly perked up, looking a little hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you assured him, sincerity dripping from every word. “But I’m sorry, I don’t think I can. There’s just… a lot going on right now.”

His face fell slightly, but you reached out, giving his arm a gentle pat. “You’re sweet, though. I’m sure someone will say yes.”

That little bit of hope you gave him made him soften, a little more at ease despite the rejection. “Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks, anyway.”

And then he walked off, still awkward, but not crushed.

You had a way of doing that—letting people down without breaking them. Leaving them with a little bit of light, rather than just shutting the door completely.

It was kind.

It was you.

And it pissed Niragi off.

“The fuck was that?” he snapped, turning his glare onto you now, irritated. “Why didn’t you just tell him to fuck off?”

You blinked at him, confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” he scoffed. “he was wasting your time. That was pathetic.”

“He wasn’t hurting anyone.” you said simply, shrugging. “Why would I be mean to him?”

“Because he deserved it.” Niragi muttered, sneering. “You let him walk away thinking he had a fucking chance.”

You sighed, giving him a look. “And why is that a bad thing?”

Niragi opened his mouth, then shut it, clicking his tongue in frustration, before scoffing and looking away, muttering something under his breath.

You turned to Chishiya instead, tilting your head. “Do you think I should’ve been meaner?”

Chishiya blinked at you, then offered a lazy shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to Niragi.” you mused. “Why do you think that is?”

“Because he’s a fucking asshole.” Niragi snapped, irritated that you were analyzing him now. “Obviously.”

Chishiya smirked slightly. “Obviously.”

Niragi scowled. “Shut up.”

You just smiled, folding your arms as you leaned back against the wall again, between them like you belonged there.

Niragi liked to pretend he was untouchable. He built himself up as someone who didn’t care, someone above the rules, above consequences, above people. He wanted to be seen as violent, erratic, unpredictable—because fear kept people at a distance. It kept them in check. It made him untouchable.

And yet, underneath all that fire, all that psychotic bravado, all the teeth-baring and gun-slinging and joy he took in chaos—was something much uglier.

Insecurity.

It gnawed at him constantly.

He hated that he cared. He hated that he needed.

Because needing was weak.

Because the last time he needed, the last time he wanted, it got him nothing but pain.

The world never handed him anything freely, never offered him kindness without a price. If he wanted something, he had to take it. Steal it. Destroy for it. Kill for it. That was how life worked.

But then there was you.

You, with your sweet voice and your warm hands and your ability to smile at him like he was human. You, who saw everyone as something soft, someone worth protecting.

It made him feel stupid.

It made him feel small.

Because every time you touched him, every time you spoke to him in that voice, with that tone, so full of care, he wanted to melt into it.

That was weakness.

And Niragi hated weakness.

So he tried to push it down, mask it with cruelty, mask it with laughter, mask it with insults. He made fun of you, made fun of the people you were nice to, made fun of the way you let that guy down so gently instead of ripping him apart.

Because deep down, he knew—if that had been him, if he had been the one to walk up to you, all awkward and hopeful, if he had tried to ask you out back when he was nobody, back when he had no power, no confidence, no ability to strike fear into people—

You would have let him down gently, too.

You would have pitied him.

And he couldn’t stand that thought.

So he lashed out.

Because you made him feel like something less. Like something breakable. Like someone who could hurt.

And Niragi didn’t want to hurt.

He wanted to be above that.

But every time you looked at him like that, with all that sweetness, all that love, he remembered something deep inside of him, something he tried so desperately to kill—

That once, a long time ago—

Before he learned how to set the world on fire—

Before he learned how to hurt first—

He just wanted to be loved.

The screens lit up.

There were maybe fifteen people total—not a large group, but big enough for things to get messy if the game forced them to turn on each other.

The screen flickered, then displayed the familiar, clinical text in bold letters.

GAME: WARDEN’S ESCAPE

DIFFICULTY: 6 OF SPADES

Spades. Not a surprise. Niragi clicked his tongue, stuffing his hands into his pockets, while Chishiya barely reacted, his head tilted as he examined the screen.

A voice began to explain.

RULES:

Players have 60 minutes to reach the exit.

The "Warden" will attempt to stop you.

The exit will only open if a keycard is scanned.

A keycard can be only used once for one person.

Keycards are hidden throughout the area

You may take a keycard from another player by any means.

When time is up, the building will lock down, and all remaining players will be eliminated.

Your stomach twisted slightly at that last part.

No immediate death penalty—no bombs strapped to your neck, no instant game-over if you broke the rules. But there was an implied death sentence. If you failed, if youtook too long, you would die.

"Tch." Niragi scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "They should've made this harder."

You shot him a look. "It's a six. That's high."

“Not for me.”

You sighed, but before you could reply, the screen flashed again.

GAME START.

The moment the words appeared, the heavy metal doors at the front of the lot groaned, then began to slide open.

