#do the three in front have names we know???

[narcjsistx]

please I have such a good request that I think is funny. After chapter 307, imagine Reader asks Sae if they can buy a pet bunny and he instantly tells her no, and she’s asking why not and he’s like “ No 😐🥀” but like, crack. It can be smau or fic I FEEL IT WOULD BE SO FUNNY THO

i usually don't make written fic requests, only smau ones, but this one really made me laugh. so here we are guys

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

it felt strange to have SAE ITOSHI at home for more than three days in a row — strange, but definitely pleasant. the spanish tour had just ended with great results, and that gave him the chance to finally relax a little, in the quiet of his home

it was nice to actually be able to hug him, and not just send a message he’d only read hours later in his hotel room. it was even nice just to spend time together in the same room, too

sae genuinely thought these days would be the best of the month — finally free to train only when he truly felt like it, and most of all, finally able to spend time with you after months of random flights for equally random, short-lived visits

he thought the days would pass by peacefully, with you

big mistake, sae itoshi.

"babe, can you watch the video i sent you?"

"okay. which one of the last... fortytwo?"

it wasn’t anything new to see that many videos waiting when he opened your chat. it was a habit you had since the very beginning of the relationship, and honestly, he didn’t mind it

"you’re not funny! it’s not fortytwo, c'mon..."

"fortysix."

"... just watch the last seven"

opening the chat, the number of bunnies that appears before his eyes is disgustingly disgusting. he sees all kinds: short fur, long fur, white, black, brown, long ears, short ears. his throat tightens almost automatically as he looks up — only to find you already standing in front of him with your phone in hand, with that face that, ever since you two got together, has never once been told no. he sighs bored, as you throw yourself down next to him on the couch, holding your phone right up to his face. instinctively he wraps an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer — but he’d throw that bunny on your screen as far away from him as humanly possible

"look how cute it is! it’s looking for a home, it’s up for adoption at the center near our hom—"

"absolutely not."

you turn surprised, lowering the screen slightly. you press your lips together like you’ve just received the worst news of your life, and sae already regrets having answered so coldly. it’s just that he can’t understand how such a cute animal could have the name of a jerk — the ultimate jerk, the very ultimate jerk

"... you don’t like bunnies?"

oh, he’d definitely like them more if they didn’t remind him so much of that barcha jerk — so jumpy and damn tall. sae clears his throat, moving the screen away from his face

"i don’t like bunnies"

"why? they’re so innocent, they don’t need much attention, and im home most of the time anyway"

"i don’t like them because they’re messy, they smell, they pee everywhere, and they ruin dreams that have nothing to do with them—"

"... i don’t think they do that?"

sae raises an eyebrow, then runs a hand through his hair — just to calm himself down a little. you look at him with that look, the one that’s been his downfall for years now. suddenly, your face is replaced by iglesias’s, and for a moment, sae is completely speechless. only when your actual face comes back into view he let out a sigh of relief, a very long one

"i just don’t think it’s the right pet for us, considering my job and the fact that you want to start university. don’t you think maybe... i don’t know, a dog would be a better choice?"

"but i want a bunny"

"yeah, and i’d like to be a striker, but things don’t always go the way we want"

"i don’t see how that has anything to do with what i said..."

"im just telling you to listen to me, trust me. bunnies are evil"

you give him a bit of a look, then slump against his shoulder with a pout. sae starts running his fingers through your hair, fully aware that maybe — just maybe — he’s won this battle, a battle harder than the one against barcha a few months ago

"i already had a list of names ready"

sae sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. the gesture doesn’t quite erase your pout, but your eyebrows are furrowed just a little less. hearing the list can’t possibly cause another mental breakdown… right?

"alright, let’s hear it. what were you thinking?"

"OKAY SO… since we’re in spain, i thought of a spanish name. everyone gives their pets human names, but i want to stand out… with building names. i was thinking of… catedral, colegio, cine, estadio... maybe even tienda, iglesia—"

oh, no bunny will ever cross the threshold of this house as long as sae is alive. neither human nor animal

[n0cturnalp1g]

Night Shift: 8:00AM

Summary: Heavy is the shoulders that chose to protect over and over again. Characters: Attending!Female Reader (Sunshine) x Jack Abbot. Samira Mohan. Dana Evans. Frank Langdon. Melissa "Mel" King. Nurse Princess. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch. Word Count: 2417 Chapter Warnings: Inaccurate Medical Terms and Process (mostly templated the scene with Episode Two lol). PTSD. Addiction. Possible Suicidal Attempt via drug consumption. Medical related Gore, blood, and possible dismemberment.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

8:00AM 4th July 2025

“Sorry, the fireworks are making me jump right now.”

You were in the next bay with Samira with another bloody aftermath of mishandled fireworks when you heard Jack’s voice. He wasn’t one to openly admit his agitations but here he was.

“You think Doctor Abbot’s gonna be alright working today?”

You hummed without truly giving a proper answer since you were uncertain yourself if he will actually be alright working for the day. One hour into the dayshift and there was already a clusterfuck of fireworks related accidents and a handful of vets coming and going.

Your eyes turned right back to the patient, the ever-calm Attending that had earned a reputation as Sunshine was capable of calming even at the most life changing moment in a patients’ life. You made the most out of it even if you genuinely hated the name.

It made you feel more like a tool than an actual human being. A last ditch effort when all other options fails.

“What are your findings, Doctor Mohan?” You inquired about the now going full-Attending mood, eyes still lingering on the tear-stained eyes of the teenager that was just having a few drinks and fun with the rest of his friends.

“Homemade fireworks exploded in his hand. He tried to light it with a Zippo, it below before he could throw it. Partial avulsion to digit three and four. Possible open fractures, vascular compromise–maybe worse.” Samira was quick to switch to work-mode now.

You leaned in. You gently peel back the towel and the patient, Joshua cries out. Beneath it, the hand is a shredded mess–mangled tissue, bone exposed, blackened burns. His ring finger hangs by a flap of skin.

“I know it hurts. Hang in there for me, okay? We’re going to take care of you.” You put on a small smile hoping to reassure him even when everyone in the bay knew the inevitable was bound to happen.

“Give him 2 morphine IV push. And let’s get a hand surgeon on standby. This might need the OR tonight.” You instructed.

“Already paged ortho. Imaging is on the way. No loss of consciousness, no other injuries per EMS.”

“Very Good, Dr. Mohan. Let’s keep him warm and dry. Start cefazolin–broad coverage. Debride what you can but don’t go deep until we’ve got imaging. And elevate that hand. We need to ensure we save as much as we can.”

You watched Samira begin adjusting the hand onto the table and prepping for irrigation.

“Am I–am I gonna lose my fingers?”

Your eyes soften now, seeing so much pain that lingered in the young man’s eyes. One measly mistake could cost such a vast change in him and his life. It reminded you of Jack, of his stories of losing his leg, dealing with the pain, the emptiness of what was once whole in his body.

“We don’t know yet.” You answered honestly, it was always better to set their expectations early than give them hope only to crush them with the circumstance handed to them. “But if we do have to take a finger or two, it’s to protect the rest of the hand–and your life. You’ll still be you, Josh. You’ll still heal.”

You watched the boy much closely now. How someone so young, with his future right in front of him would have such a detrimental change in his life that he would never truly be prepared for.

“But for now, we do what we can and make sure the chance of infection is reduced. We will have the best hand surgeon create his magic when they come down for consultation, so you sit tight for me, Josh, okay?”

The teenager nodded wincing as Samira continued on with irrigating the wound.

“Sunny, the Vet in respiratory distress is here.”

You turned to Dana tensing at her words and the silence in the other bay besides you. A part of you was all too certain that Jack had heard the charge nurse’s notification. Giving both Samira and Josh a reassuring look, you followed Dana out of the room and followed her to the upcoming EMT.

“You and I both know it was Jack’s turn with the patient.” You pointed out knowingly.

“The more we can avoid another meltdown, the better.” Dana muttered and they were both welcomed with the EMT rolling in a middle age man, unconscious towards the next available room.

“Denzel Franklin, 37, found unresponsive by his children. No meds, no allergies. On arrival, he was barely breathing with pinpoint pupils, bradycardic at 44. Pupils did not respond to Narcan and we tubed him when his respirations continued to fail.”

You listened intently to the EMT’s words but your eyes lingered on the dog tag for a moment while you put on hand sanitizer then your gloves. Frank and Mel were immediately going to action as you watched, observing what you already knew could be a possibility of the man.

“Any drugs or alcohol on the scene?” Frank inquired.

“A bottle of vodka and an unopened prescription of Sertraline were on the scene.”

“Signs of trauma?” Mel inquired.

“Nothing.”

You watched the residents and nurse move Denzel to the bed as Nurse Princess began with the ventilator.

“Where was he found?” You inquired.

“In bed by his daughter.”

You nodded, handing the bag of dextrose for the IV as you watched Mel and Frank begin checking the symptoms.

“Pupils are 3 millimeters, non-reactive.” Mel began.

“Heart rate’s 56. BP is cycling.” Princess added.

“No response to pain. GCS 3.” Frank added.

“Does that fit any toxidrome?” You inquired again.

“No. If it was just opiates with Narcan, he’d be breathing on his own.” Frank began looking around, thinking in his own little world of any possibilities. “Is there a chance this was suicide?”

“Dr. Langdon, we will first find out the cause of his state before we dive into the reason behind it.” You were quick to scold him lightly. “May it be suicide or not, that is besides the problem. What we need is to know what he took and how we can bring him back and get him the help that he needs.”

“Sorry.” He was quick to apologize which surprised you for once. The old Frank would argue, challenge you even. It seems rehab did him good, better than anyone would expect out of him.

“Good. Please continue.”

“Beta blockers wouldn't give pinpoint pupils.” Mel supplied.

“EMT said there was an unopened bottle of Sertraline, there might be other prescription meds in his bathroom or in his children’s.” You added your own theory.

The overhead announcement of another car crash was ignored as your focus was on the man in front of you. Unconscious but evident with everything you wished wouldn’t be the truth.

Mel immediately held onto the ultrasound wand, watching the monitor for any changes from the inside.

“No blood in the belly, no pericardial effusion, and lungs are up.” Mel continued. 

“Hemocue’s good, 15. BP 84 over 58.” Princess added.

“Okay.” You nodded. “What’s your plan, Dr. Langdon?” You turned to Frank now.

“Um, push dose epi, 0.1 milligram. Foley for urine, stabilize for CT.”

You nodded allowing him to administer but your eyes somehow always ended focused more on his hands more than the patient. Epinephrine hydrochloride was not considered an addiction, but no matter what you still had your inkling of doubt about what was made and what could be taken if she wasn’t careful when it comes to Frank. He betrayed your trust just as much as he did Robby’s.

“Systolic back down to 90.” Princess announced and you crossed your eyes watching Mel check Denzel’s limbs.

“Another 0.1 of Epi.” Frank announced.

“Flaccid paralysis of all four extremities.” Mel observed eyes roaming throughout the patient’s body for any clue they were missing.

With a syringe of cold water, Frank had sprayed water through the inside of Denzel’s ear, eyes focused on his eye pried open for any possible reaction.

“No eye movement with ice water.” Frank continued.

“So no brainstem function.” Mel concluded.

“Due to what?” You asked brows raised at the duo.

“Hypoxic injury, massive hemorrhage.” Frank responded before turning his attention to Mel. “Mel, please escort him to CT. Bring a drug box with you.”

You nodded thumbs up knowing that they were working in the right direction for this case.

“We want to rule out anything that he could have possibly taken. So please have a full screening for the drug test for him, bloodwork and urine if possible.” You added turning your eyes back to another gurney being pushed towards the available bay.

“We got it here, Sunny.” Frank reassured you.

“Please call me if you need me. Thank you.” You sighed pushing open the door as you slipped off your gloves.

You have barely even stepped foot out of the door before Perlah had made her way towards you. A grim look on her face.

“Dr. Sunny, the wife and son of Francis Martinez are here.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, craning your head back for a moment before opening your eyes and nodding towards Perlah, knowing what was expected out of you. A part of you was regretting requesting for Dana to field all Vet-related cases to you if she could, it also meant all of the responsibility of the inevitable was on your shoulders now, weighed and crushing against it all for you to take alone.

You didn’t want to make it hard on Jack, nor Robby. Not today if you could.

“Okay. I’ll be right there.” You nodded thanking her.

Walking towards the children’s ward, you were halted by a familiar pair of hands and you put on the best smile you could mustered knowing the inevitable of the day was for you.

“You good?” Jack had inquired, eyes darting up and down, inspecting for anything that needed his worry. “Put this on.” He muttered pulling off the sweatshirt he wore. “You’re fucking cold right now.”

You didn’t fight him as he practically placed his sweater onto you. The warmth of him and his scent momentarily eased the heaviness you were carrying.

“Thank you.” You smiled at him, hand cupping his cheeks. “Are you alright?” You asked him instead.

“I’m good.” He answered but his eyes darted away from you. “One step at a time.” He added.

“Tell me if you need to breathe or stop and we can ask Shen or Parker to come back.”

“Please choose Shen, I want to ruin his day.” He groaned.