Inside, dim lights flickered in a massive industrial warehouse, rows of old machinery and storage units creating an uneven, winding path forward.

You could already hear people muttering, debating whether to run inside first or hang back.

Then—

A loud, echoing bang. The unmistakable sound of a shotgun firing.

Screams erupted, and you snapped your head toward the source.

At the top of a metal catwalk, partially hidden by shadows, a figure stood—tall, clad in armor, a full-face helmet obscuring their features.

The Warden.

They pumped their shotgun slowly, casually, before raising it again.

“Move.” Chishiya said, already stepping forward.

You didn’t need to be told twice.

People scattered, some sprinting inside while others dove for cover. The Warden didn’t seem interested in killing anyone just yet—just herding them.

You stayed close to the boys as the three of you entered the warehouse, quickly taking in your surroundings. It was huge. Dark corners, looming machinery, multiple levels.

A death trap.

And somewhere inside, the keycards you needed to escape.

Niragi turned to you with a grin that was nothing short of wicked, his rifle already slung off his shoulder, finger twitching near the trigger.

“Can I shoot him?”

The question was almost casual, but the look in his eyes said he wasn’t really asking. He was just waiting for an excuse. A reason to unleash whatever violent itch he always seemed to have crawling under his skin.

You didn’t even flinch at the way he spoke about it so easily. You just glanced up at the armored figure above, still watching the players scramble.

“…I doubt it’d work.” you murmured.

That was the truth. If the game allowed the Warden to be shot and killed so easily, what would be the point? There had to be a catch.

Niragi scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah? You wanna test that theory?”

He raised the rifle just slightly, as if already prepared to aim.

You reached over and grabbed his arm, just a gentle touch on his wrist, but his movements halted anyway. “Don’t.”

Chishiya, who had been scanning the area, finally cut in. “She’s right. He’s probably bulletproof.”

Niragi clicked his tongue, but he lowered the gun again, though you could tell he didn’t want to. “Fucking boring.”

His lack of concern for the situation almost made you laugh. It was such a Niragi thing to be disappointed that the game wasn’t letting him kill the guy.

You turned your attention back to the rest of the warehouse. The layout was a mess—rows of towering metal shelves, abandoned machinery, rusted pipes. It looked like an old industrial facility, the kind of place that was full of hidden nooks and blind corners.

Somewhere in here, those keycards were scattered.

And time was ticking.

“Alright.” you breathed, glancing at the boys. “Let’s find one of those cards before that asshole decides to stop playing around.”

Chishiya hummed in agreement. Niragi just shrugged, adjusting his grip on his rifle.

Then, you moved.

It didn’t take long before you realized just how ruthless this game was.

Not because of the Warden, though he was definitely a looming threat, stalking the catwalks, occasionally firing off rounds that sent players sprinting.

No—the real problem was the players themselves.

People weren’t just searching for the keycards.

They were fighting for them.

You’d barely made it past the first few aisles before you saw a guy get tackled, shoved hard against a metal beam as another player yanked a card from his hands.

Another group was already ganging up on a girl, three against one.

The rule had said it clearly: you can take a keycard from another player by any means.

And that meant they would.

Chishiya barely looked surprised. Niragi? He just smirked. You, however, were starting to feel that familiar knot in your stomach.

You’d been in enough games to know how quickly people turned into animals in situations like this. And you also knew that while you weren’t willing to hurt someone over a damn keycard—these two definitely were.

Well. Niragi was. Chishiya would just watch.

Still, you had to be careful.

Because the more chaos that unfolded, the more Niragi thrived.

At one point, a guy lunged at you, probably thinking you had a card.

You barely had time to react before Niragi was already stepping in. He caught the man by the collar, yanking him back so violently that he slammed into the nearest wall.

The guy groaned, dazed, and Niragi leaned down, his grin sharp.

“Wrong fucking choice, dumbass.”

The man scrambled to get away, tripping over himself.

You shot Niragi a look. “Was that necessary?”

He just snorted. “What, you wanted to handle him yourself?”

Before you could answer, Chishiya finally spoke. “There.”

You followed his gaze—and saw it.

A keycard.

Sitting on the edge of a high metal shelf, partially wedged between two rusted boxes.

Niragi laughed. “Well, that’s easy.”

You, however, frowned. “…It’s too obvious.”

Chishiya hummed. “Probably a trap.”

The three of you stood there for a moment, assessing the situation.

Behind you, the Warden fired again, another warning shot that sent players scattering.

Before either you or Chishiya could say another word, Niragi was already moving. He didn’t give a shit about whether it was a trap or not. If anything, the idea of it being dangerous probably made it more appealing.

He reached up and snatched the keycard from its spot.

You braced yourself, half-expecting something to go off—maybe an alarm, maybe another shot from the Warden—but nothing happened.

Just the sound of Niragi flicking the card between his fingers like it was nothing.

“Hah.” he scoffed. “You two worry too much.”