You giggled, kissing him gently on the lips before making your way to the children’s ward where Francis Martinez’s family were. Watching their braindead husband and father and thinking of what the next steps would be.

~

Robby had watched it from the safe distance of the nurse’s station. How easy it was for you to pull Jack into a kiss and how unbothered everyone in the staff was for the momentary display of affection both you and Jack had shown. There were smiles and smirks from the nurses, but not once did anyone begin to gossip or even complain about it–how wrong he was to ever believe they would.

“Still can’t believe how Sunny was able to catch Jack’s heart like that.” Dana muttered, making Robby turn to look at her.

“More surprised with how Sunny could stand Jack.” He muttered.

“Don't act all surprised now, Cap.” Dana snorted. “They compliment each other. It's a good thing Jack has someone to look forward to in life.”

Robby wanted to deny such a fact but you always had a way in seeing the good in everyone you interact with. Case in point: Robby. Years of being together even when he had constantly insisted on keeping things private and his own needs constantly going above your own, you tried your best to understand him. You knew he was going through something and everything all at once.

“You’re right.” He blinked, turning away from the scene that only broke his heart more than it already does. His eyes landed back on the board. “Still a fucking mes.” He said more to himself than Dana.

“Sunny already cleaned up most of it before she started her shift. Practically ran over Shen and Parker wanting to get most of the heavier load for the day.”

Robby’s eyes narrowed for most of the names on the board.

“Is she cherry picking?” He asked, he always had a hard stance that no one in his department is allowed to cherry pick cases. You get what is more urgent, not what is more interesting.

But the difference this time was the fact that you were doing the opposite. All the heavier patients were under your control. Drug Overdose. Gunshot Wound. Drowning. All vets. All having that kind of day with what the day meant to them all.

“She wanted to make sure neither you or Jack deal with the mess that’s gonna be happening today.” Dana explained looking at Robby, arms crossed. “You have your bad days and more often than not you choose not to come into work. Jack doesn’t get that privilege and you know how he is during 4th of July.”

Of course Robby knew. He was always the one that would make sure that he would call him when midnight struck and before the day ended. He had nightmares, far too many for all he has lost while serving, of the people he lost and the parts of himself that he could never get back.

“The only difference is Jack accepted his girlfriend’s help when she offered it to him and here they both are. Sunny is making sure to be the steady force Jack can lean on.”

Robby nodded knowing fully well how you were like. How you did the same thing when he came in to work with him on Adamson’s death anniversary. You stayed, kept an eye on him all throughout the day and all he did in return was destroy you until you had no other choice but to move to the nightshift and into the arms of his friend.

“Where is she now?” Robby asked instead, vanishing the memory of the night in the rooftop all those months ago.

“Talking to Martinez’s family, but it seems like no one is ready to let him go.”

The irony of Dana’s word cuts deep into Robby more than he was willing to admit.

[pearlessance]

Cupid's Chokehold — part four!

LUCK OF THE DRAW

[prev/next]

summary: Uncle Tommy teaches you about the gambler's high in Stratford. And when you return home, you're forced to put that poker face to good use.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, stepcest, age gap, gambling, allusions to addiction, oral f!receiving, tommy 'let me eat it before we go' miller, unprotected piv, praise, breeding kink, light angst, teeny tiny bit of exhibitionism, orgasm delay, creampie, no beta, this part ends on a cliffhanger im so sorry

note: full disclosure i know absolutely nothing about poker or casino games so like...let's not look too hard at that

wc: 11.6k

[series masterlist] [main masterlist] [AO3]

The consultation goes far better than Tommy expects. 

You meet with a woman named Miranda. She’s tall as hell and wears one of those pinstripe blazers that reminds Tommy of his high school principal.

He lets you do most of the talking. You’re real good at it and have Miranda laughing five minutes in. The three of you walk through the house and Tommy’s critical in his observation. There’s ten bedrooms and four balconies and marble floors that shimmer and shine. The backyard has a goddamn waterfall in the heated pool and ten acres of woods behind it with a private lake and a brand new dock. Secluded and quiet. It’s beautiful. The most expensive house Tommy’s ever stepped foot in. 

Miranda explains that she wants to keep the house's old bones. Likes the charm of the curving archways and the transom windows and the laundry chute in the hallway. But the rest of the house is rather dated.

The roof needs to be completely redone—something she failed to mention in the email exchanges. Tommy clocks that one before they even step foot out of his truck.

The plumbing needs updated, there’s only power going into the left half of the house, the insulation needs to be switched with something more modern, and the wood that makes up that big, wrap-around porch is so dry rotted that it needs to be fully replaced.

Tommy makes note of all of it. Is overly observant because he knows Joel will want every little detail. And he tries not to get too excited. Truly, he does. 

But…they could do it with their fucking eyes closed.

Five million dollars. 

Even after labor and material cost and everything else, for this one job Tommy alone would get paid two hundred grand easily. And he can’t imagine everyone on the crew would want to go all the way to Stratford for a month, and so that paycheck would likely be even more than he thinks.

Truthfully, he’s never cared much about moving out of his apartment. It’s always been just him there with the occasional on and off again girlfriend. There’s space to fit his things comfortably and his neighbors are nice enough, so he’s never given a place of his own much thought.

But when Tommy thinks of his future now, his brain subconsciously makes room for you in it. 

He can see it clear as day when he dreams. Sees himself cooking dinner in the kitchen while you sit at the butcher block island he built with his own two hands, sipping whiskey from an icy glass. Sees you on the front porch steps while he’s out mowing the lawn. Sees you standing at the refrigerator late at night, bare feet on the tile, wearing nothing but his old t-shirt, trying to twist off the cap on a jar of olives that he always tightens just a little too much because he likes when you ask for his help.

You’re in everything he does. Present and future. Sometimes Tommy thinks even his past decisions had been made with you in mind, leading him right here. Right to you.

Miranda has lunch delivered during the consultation. A big spread of meats and hard cheeses and whole grain breads. She pours mimosas for you and herself but Tommy declines her offer. Wouldn’t be caught dead behind the wheel with an ounce of champagne in him if you’re the one in the passenger seat.

The two of you talk about labor pricing while you eat. Tommy sits silently beside you, taking slow bites of his turkey club concoction he’s put together, and lets you do your thing. 

Isn’t surprised at the easy way you make conversation. Slipping in those personal questions between the ones about dollar signs to make Miranda more comfortable. You ask how her husband’s doing on his business trip to Italy and about her son’s basketball tournament. If he didn’t know any better, Tommy would think the two of you have been friends for years and not just the two weeks you’ve been emailing back and forth. 

And when Miranda offers to pay another half million at the end of the consultation, Tommy isn’t surprised about that, either. She says, “My husband and I really love the work Miller Contracting does. And what’s even better is you’re good people. At the end of the day, that’s what we’re paying for.”

You tell her it was nice meeting her. Explain that Joel makes all final decisions so you can’t promise anything, but you’ll do what you can to sway his favor.

Miranda understands his hesitation. Knows it’s a long process and far away from home but swears to make the distance worthwhile.

Tommy hasn’t even pulled fully out of the long, winding driveway before you’re plucking your phone out of your back pocket and dialing Joel’s familiar phone number.  You put it on speaker and hold it between the two of you.

It only rings twice before he answers. “Hey, kiddo. How’d it go?”

“It’s real, Joel,” you say, the smallest bit of pride in your voice. As if to say, I told you it would be. It’s almost undetectable, but Tommy hears it. “Everything she said in the emails was true.”

“Did you check the basement? The plumbing down there, is it accessible?”

“Sure is.”

“And the furnace?”

“Yep. And the water heater and the HVAC and the foundation. I triple checked it all. Just like you taught me.”

“An’ she didn’t leave anything out? Nothin’ at all?”

“The roof,” you say. “But we figured as much from the exterior picture she sent us.”

“So she did lie.”

“It ain’t that bad,” Tommy interjects. “Would take us less than a day to fix. An’ I don’t think the roof was even in the proposal plan, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” you answer. “Not once has she asked about us redoing her roof. Could be something she wants someone else to do.”

“Alright, fair. But the cost of labor—”

“How much would it be? For housing and food and travel expenses and everything else. Including pay for each day for everyone who wants a hand in it. How much would it be?”

Joel’s hesitation translates, even through the phone. “A lot. I don’t—I don’t know off the top of my head.”

“Highball it.”

Tommy can’t hold back his grin. Has never in his life heard someone talk that way to his brother during one of his stubborn moods. You speak clearly. Concise. Your voice holds an edge that’s devoid of fear and cowardice. He can hear Joel’s teachings in the way you speak.

Joel sighs heavily, and Tommy would bet money that he’s squeezing his jaw or massaging the incoming headache from his temple. And then, finally, he says, “Four hundred thousand, maybe. I can’t imagine Cooper or Adam are going to want to go, they’ve got those young kids an’ all.”

“And what if I told you it would all be paid for and then some? Outside of the five million,” you say. 

“Where are we gonna get the kinda cash for—?”

Before Joel finishes, you’re explaining, “Miranda just offered another five hundred thousand. That means three and a half million dollars in profit after max material cost.”

“But Christmas bonuses and—”

“Joel.”

He stops. Silence hangs in the air, and Tommy knows it’s not because he doesn’t trust you, it’s because he doesn’t trust Miranda. The offer seems almost too good to be true. It’s taken them so long to get this far, and now that they’re here, Joel’s having trouble wrapping his head around it. 

Tommy wishes he had something wise to say. Something to sway his brother, something to calm the anxiety he can see written plainly on your face. But he isn’t like you—doesn’t always have the right words. And so he holds tight to the steering wheel with one hand and extends his other, giving you a soft smile when you thread your fingers between his.

“Look, I know it’s a lot,” you say. “The three of us are the only ones who know, so if you decide not to take the job, no harm no foul. And you know I’ll have your back no matter what decision you make. Okay? But一if we get half before the job, half after, we won’t need to spend a dime out of our pockets. It’s real. And you’ve worked hard for it. It’s not a hand out and it’s not charity. You built this business from the ground up. You deserve this, Joel.”

Tommy knows his brother’s done for before he even speaks. He’s been on the receiving end of these talks with you, the ones where you say everything he wants to hear with so much conviction in your heart it’s impossible to discount it.

Joel sighs again but it’s a little lighter this time. He says, “Alright, let me…just let me talk to your mom first. I’ll tell you as soon as I make a decision.”

Before you even make it back to the hotel parking lot, Joel sends you a wordy text explaining his agreement terms. He wants to wait a month before they start construction. Says he needs to figure out who’s able to lend a hand and give them time to inform everyone they need to. He needs to replace Noah with a new hire and find a decent job for everyone who stays in Austin so they still get paid, too. Says to put the words ‘half the payment at signature, half after completion’ in the first draft of the contract.

The second you’re back in the hotel room, you’re pulling out your laptop and setting it up on the edge of the bed to tell Miranda the good news. You promise to have a complete breakdown of Joel’s terms sent by Monday afternoon and a revised agreement sent by Friday.

Tommy waits patiently while you work. He flops back on the mattress beside you and admires the way you look and the soothing sound of your fingers as they hit the keys.

He doesn’t rush you. Gives you all the time you need and concocts a plan of his own while he lays beside you.

And when you finally close your laptop, there’s a satisfied smile on your face. “This is going to change everything,” you say. “I mean, if Miranda has people tour her house when it’s finished they’re gonna want to know who did it, right? This opens up a whole new world of clients for us.”

Truthfully, he’d never thought that far ahead. Supposes that’s why you’re so good at what you do, always seeing opportunities before they’re staring you right in the eye. “I think this is cause for celebration,” Tommy says. “You bring some goin’ out clothes?”

That troublesome smirk finds its way onto your pretty face. “Picked an outfit as soon as Joel told me you’d be my chauffeur.” You stand to your feet, fingers already working at the buttons of the white blouse you’d bought specifically for the consultation. “Where are we going?”

“You’re gettin’ a birthday do-over,” he answers, a tone of finality in his voice. “S’been eatin’ at me, so I’m gonna make it right.”

Tommy pushes himself to his feet and comes to stand in front of you. His hands take over for yours, undressing you slowly. You tilt your head back to stare up at him, lips parted just slightly, eyes beginning to darken with desire he’s familiar with now. “You already did,” you say, and it warms his heart to hear it.

But it’s not just the end of the night he wants to fix. It’s the beginning, the middle, the aftermath. He has a chance to give you everything you wanted that day without fear of prying eyes, and Tommy thinks he’d be a fool not to take it.

He pushes the pearlescent buttons through the satin fabric of your blouse. One by one. Revealing the red lace you wear beneath. “Y’know, I’ve got this…this errand to run.”

The prettiest crease forms between your brows. Tommy presses a kiss there. “We have errands?”

It takes considerable effort to fight his grin. He likes the way the word we sounds in your mouth. And that assumption is no surprise, really. He can’t remember the last time he did anything without you at his side. But he shakes his head. Says, “Nah, just me. You go ahead an’ get all dolled up. I’ll be back in an hour. Yeah?”

The confusion on your face persists. And Tommy knows you like the back of his hand, so he tries to ease your mind. To put some of your uncertainty at ease. 