You exhaled, trying not to roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s keep moving.”

You weren’t even annoyed, really. It was just so Niragi to pull shit like that.

The three of you continued through the warehouse, stepping over rusted pipes and empty crates. The space smelled like dust and old metal, the air thick with tension.

You could hear the violence unfolding around you. People shouting. Footsteps pounding against the concrete. And the occasional gunshot.

Not from the Warden.

From the players.

Because of course some of them had weapons.

Somewhere to your left, two guys were fighting over a keycard, one of them already bloody from a deep gash across his arm. Further down, a woman was on the ground, unmoving, while someone else rifled through her pockets.

And Niragi— Niragi was eating it up.

You could see it in him.

That twitch in his fingers, the way his grip flexed around his rifle.

He ached to use it.

It was almost funny, really.

The guy had been holding back all night. You weren’t sure if it was because of you or because the rules of the game weren’t clear enough for him to start shooting, but either way—he was itching for an excuse.

Chishiya noticed it too. He flicked his gaze toward Niragi, unimpressed. “Don’t get trigger happy just because you’re bored.”

Niragi let out a low, amused laugh. “Bored? Are you kidding me?” He gestured toward the nearest body. “This is entertaining.”

You sighed. “We’re not here to kill people, Niragi.”

He turned to you, grinning. “You’re not. I don’t see the problem.”

You frowned. “You don’t even need to shoot anyone.”

He tilted his head, still smirking. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”

You knew that tone. That taunting tone. The one that meant he was daring you to try and stop him.

But before you could say anything else, a figure moved in your periphery.

Fast.

Coming straight for you.

A man, eyes wild, face streaked with sweat and dirt. You barely caught a glimpse of the knife in his hand before he lunged.

You reacted fast—moving just in time to dodge, stumbling a step back—but Niragi was faster.

The crack of the gunshot was deafening.

The man barely made it another step before he crumpled.

You stared.

Not in shock. Not even in fear.

Just… annoyance.

Because of course Niragi took the first opportunity to shoot someone.

He huffed out a laugh, lowering the rifle. “What? He was coming at you.”

You gave him a look. “You could’ve just kicked him.”

He grinned, sharp and shameless. “Yeah, but this was more fun.”

Chishiya sighed, already looking disinterested. “Wonderful. Now we have to keep moving before his friends show up.”

You exhaled, rubbing your temple.

This game was a mess.

And Niragi? Niragi was having fun.

You moved quickly, eyes scanning the ground, the edges of crates, anywhere that might hide another keycard.

Time was running out.

It wasn’t immediate panic—not yet—but the last thing you wanted was to cut it close.

Your fingers brushed against something smooth, something just barely poking out from beneath a stack of old wooden pallets.

A keycard.

Without a second thought, you grabbed it and shoved it into Chishiya’s hands.

“Here.”

He blinked at you, fingers curling around the card. He hummed, slipping it into his pocket like it was nothing.

Everywhere you turned, you caught glimpses of movement. Some players were still searching, scrambling in desperation.

Others were… already dead.

Then you saw him.

The guy from earlier. The one who had been so sweet, so shy when he asked you out.

He was standing near an overturned forklift, chest heaving, a keycard clenched tightly in his fist.

Not smart enough to hide it. Not nearly paranoid enough to be holding it like that.

He turned his head, and his eyes met yours.

You both froze.

You weren’t sure what was going through his mind, but he had to know.

Had to realize he was fucked.

Because it wasn’t just you staring at him.

It was Niragi.

It was Chishiya.

Niragi moved.

Slow. Casual. Almost too relaxed as he turned toward you, smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

And then he lifted his rifle—and slid it into your hands.

Your breath hitched.

Oh.

You curled your fingers around it instinctively, feeling the weight settle against your palms, the coolness of the metal pressing against your skin.

The guy was still staring at you, wide-eyed, frozen in place.

Niragi leaned in, voice just for you.

“Go on.” he murmured, almost sweetly. “Take your shot.”

The words slithered down your spine like a dare.

Like temptation.

You didn’t move. Didn’t raise the rifle. Didn’t even blink.

Because, honestly? You weren’t even looking at the guy anymore.

You were looking at Niragi.

At his expression. At the way his dark eyes gleamed with something hungry.

He was watching you. Not just watching—studying. As if this was some kind of test. As if he wanted to see what you’d do. As if he liked this.

The weight of the rifle in your hands felt wrong.

Not because you’d never held one before.

Not because you were scared.

But because this?

This was exactly what Niragi wanted.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t raise the rifle.

Didn’t look away from Niragi, either.

You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—the fact that he had handed it to you, the fact that he was watching so intently, or the fact that part of you could hear what he wanted before he even said it.

Go on. Take your shot.

Kill for me.

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening against the metal.

The guy—god, you didn’t even know his name—was still frozen, wide-eyed and waiting. Waiting for you to lower the gun. Waiting for you to raise it. Waiting for something.