“I just gotta pick something up,” he clarifies. “An’ it won’t be a surprise if you’re there the whole time, now would it?”

You narrow those pretty, suspicion filled eyes at him, but that grin gives you away.

Tilting your head up with gentle fingers beneath your chin, Tommy kisses you once, twice. Three times for good measure. “Be good,” he says.

“Never.”

He’s still smiling when he slides into the leather seat of his truck. It’s so easy, being with you. Loving you. Like second nature. As if it’s what he was made for. 

And while he drives through the streets of Stratford, Tommy can’t help but think about a future with you. Even though there’s a little voice in the back of his head, reminding him that fantasizing about it will only make the inevitable devastation worse.

But it’s just too good. It makes his heart race, thinking about the way you’d look with a diamond ring on your finger and a belly swollen with his baby. He’d ntroduce you to all his friends as his pretty little wife and when they tell him to stay for one more drink he’d say, ‘nah, gotta get home to the misses’ with a big grin on his face.

He’d buy a plot of land and build your dream house with his own two hands. Tommy knows just what you like—has seen all those Zillow links you send him when you’re tucked behind that desk on the job site. He’d make sure it had a big window in the kitchen above the sink and hardwood floors and all the hardware in the house would match. Brass, of course—because that’s the metal you always notice.

But most of all, Tommy would keep you happy. Satisfied. If you wanted to work, he’d drive you every morning. If you wanted to stay home, he’d pick up extra hours if need be. He’d take you to see the sights of the world or spend the weekends cozied up on the couch—whatever you wanted. 

He’d indulge your every whim and never let you participate in a bad idea alone. Whatever kept those stars in your eyes and that troublesome smirk on your sweet mouth.

And Tommy knows he’d be happy regardless of place or time. As long as you’re there with him.

When he arrives at the locally owned jewelry store he’d found online, he doesn’t linger. Does what he came to do and gets back to you with a sense of urgency.

Tommy hates being apart from you. Even if it’s easier knowing you’re waiting for him, the distance feels heavy. Like a waste of precious time. And you must feel it, too. Because as he’s pulling back into the hotel parking lot his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

Your text simply reads ‘miss you.’ His favorite one to receive. 

Tommy thinks he’ll never get over the way you make him feel. Wanted, needed, like he’s the most important man in your life. It doesn’t make sense to him, truthfully. He’ll never understand what the hell you see in him. 

But he’s well past the point of rationizing any of what lies between you. So he just sits with it instead. Feels the love you have for each other and the near paralyzing fear that comes with it. Lets that heaviness fill him to the brim because it’s you, and he’s greedy for it all.

When he opens the heavy hotel room door, he finds you fixing a stray piece of hair in the mirror. You smile wide and your eyes light up as they meet his in the reflection. 

You’re beautiful, Tommy thinks. Breathtaking.

His hands itch with the need to touch you, like they always do. Insatiable. And so he does, because for this weekend he can. He comes up behind you and places his broad palms on your hips, right over the waistband of your jeans. Light washed and distressed with glittering pockets, tight and casual but sexy. He presses a kiss behind your ear and promises, “Missed you more, sweetheart.”

Your hands find his, guiding them beneath the smooth satin of your black halter top, pressing them against your soft skin. It’s not an inherently sexual caress, it’s just there. Grounding. As if you need the touch just as much as he does.

“Got you somethin’,” he says. He fishes the small package from his pocket. “Close your eyes.”

When you do just as he asks, Tommy carefully unwraps your gift, turns one of your hands over, and sets the dainty piece of jewelry there. He can feel your excitement as if it were his own. Sees that pretty smile and mirrors it. “A present?”

“Mhm.” His stomach twists with nerves. But he’s not really sure why, because it’s you. Knows it’s something you would’ve picked out for yourself if given the chance. But he wants to impress you. Wants to make sure you feel loved. “Alright,” he says. “G’head.”

You laugh softly and your grin widens, fingers coming up to trace the thin chain of the necklace. In the center of it sits a single, pearl pendant. Small but pretty, not dissimilar to a lot of the jewelry you normally wear.

“I know when you asked for a pearl necklace that you meant the Uncle-Tommy-made one,” he says with a laugh. “But you still asked for it. So I wanted to get it for you.” 

“I love it,” you say. And then you're handing it back to him and gathering your hair in your hands, a silent instruction.

Tommy unclasps the necklace and lays it delicately in the center of your chest. “You know, the jewler lady was tellin’ me all this stuff about gemstones. Said they all kinda mean different things. Like emeralds are for growth and diamonds are for strength or whatever,” Tommy explains.

When he secures the necklace, he gently runs his knuckles down the back of your neck. Feeling you; your skin, your warmth, your pulse. 

“And when she started tellin’ me about pearls, at first she said they’re for purity and innocence.”

“Purity and innocence?” You laugh at that—one of those sweet, belly laughs he loves so much.

Tommy shakes his head, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt. “I know, I had the same reaction,” he tells you. “But just—just listen. Stay with me.”

With a nod, you press your lips together, trying to fight off your amusement.

“An’ then she said they could also be for spiritual connections," Tommy continues. 

You quiet a little then, hearing him, seeing his point before he even alludes to it. Reading his mind in that way you do. 

“I asked her to explain it to me. So I knew I was understandin’ right. An’ she told me a spiritual  connection ain’t somethin’ you can control. Doesn’t matter if it’s someone you shouldn’t want, doesn’t matter if…if it makes sense or if it’s right. It just is. Said those that experience it are lucky. Cause sometimes, for some people, somethin’ like that never happens at all.”

You stare at him in the reflection of the mirror, pupils blown wide and filled with the same intensity he feels. A shared understanding. 

A shared devotion.

When you reach for him and your fingertips snag against the shiny, new hardware on the ring finger of his left hand, you immediately notice it. Can feel the difference, the change from what’s normal.

He smiles as you turn in his embrace, holding his hand up in the space between you. Your brows furrow the smallest bit, and Tommy feels his gut twist with nerves as you closely examine the simple gold band. Thin but masculine, with a single pearl stone set in its center. Twin to the pendant around your neck, one more shared thing between you. Something tangible, something physical that will remain even after the weekend is over.

“They’re the same,” you say. “Like us.”

His heart pinches in his chest at the softness in your voice. “Yeah, darlin’,” he mutters. “Jus’ like us.”

You turn his big hand in yours and press it to the side of your face, and his thumb instinctively caresses the delicate curve of your cheekbone.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said last night,” he whispers. “About…about how mad they’d be if they found out. Now, my brother, he’ll hate me for this. I think we both know that.” Tommy swallows hard. “But I…the risk一to me, anyway…it would be…it would be worth it. You…you are worth it.”

The words come out stumbling over one another. Tommy’s not used to this, to laying the truth of his heart out in the open for someone else to see. But he reminds himself that it’s not just someone he’s letting in. It’s you.

And you’re everything.

He can feel your pulse beneath his palm. Steady and unafraid, a direct contrast to the way his heart thrums against his sternum. “Are you saying you want to tell them?”

“I’m saying that I’ll do whatever you want,” Tommy explains, hearing the surrender in his own voice. “If you want to tell them, we’ll tell them. If you wanna keep carryin’ on the way we’ve been, just these stolen moments when no one else is lookin’, then we’ll do that, too. An’ if…if one day you find someone else, then I’ll step back. Won’t blame you, won’t hold you to nothin’ cause I know this一this ain’t the way it’s supposed to go.”

The thought alone leaves him feeling hollow, but he means it. You squeeze his hand a little tighter, no doubt seeing the flicker of disquiet in his eyes.

“What I’m sayin’ is that I’m yours, darlin’,” Tommy explains. “As long as you’ll have me. After that, even.”

For the rest of his disappointing, god forsaken life, all things good about Tommy Miller belong to you.

“I’m all in,” he says. “An’ I mean it. You just gotta say the word, darlin’.”

You stand there, staring up at him, wide eyed and grinning like you’d just won some prize. And he wants you to say it一wants you to tell him that you’re ready to risk it all. To step outside of what’s comfortable and damn every last consequence.

And you want it, too. Just as badly. He can fucking see it.

But then something flickers across your face. The reality of it hits. You remember who exactly it would hurt in the process.

And Tommy knows the decision you make before you speak. Watches you silently take all that temptation and bury it deep. His sweet, selfless girl.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean into his touch. “I love you,” you say, and he knows you mean it. But you love them, too. Just as much.

He gets it. Reminds himself you still have the weekend. You still have now.

You press a kiss to the pad of his thumb, lips velvet soft. With that smirk on your face, you say, “All this cause I wanted a facial.”

Tommy laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m kidding,” you say, but the intensity of the moment has passed. Replaced with something lighter yet filled with just as much love. More, even, because this is the kind of airiness that only ever exists when you’re together. The feeling he’s come to crave.

“Drive me fuckin’ insane,” Tommy tells you, but there’s no salt to his words. They’re filled with affection instead. His joy persists, even as he shakes his head and says,  “Spillin’ my guts an’ you gotta make it about that damn pearl necklace. Oughta teach you to respect your elders.”

Your giggles bubble out of you, a familiar sound that eases all of his ache. But once your laughter begins to die down, you take him by the jaw. “Hey.” You tilt his face down so he’s staring right at you. Into you. “You are my home, Tommy Miller,” you say with such finality it makes his ears ring. “Don’t ever doubt that. Not for a day in your fucking life.”

He smiles wide. Lets himself soak up the heat of this moment in case he never gets to experience it again. His hands find your skin, sliding easily beneath your top, stroking just beneath your ribs. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy when you get all bossy,” he says. “You know that?”

“Bossy?” You scoff. “I do not get bossy.”

The lie bleeds through, and Tommy thinks about giving you examples from the consultation and the phone call from this morning, but he’s got something a little different on his mind. A matter that’s a little more pressing. “Mmhm,” he hums, leaning down to kiss the exposed junction of your shoulder. “Sure. Right.” 

You shiver beneath the warmth of his tongue, the sharpness of his teeth against your skin. “We’re supposed to be going out,” you say, but you tilt your head back anyway. Giving him more access. “You keep this up and we won’t make it two feet out the door.”

“We will, baby,” he promises. “We will. Wanna show you the city lights. But just…” Tommy kisses a trail down your chest, lips hot and heavy. And then he hooks an arm around your waist, lifting you up and sitting you on the porcelain edge of the sink. “I just gotta take care of somethin’ first.”

He squeezes the supple flesh of your thighs, spreading your legs to make room for the width of his hips. His fingers are careful, moving with the kind of familiarity that only he could ever possess. “Take care of what?”

“Of you.” Tommy smirks. “Look so fuckin’ pretty.” He unfastens the button of your jeans and slides down the zipper to find you bare beneath一and there’s something about it that sets him off. Makes him a little more desperate for you. The knowing, maybe. The realization that you’d planned for this, that you’d gotten all dressed up with the expectation to be dressed down by his rough hands.

He sinks to his knees before you, head positioned perfectly between your knees. “But I never have enough energy after,” you whine, but you arch into his touch as he slides a hand beneath your top and palms your breast anyway. Not an ounce of resistance to be had. “If we fuck now, I’m just going to want to stay here and do nothing else for the rest of the night.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Tommy hooks his fingers in the waist band of your jeans and pulls them down. “Said I’m gonna take care of you. Just wanna eat it before we go, baby. S’that alright with you?”

A flush crawls up your neck, and Tommy would bet that if he pressed his fingers to your cheek that they’d be full of sweet, summertime warmth. He wants to feel it, to taste it. But then you press your teeth into your bottom lip and nod, giving him the green light, and Tommy returns to his trajectory. “Be fast,” you say, a teasing lilt to your tone.

Tommy takes it as a challenge. Pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and hands it to you. “Five minutes,” he says, mirroring the silly smile you wear. “Go ‘head. Tell me when you start it.”

You shake your head in disbelief but settle in anyway, leaning back against the mirror. You put in the passcode to his phone, set the timer for exactly five minutes, and lay it on the sink beside your thigh. Your finger hovers over the start button. “You’re a little confident,” you say. “There a reason for that?”

He turns his head and bites the inside of your thigh, flicking his tongue over the hurt the moment your breath catches in your throat. “S’cause I know you, sweetheart,” Tommy explains. “Got you memorized. Know your favorite color, your favorite song.” He moves closer, sucking bruises into your thighs in the shape of his mouth. “Know how you like to be touched.”

Your knees drift further apart, breath coming fast. Anticipating what’s to come.

“Start the damn timer,” Tommy demands. And the moment you do, he’s leaning forward and getting his fix. He pushes your thighs apart and lays wet, open mouthed kisses against your clit. Circles it with a pointed tongue that works you up with precision.

He revels in the broken moans that you let slip, in the way your fingers tangle in his curls. You’re so wet, so responsive, so needy. But this is more for him than it is for you; a controlled release, a hit to tie him over while you’re out. 

It’s damn near over when he slides two fingers inside of you. Your body accepts him so naturally, greedy in a way only he understands. Your fingers curl around the sink’s edge, blanching as you try to fight release.

But Uncle Tommy does have you memorized. Presses his fingers against that spot inside that has you gasping, flicks his tongue just right. 