“Oh, come on.” Niragi scoffed, stepping just close enough that you could feel his presence behind you. He tilted his head, eyes flicking lazily toward the poor guy standing there, helpless, keycard clutched in his fist.

“What’s the problem?” Niragi drawled, voice syrupy-sweet. “You think he wouldn’t kill you if he had the chance?”

The guy sucked in a sharp breath. “I wouldn’t—”

“You would.” Niragi cut him off so smoothly, it was brutal. “Because you’re desperate. And desperate people do anything to survive.”

The guy clenched his jaw.

“I’m not like that.” he muttered, shaky.

“You will be.” Niragi murmured, tilting his head. “That’s the fun part.”

His hand—big, warm, solid—came up behind you, wrapping loosely around your wrist.

Not forcing.

Not yanking.

Just pressing.

Guiding.

“Just pull the trigger, sweetheart.” he murmured. “It’s easy.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You’re insane.” the guy whispered.

Niragi grinned.

“No shit.”

Fuck.

“Well.” Chishiya’s voice broke through, flat. “He has a point.”

You turned your head just enough to see him, leaned against a crate, arms crossed. He looked utterly unimpressed.

Indifferent.

Like this wasn’t a thing to him. Like none of it mattered.

And then he raised a brow at you, ever so slight, ever so mocking.

“You do want to live, don’t you?” he asked.

Your lips parted. “Of course—”

“Then kill him.”

A cold sensation slid down your spine.

Chishiya didn’t move. Didn’t force anything. He just watched you, head tilted, eyes scanning your face like he was reading something there. Like you were an experiment.

“I mean,” he continued casually. “you do understand how this works, don’t you?”

You knew what he was doing.

He was so good at it.

Not yelling, not forcing, not pushing—just speaking.

“Even if you don’t kill him, someone else will.” he said simply. “Because there aren’t enough cards for everyone. There never are.”

You swallowed hard.

“But—”

“And say we let him go.” He shrugged. “What happens next time?”

You said nothing.

“If he makes it to another game,” Chishiya continued. “he’ll remember this. He’ll remember that you let him live.” A pause. “And he might assume you’ll be just as kind next time.”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s—”

“That’s dangerous.” He held your gaze, perfectly calm. Like he knew he was winning. Like he knew that somewhere, in some part of your mind, you were listening.

Understanding.

“You can’t afford to be soft.” Chishiya murmured. “Not here.”

You felt Niragi smile against your hair.

“C’mon, angel.” he murmured, voice dripping with something too sweet. “Just one little squeeze.”

He tapped your wrist lightly, still guiding the gun in your hands.

“So easy.”

The guy took a half-step back, hands tightening around his keycard. He knew he was fucked.

And you—god. You were shaking.

Because what if they were right?

What if next time, he wasn’t some helpless, wide-eyed kid?

What if next time, you were the one standing there with nothing?

“You can do it.” Niragi crooned.

You weren’t sure if he meant that.

Or if he just wanted to see if you would.

Your ears were ringing.

Your hands shook, the weight of the gun suddenly unbearable.

The guy was on the ground.

Still.

You couldn’t even hear if he made a sound.

You just saw the blood blooming beneath him, the way his body twitched before going slack, the way his fingers—his fingers that had been wrapped around the keycard, holding it so tightly—slowly unfurled, limp.

He was dead.

You killed him.

Fuck.

You killed him.

A shaky breath clawed its way out of your throat.

You barely registered Niragi shifting behind you, leaning in close, the heat of his body pressed against your back.

“See?” His voice was warm, wrapping around you like something deadly. “Told you it was easy.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your chest rose and fell too fast, too uneven, heart hammering against your ribs, trying—failing—to make sense of what you’d just done.

Chishiya walked over, crouched, pried the card from the dead man’s fingers, and straightened.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He just turned, stepping back toward you, pressing the keycard into your palm.

Like he was handing you change after buying something.

Like this was just another transaction.

“You did well.” he murmured.

Your stomach twisted.

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

But you felt Niragi’s grin against your hair, his breath warm as he leaned in closer.

“You got a taste now, angel.” he murmured, voice laced with something dangerous. “Bet it wasn’t as bad as you thought, huh?”

You swallowed.

You wanted to say no.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to undo it.

But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t bring him back.

Couldn’t change what you’d done.

And they—they wouldn’t let you. Because Niragi was still so close, still guiding your hand, still treating this like it was some kind of victory.

And Chishiya—Chishiya, who barely even blinked at your shaking hands, who just straightened, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“You should keep moving.” he said.

As if that was that. As if there was nothing else to be said.

You didn’t realize you were shaking your head until Niragi’s fingers curled, tilting your chin up.

“Don’t freak out on me now, sweetheart.” he murmured.

You swallowed hard, breath shuddering, pulse hammering in your throat.

And Niragi—Niragi just smiled, his voice dipping into something low and sweet.

“C’mon, angel.” he crooned. “One step at a time.”

And you—you stepped. Because what else could you do? You could still feel the gun in your hands. Even though Niragi had taken it back, even though your fingers were empty now, they still twitched, still ached with the weight of it.

Still remembered.

Your vision blurred as you walked, the world turning into nothing but smears of color and light, the edges of your mind closing in like a vice.

You killed someone.

Not because you had to.

Not because you were cornered, not because you were threatened, not because you were fighting for your own survival.

But because they told you to.

Because they pushed you.

Because Niragi whispered in your ear like the devil himself, because Chishiya stood by and let it happen, because they both knew what they were doing—what buttons to press, what words to say, what weight to put on your shoulders until the only choice you had left was the one they wanted.

Niragi’s arm slung lazily over your shoulders, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. His touch was warm, grounding, suffocating.

“You won, angel.” he murmured, voice dipped in honey, in poison, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “Look at you.”

Your stomach twisted. Your steps faltered.

But his grip on you was firm, tugging you closer, keeping you moving.

Chishiya, walking on your other side, glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“You did what you had to.” he said simply, like that was enough to justify it.

Like he didn’t care whether it was true or not.

And maybe he didn’t.

Maybe all he cared about was you, unraveling before him.

Maybe that was what made you interesting.

Your breath shuddered out of you. Your vision swam again, and you realized—fuck, you were about to cry.

Not here.

Not now.

Not in front of them.

But Niragi must have felt the way you tensed, the way your breath hitched, because he cooed, low and sweet.

“Oh, angel.” he murmured, fingers curling into your waist, squeezing. “Getting all emotional on me?”

Your throat clenched tight.

“Let me guess.” he continued, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your skin. “Feeling guilty?” A dark chuckle, something indulgent, almost affectionate. “That’s cute.”

You winced. Physically.

Chishiya saw it. You knew he did. And yet, he didn’t comment. He didn’t intervene. Of course he didn’t. Because why would he? This was his test, wasn’t it? Watching you, watching how far you’d break before you snapped entirely.

And Niragi—Niragi was reveling in it, dragging his fingertips down your spine, all soft and slow.

“Don’t overthink it, sweetheart.” he said. “No point crying over someone who would’ve died anyway.”

That—that wasn’t true.

That wasn’t fucking true.

He wouldn’t have died.

He wasn’t fighting anyone.

He was just playing. Just trying to win, just trying to live, just trying to get through the same fucked-up world you all were stuck in.

And now he was dead because you pulled the trigger.

Your breath came out uneven, sharp and shallow, but Niragi just sighed, dramatic, pressing more of his weight onto you.

“You’re really gonna cry about it, huh?” he mused, his voice dipping into something lower, something almost sickly sweet. “Poor baby.”

Something inside you twisted, something ugly, something that wanted to cry but refused to, something that wanted to break but couldn’t—not with both of them here, watching.

So instead, you swallowed it down. Forced it back. Took a slow, shaking breath. And kept walking. Because what else could you do?

They wouldn’t let you stop.

Wouldn’t let you dwell.

Wouldn’t let you fucking feel anything about it.

Because they didn’t care.

They never cared.

You were breaking.

And they were just watching you fall.

The doors clicked open as the keycards were scanned, the heavy metal giving way as the lock released, and the three of you stepped out into the night air.

Cool, fresh, crisp against your skin.

You sucked in a deep breath, shaky, uneven, trying to ground yourself in it. Trying to make it settle something inside you. But it didn’t.

It couldn’t.

Because nothing could take away what you just did.

Nothing could erase the fact that someone was lying dead in that building because of you, while it was unnecessary. It would’ve been fine, if you had to kill him. But you didn’t.

You stumbled slightly as you stepped down onto the pavement, your legs weaker than you expected, your body suddenly so much heavier. The world felt wrong, the air too thin, your chest too tight.

The first tear slipped down your cheek.

And once it started, it didn’t stop.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. You couldn’t keep it inside, couldn’t keep swallowing it down, couldn’t pretend you were okay, because you weren’t.

A choked sob forced its way out of your throat, your hands shaking, your whole body trembling under the weight of everything that had just happened.

Niragi sighed.

Dramatic.

“Aw, baby.”

His voice was so sweet, so syrupy, so thick with indulgence. His fingers brushed against your cheek, slow, wiping your tears away with the pad of his thumb.

Like he cared.

Like he wasn’t the one who did this to you.

“That bad, huh?” he murmured, his voice low, soothing, soft in a way that felt so fucking wrong. His other hand found your waist, fingers curling into your side, warm and steady. “Poor thing.”

You let out a broken breath, something caught between a sob and a gasp, your vision blurred, your throat tight.

You stepped into him.

Into his warmth.

Into his arms.

Into him.

Your forehead pressed into his chest, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt as your body trembled against his.

And Niragi—Niragi smiled. Over your head, he lifted his gaze to Chishiya, smirking, something smug and victorious curling at the corners of his mouth.