In the end, it only takes him two minutes and twenty-eight seconds before your pussy pulses around his fingers. Your spine bends and your clit throbs beneath his soft tongue, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Tommy doesn’t stop until your thighs shake. Doesn’t come up for air until his lips are swollen and his chin glistens with your arousal.

But when he does, you wear this sweet smile. And even though his cock throbs painfully in his jeans, Tommy feels satiated at the sight of it. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, helps you back into your jeans, and zips them up all before the timer goes off.

And when the two of you finally leave the hotel room, you lace your fingers through his and cling to him with that sweet smile still on your face. Safe and satisfied and happy.

You cling to him as he leads you through the busy streets of Stratford. Leaning into him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. It’s such a small, intimate thing, but it pleases him. He likes knowing that if anyone were to look in your direction they wouldn’t assume there was anything wrong about the way he holds you.

Not once do you question where he leads you. You just trust him. Fully and without any reservation. No one has ever trusted him like you do, Tommy thinks. Not any of his friends, not any of the women he’s been with, not even his own brother. 

He gets high on it. On your faith. You know him better than anyone and are fully aware that he’s an impulsive man, that he follows his heart without giving the consequences much thought. And yet, still, you trust him fully. To be good to you, to be good for you.

Thoughts of the potential tomorrow he could have with you persist once more, begging to be acknowledged. He tries to stay grounded in the moment. Holds your hand a little tighter, inhales the sweet scent of perfume that clings to your skin. The sun sets in the distance, just now dusk, still bright. Still day. Still time.

When you round the last corner and Tommy steps into the short line at the entrance, you look at him with an expression that’s a little lighter. Bright eyed and curious. “A casino?”

He grins. “What kinda uncle would I be if I didn’t introduce you to some bad ideas of my own every now and again?”

You turn to the bouncer and present him your shiny new ID; the horizontal one that’d come in the mail not too long ago. They wave you through, and Tommy follows suit.

It’s darker inside. Busy, too. Filled with people of all kinds; some in jeans and work boots, not dissimilar to Tommy. Others in three piece suits and cocktail dresses.

The air smells like smoke and booze and the lingering scent of pine cleaner. Colorful lights cascade over the space, over your soft skin. Hues of blues and yellows and greens. He can hear the faint electrical whirring of slot machines in the distance, mixed with sighs of defeat and the clink of coins and gasps of celebrations. All mixed together, a low thrum that slithers through him, the energy alight and buzzing.

The lights reflect beautifully in your eyes, and Tommy can’t help but get a little lost in it. In you. The prettiest girl he’s ever seen. He wishes he had the words to explain it, to make you understand that you’ve uprooted his entire life.

Tommy realizes then that he’d been right all along. In the beginning, knowing that the moment he touched you everything would change. That he would change. Red to blue, green to yellow. He’d known it then and had indulged in you anyway. Completely, lucidly aware that nothing would ever be the same for him.

And if he had a chance to redo it all, if he could go back to that night at the warehouse party, Tommy knows with certainty that he’d do it all over again.

Even if you never say the word. Even if you tire of him and find someone your own age who you don’t have to kiss behind closed doors or ten hours away from everyone you know.

Even then, the time you’ve given to him has been worth it. 

You extend your hand, palm out and open. “Drinks first?”

He slides his rough fingers through yours. “Drinks first.”

Tommy leads you to the bar, orders two whiskeys, and pays with his own card. While you wait for the bartender to finish pouring, he hands you a hundred dollars in cash and says, “Now, the trick is to go slow. I know it’s real exciting, ‘specially when you get the hang of it and start winning. But you gotta keep yourself in check. Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Slow and steady. Easy does it.”

“A hundred bucks each,” he explains. “An’ once you’re out, you’re out. We’re here to have fun, not start any new bad habits.”

You jut out your bottom lip, forming a pout. “Damn. And here I was, thinking we were gonna remortgage the house and sell your truck.”

Tommy snorts, shaking his head. He thanks the bartender when he sets the two whiskeys in front of you and you clink the edges of the crystal glasses together. “We’ll start wherever you wanna go,” he says. “Lead the way, baby.”

It takes you a while to decide. You walk around the carpeted casino floor hand in hand, sipping whiskey and asking a million questions. Sometimes, you linger at some of the tables.

“What’s that one?”

“Baccarat,” Tommy tells you, watching the dealer shuffle the cards in a dramatic fan. “Sometimes you win, sometimes your opponent wins, sometimes the banker wins. Kinda complicated.”

You walk further, past the slot machines and to another small crowd of players. You point to the spinning wheel attached to the table, striped black and red and numbered. “Roulette,” you say. “Right?”

“Supposed to be about math.” Tommy tuts. “Mostly just about luck.”

When you reach the poker tables near the back of the game floor, you move a little slower.

You don’t say anything, but Tommy knows you. So he takes your hand and leads you to the dealer. Buys twenty dollars in poker chips and takes a seat at the table. You do the same, sitting right beside him.

There’s an older gentleman at his other side, graying and drenched in the heady smell of cigar smoke. Beside him sits a woman a little older than you, wearing a sequined dress that casts rainbows over the green table.

The dealer looks to you, and you place the minimum bet in the center of the table. Two blue chips.

Tommy goes next. Adds a red chip to the pool.

The old man places his, and then the woman. And when the dealer places two cards in front of each player, Tommy lifts just the corners of his up and nearly laughs. He’s got an ace of spades and a seven of hearts.

Tommy’s got shit for luck. Always has.

He turns to you, tries to read the look on your face. You just smile at him, maybe a little smug. But he can’t tell if it’s because you’ve got a winning hand or if it’s the excitement of it all.

The dealer discards the card on the top of the deck. Lays it face down off to the side. And then he flips three cards into the center of the table; three of spades, five of diamonds, seven of clubs.

“Bets,” the dealer says.

You lean forward, stacking another blue chip onto the steadily growing pool. “Raise.”

Tommy tries to keep a straight face, but he can’t. The amusement bleeds through, his mouth pulling up at the corners. “Call.” He places the same bet, another blue chip beside yours.

The man beside him folds, and Tommy thinks he must have an even worse hand than the one sitting in front of him.

The woman calls, too. Matches your bet.

The dealer places another card in the center of the table. Six of hearts.

He sees your leg twitch beneath the table. The only tell he’s noticed since the beginning of the game. 

“Bets?”

“Raise,” you say again, putting in two red chips now. Worth more. Nearly doubling the pot.

Tommy shakes his head, rubbing the stubble along his jaw. “Fold,” he says, pushing his cards face down across the table to the dealer. It’s just you and the woman at the end of the table now. 

And it seems she’s got a hell of a poker face, too. Because Tommy can’t pick up on a single cue between either one of you.