Chishiya smiled back. Small. Knowing. Dark.

Because you—you had just proven something to both of them. That no matter how much you tried to fight it, no matter how much you thought you wouldn’t fall—you still ran to the thing that hurt you.

Still sought comfort from the very hands that broke you.

Still let yourself be pulled under, be swallowed whole, be owned by them.

Niragi pressed his nose into your hair, inhaling, sighing against you like this was nothing.

Like you weren’t breaking in his arms.

“You did so good, sweetheart.” he murmured, his voice soft, dripping with something thick and intoxicating. “I’m proud of you.”

A sharp breath shuddered out of you. Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt.

And Niragi—Niragi just kept smiling.

Chishiya pulled the door open, stepping inside first, but he didn’t bother waiting. He just walked ahead like he hadn’t just been there to witness it all. Like he hadn’t watched you crack, hadn’t watched you fold, hadn’t watched you melt into Niragi’s touch like you needed it.

Like you were made for this.

Like it was inevitable.

And maybe it was.

Niragi guided you inside with an arm draped over your shoulders, heavy and firm, warm in a way that you should’ve hated.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t hate it at all.

You leaned into him, the weight of his hold pressing you close, grounding you in a way that made your skin prickle. You should’ve pulled away, should’ve stepped back, should’ve done something—but instead, you let him steer you deeper into the apartment, let him touch you, let him own you in that moment.

“You tired, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice low, sweet, laced with something that you couldn’t quite name.

You nodded, sluggish, your body still running on the adrenaline crash, on the aftershocks of everything that had happened.

His fingers curled into your arm, a slow squeeze, and then he leaned down, close enough that you felt his breath against the shell of your ear.

“You were real cute back there, you know.” he hummed, the smirk obvious in his voice. “All shaky, all teary-eyed… fuck, you’re just the softest little thing, huh?”

You inhaled sharply, something catching in your throat.

He liked that.

He liked you like this.

Weak.

Folded.

His.

But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t even want to. And that was the worst part. Because this—this warmth, this safety, this sick, cruel comfort—was what you needed right now.

And he knew it.

Chishiya’s footsteps were quiet as he passed by, heading straight for the kitchen, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. He didn’t have to say anything.

He had seen.

He had won.

Niragi hummed, shifting his grip, sliding his hand down your arm until his fingers curled around your wrist, leading you toward the couch.

“Come sit with me.” he murmured, like you had a choice. Like you wouldn’t just follow if he told you to.

And you did.

Because you wanted to.

And because they had made you that way.

You barely even realized you were sitting until you felt the couch cushion dip beneath you, Niragi pressing close, his arm still slung over your shoulders, his body warm, solid, unyielding. He was the one holding now. Touching.

And you let him.

You barely even knew how to exist in this moment—head spinning, ears still ringing from the gunshot, from the way his voice had cooed so sweetly in your ear, from the way Chishiya had shoved the keycard into your hand without a second glance.

You had killed someone.

And they had been so proud of you for it.

Your body still felt shaky, unsteady, like you weren’t really here, like if you let yourself sink too deep, you’d just slip away entirely. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe—

Something was placed in Niragi’s hand.

Chishiya.

You looked up at him, blinking slow, the exhaustion in your bones so thick you could barely lift your head. He was standing there, looking down at you both.

And then you saw what he was holding.

Biscuits.

Your biscuits. The ones he must’ve seen you eat a few times, the ones he knew you liked.

Chishiya didn’t say a word as he handed them to Niragi, barely even acknowledging you as he turned away and walked back toward the kitchen.

But Niragi grinned.

And that was worse.

“Aw, look at that.” he teased, holding up the biscuit between two fingers. “Chishiya being all thoughtful. That’s new.”

Chishiya didn’t respond, didn’t even look back, and Niragi only laughed before shifting beside you, turning slightly, pressing even closer.

And then he held the biscuit up to your lips.

“Open.” he murmured.

Your stomach clenched.

Something in you knew this was wrong, knew this was twisted, knew this wasn’t how this should feel. But the moment his fingers brushed your mouth, the moment his tone dipped into something soft, something sweet, something that made your skin feel too tight—

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and he slipped the biscuit inside, watching you so intently, so fucking pleased with himself, like he had just won something important.

And he had.

Because you let him.

You chewed slowly, your jaw stiff, your stomach knotting, but you swallowed it down anyway.

“…Thank you.”

His grin stretched wider.

“Good girl.”

Your chest ached.

They had broken you.

You didn’t even care anymore.

Niragi shifted beside you, stretching with a quiet groan before getting to his feet. The absence of his warmth was immediate, the weight of his arm slipping away leaving you cold in a way that made your stomach turn.

He reached out, fingers brushing through your hair, gentle, too gentle, and you barely managed to keep yourself still as he pushed strands back from your face, thumb tracing along the edge of your jaw, pressing lightly into your cheek.

Soft.

So, so soft.

You almost flinched.

His lips curled, head tilting as he looked down at you like he was taking in his favorite thing, and for some reason, that made your chest ache even more.

“I’m going to bed.” he murmured, his voice light, casual, easy—like none of this mattered, like what happened tonight was just another night, another game, another kill. Nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to you.

“You can come with me if you want.” he added, thumb still lazily dragging over your cheekbone, his nails barely scraping over your skin. “Door’s open.”

The weight of the words settled into you, deep, curling around your ribs like barbed wire.

It was an invitation.

A choice.

But you knew what it really was.

He was so sure of you now. He knew you’d cave, knew you’d follow, knew you needed him—needed them, because they had made sure of it.

And that made you want to scream.

But you just nodded. Didn’t agree, didn’t refuse. Just let him think you might.

He grinned. Then, he pulled away, fingers slipping from your face as he turned and padded toward the hall, disappearing into the darkness without another word.

The room felt too big without him in it. Too empty.

You exhaled shakily, staring blankly at the space he had just been, at the air he had just occupied, and—

You did this.

You killed a man.

Not because you had to. Not because it was survival. Not because there was no other choice.

But because they wanted you to.

Because they told you to.

Your stomach twisted violently, nausea curling up your throat, thick and suffocating, and you shot up from the couch so fast your legs nearly gave out beneath you.

You stumbled toward your room, feet unsteady, vision blurring at the edges, chest tightening with every breath.

Bathroom.

You barely made it before you dropped to your knees, hands gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl as your stomach turned, your body rejecting everything—every part of tonight, every part of them, every part of you.

It burned coming up, acid clawing at your throat, choking you between gasping sobs, and you couldn’t stop it, couldn’t slow it down, couldn’t breathe.

Tears dripped from your chin, slipping into the water below, and you squeezed your eyes shut, hard, trying to will it away, trying to make it stop, but—

You had killed someone.

And you couldn’t take it back.

Couldn’t fix it.

Couldn’t do anything but cry.

Fingers slipped into your hair, threading through the tangled strands and pulling them back, careful, almost like he cared.

Almost.

You hiccuped between ragged breaths, shoulders trembling as you gripped the toilet bowl, knuckles white, trying to ground yourself—trying to breathe.

“Careful.” Chishiya murmured, voice quiet, close, almost gentle. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

A sharp, wet laugh broke from you, bitter, empty.

You were sick.

Sick with guilt, sick with horror.

You did this.

You let them make you do this.

And now, Chishiya was kneeling beside you, soothing you, hands in your hair, voice soft, like he wasn’t the one who had forced that card into your hands, like he wasn’t the one who had let this happen. Like he wasn’t just another reason you were here, shaking on the floor, your stomach convulsing with guilt.

“You really did good today.” he said, his tone almost sweet—a voice meant for comfort, for reassurance, for manipulation.

Your breath hitched, eyes squeezing shut.

Don’t listen.

He was doing it again, weaving his words into you, curling them around the pieces of you that were already cracking, twisting his voice into something safe, something soft, something you needed.

And that made you feel even sicker.

Chishiya’s fingers continued to move slowly through your hair, nails grazing lightly against your scalp, almost absentmindedly, like this was second nature to him, like he had done this a thousand times before.

He hadn’t.

Not for anyone.

But now?

Now he was here, taking care of you.

Because you weren’t just useful anymore.

You were his.

“I know you don’t think so.” he continued, as if reading your thoughts, as if he knew exactly how your mind was spiraling. “But you made the right choice.”

You swallowed, throat raw, chest heaving.

No, you didn’t.

You had a choice.

And you failed.

“Do you know what would’ve happened if you didn’t?” he mused, tone shifting, threading in something heavier, something just barely condescending. “He would’ve turned on you the second he had the chance. He was weak. People like him don’t survive long, and if you hadn’t done it, someone else would have.”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to sting, hard enough to keep the sob rising in your throat from slipping out.

“He wouldn’t have spared you.” he murmured, voice tilting into something softer, dipping into something that almost sounded kind. “But you? You did it so nicely.”

A shuddering breath broke from you, chest clenching.

Because he was right.

And that was the worst part.

That voice in the back of your mind, the one that still belonged to you, the one that wasn’t his or Niragi’s, whispered, no, no, no—

But the rest of you?

The part that had listened to them, that had let them win, let them warp you into something they could mold—that part wasn’t so sure anymore.

And Chishiya knew it.

His fingers in your hair, his words curling around you like a blanket, shielding you from the cold, from the truth—

You wanted to believe him.

Chishiya moved slowly, deliberately, shifting so that he was no longer just kneeling beside you but instead sitting down properly, his back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. And without even thinking, without hesitating, you let him pull you into him.

Your body fit too easily against his, back pressed into his chest, his arms draping loosely around you, the heat of him soaking into your trembling frame.

You let him hold you.

You wanted him to hold you.

And that made something ugly curdle in your stomach, because you knew, somewhere deep down, that this wasn’t safe, wasn’t right.

Chishiya wasn’t safe.

But he was warm.

And you needed that warmth more than anything.

“I didn’t want to.” you whispered, voice small, shaking. “I didn’t want to do this.”

His arms around you shifted slightly, almost as if he were adjusting, settling in, but his hands never left you. One rested over your stomach, the other near your wrist, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your skin.

Comforting.

False.

“I know.” he murmured.

And maybe that was what broke you.

Because he didn’t know. He couldn’t. He would never know what it felt like to do something like this and feel it, to carry it with you, to ache over it.

Because he didn’t feel anything.

And yet, somehow, the way he said it, soft and low against your ear, made you believe him.

Tears welled up again, spilling fresh and hot down your face, and your hands curled into the fabric of your own clothes, gripping at yourself like you were trying to hold yourself together, trying to stop from unraveling completely. “I don’t—I don’t want to be this person.”

Chishiya hummed, something slow, something thoughtful. “You don’t have to be.”

You let out a broken laugh, a pathetic, shaking thing. “I already am.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, his fingers skimmed along your wrist, up to your elbow, a slow touch. “You’re only doing what you have to.”

You shook your head, eyes squeezing shut. “No.”

“Yes.”

You sniffled, pressing the heel of your palm against your face, trying to wipe away the tears, the weakness, the everything. But it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t work.

“It wasn’t necessary.” you said, voice cracking. “I—I didn’t have to do it.”

“You would’ve died.” Chishiya murmured, like he was speaking to a child, to someone naive, someone who didn’t understand.

It should have sounded condescending. It should have made you feel small, should have made you angry. But instead, it just made you want to believe him.

You were breaking apart, and he was so solid. So unwavering.

So certain.

“You think people survive in this world by hesitating?” he continued, voice so steady, so sure. “By giving other people the benefit of the doubt?”

You swallowed hard.

You wanted to say yes.

But you couldn’t.

Because you knew. You knew what this world was, what it had turned people into, what it had turned you into.

And Chishiya was still talking, still curling his words around you like a vice, still getting into your head.

“He would’ve done it to you if he had the chance.” he murmured, and his arms tightened ever so slightly, just a fraction. “You know that.”

You shuddered.

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would have.” Chishiya corrected. “Maybe not then, maybe not tonight. But if he had to choose between you or himself, he wouldn’t have hesitated.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because maybe—maybe he was right.

And if he was right, then maybe—maybe you didn’t do the wrong thing.

Your breath hitched, and you turned your head just slightly, forehead pressing against the fabric of his hoodie. He smelled like something neutral, like clean clothes and cool air and a faint, lingering trace of something you couldn’t quite place.

It was comforting.

It made you believe him.

“I don’t—I don’t want to think about it anymore.” you whispered.

Chishiya hummed, his fingers pressing lightly against your wrist again, like a heartbeat, like a rhythm, like something designed to lull you into a state of calm.

“Then don’t.”

You exhaled shakily, a slow, trembling breath.

And you listened.

Because Chishiya purred his words like a lullaby, wrapping around your tired, aching mind like a soft, warm fog. His voice was a drug, intoxicating and numbing all at once, slipping under your skin, settling in your veins, filling the spaces inside of you that were breaking apart.

He was dangerous.

You knew he was dangerous.

And yet, you listened.

Because it was easier to believe him than to believe the ugly truth weighing heavy in your chest. It was easier to sink into the lie than to face the reality of what you had done.

And that’s what they wanted.

What he wanted.

He didn’t comfort people. That wasn’t something he did. Because what was the point? Why waste time and energy on something so useless?

But this?

You?

You were something else entirely. You were soft in a way that people in this world weren’t supposed to be. You were light in a way that should’ve burned people like them alive.

But instead, they took it.

They twisted it, shaped it, owned it.

And now, look at you.

Falling apart in his arms, hands still trembling, breathing still uneven, but no longer shaking quite as violently as before.

Because you were believing him.

Because he was making you feel safe.

And safety?

Safety meant control.

Safety meant they had you right where they wanted you.

The cruel truth of it all was that you weren’t breaking them down. You weren’t making them better, weren’t softening them into something kinder, weren’t saving them from the monsters they were.

No.

You were taming them.

And that was so much worse.

Because taming them meant making them yours.

Which meant you were theirs.

Their girl.

Their soft, sweet, breakable little thing, so easy to twist and mold and shape into exactly what they wanted.

And you let them.

Because you needed them now.

You needed them to tell you that what you did was right.

You needed them to make you feel like this wasn’t wrong.

You needed them like they needed you.

And that wasn’t cruelty, no.

That was just their love showing.

❤︎︎ @lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango

#alice in borderland #aib chishiya #aib niragi #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x reader #niragi suguru #niragi x reader #niragi alice in borderland

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