The old man beside him nudges Tommy with an elbow. “Guess we got shown up, huh?”

He laughs. “Guess so.”

Just beneath the table, he holds a five dollar bill between two of his fingers. “Got five bucks on my daughter,” he says. It surprises Tommy at first. But as he looks a little closer, he sees the resemblance there; they share the same blue eyes, the same aquiline nose. “How much you got on your wife?”

It’s stupid, he knows.

But Tommy can’t help himself. Not when it comes to you.

He pulls the remaining cash out of his wallet. “Got eighty bucks in my pocket,” he says, his confidence coming out more arrogant than he initially intended. “On her?” He clicks his tongue. “I’m all in.”

The man holds out his hand, a glimmer of excitement in his pale eyes. “Deal’s a deal.”

Tommy grins. Shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Deal’s a deal.”

When he returns his attention to the game, Tommy sees the dealer lay another card on the table. Six of hearts.

You raise again, adding one more blue chip, leaving you almost empty.

The woman at the end of the table hesitates. Just for a moment, but Tommy sees it. She calls, matching your bet.

The dealer lays the final card on the table, face down. He waits, lets the anticipation simmer. And then he flips it with a quick flick of his wrist. Practiced, meticulous. Eight of diamonds.

The woman lays her hand down first. She’s got an eight of hearts and eight of clubs. And with the eight of diamonds on the table, she’s got three of a kind. A win.

Tommy’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Starts to wonder how the fuck he’s going to explain that he’s lost every last dime before the first game’s even finished.

But then you reveal your hand.

Two of diamonds, four of diamonds.

Four of a kind, and a seven card straight.

“Aw, hell.” Tommy’s eyes go wide and it takes everything in him not to jump to his feet. Still, the excitement spills out of him. Won’t stay contained no matter how hard he fights it. He takes your face in his hands and presses his mouth to yours, needing to touch you, to feel you, to taste you. “Now that’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about, baby!”

Your giggles are girlish and blithe, filled with so much joy you’re damn near swimming in it. You lean in and gather the chips on the table, pulling them toward you. As you stack them neatly at your side, you sip the whiskey from your crystal glass. “Another game?”

“You bet your sweet fuckin’ ass we’re playin’ another,” Tommy says.

The old man at his side claps him on the back, forks over eighty bucks worth of poker chips, and says, “Ya’ lucked out on her, kid.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. They’re said so casually, but they give him pause.

Because they’re fucking right.

He’s lived his entire life in the wrong places and the wrong times. Has never been dealt a good hand and if he has, he fucks it up in a minute.

But he did luck out on you.

Was in the right place, at just the right time. Said just the right words, did just the right things.

He fell hard and fast. But you did, too, and Tommy knows it’s the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to him.

And this old man who doesn’t even know your name can see it just as clearly.

Tommy nods. Swallows hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I did.”

The man and his daughter both step away from the table, and two others take their place, leaving Tommy to reassess the way he’s viewed his entire life up until this point.

Because maybe all those mistakes prior to the day he met you were worth it, meant to bring him here. To Joel’s that first evening, to the warehouse party, to the crowded bar on Sixth Street, to that diner in the middle of nowhere, to the poker table you sit at now.

He thinks about the jewelers take on a spiritual connection. How it only happens once in a lifetime or sometimes not at all. 

He thinks about the words you’d whispered to him last night. Surrounded by chlorinated water and sandstone walls, safe enough in his arms to ask the one selfish question he’s ever heard uttered from your lips.

What if it wasn’t my mom and Joel who were meant to meet. What if it was us?

All that bad luck for all those years because he was saving it for you.

The dealer shuffles the cards, fanning them across the table.

You sit there for five more games, all of which you win. You came to the table with twenty dollars in poker chips and leave with over two hundred一up higher than Tommy’s ever been himself.

You ask to take a break after the last win. Tell him you want to try something else, to see if you’re any good at the slot machines or blackjack. But the moment you’re away from the table, you’re throwing away that facade you’ve mastered in the last hour and looping your arms around his neck, smiling wide. “Can you believe that? I did good, didn’t I? Six games in a row!”

Tommy laughs and holds you tight against him. “You did so good, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s see who else’s pockets you can run.”

The slots are a let down. An experience, for sure—but not a single round do you or Tommy win more than a single dollar. Yet, still, you sit beside one another and stick coins into the machines and cross your fingers and hope for the best.

Once, you try to mimic the mechanical whirring sound of one of the penny slots, and it’s so accurate that you have Tommy laughing hard enough his side aches.

You go through more drinks—another round of whiskey and you share a frozen, lime flavored margarita tower that’s nearly as tall as you are.

Tommy wins twice at blackjack, and you lose so badly that you’re back down to the same hundred you walked in with. He wants to try another round, but you call it quits and sit in his lap while he plays.

It’s a hell of a lot more difficult to focus with you so close.

He’s supposed to be counting up the value of his hand, but all he can think about is the curve of your shoulder when you pull your hair back and expose it to him.

Tommy presses a kiss beneath your jaw, trying to curb the craving to taste the salt of your skin. 

He watches goosebumps rise on the back of your neck in response, watches you press your lips together to keep that troublesome smirk from forming on your face. You take his hand that rests gently on your hip and slide it just a little higher, beneath the satin hem of your top. 

It’s different than when you’d done it in the hotel room. Less about feeling him and more about being touched.

You shift in his lap, rolling your hips forward, spreading your legs a little wider to make room for the thick plane of his thigh. It’s the smallest change, barely there一but Tommy sees it. Feels it. The warmth, the need.

There’s six other players at the table. The one on your left is close enough that you could touch your elbow to the fabric of his black suit if you leaned over just a bit more.

Filthy, shameless girl.

You shift your hips over his thigh again. More intentional, more obvious.

Tommy’s hand tightens at your side in warning.

That smirk of yours is on full display now as you glance at him over your shoulder, eyes filled with equal amounts of challenge and devilry.

The other players around him show their hands. One by one. And when it’s Tommy’s turn, he lays his cards down to reveal the winning numbers. A ten of hearts and a ten of spades.

He leans forward to collect the chips in the center of the table, and slides his hand a little higher on your waist in the process. Feels your soft skin beneath his calloused fingertips, pressing into the divots between your ribs.

Tommy always feels that gravitational pull towards you, but it’s different knowing what the end of the night holds. He’s less guarded, less careful. He touches you without shame.

There’s nothing hesitant about it. No guilt. Tommy likes it more this way, he thinks. It makes him feel impossibly closer to you. Makes him feel free. Weightless.

His subtle touches are a little different for the remainder of the night. Heavier, full of intent. His hand at the small of your back as you try a rounds of pool, his forefinger beneath your chin, forcing you to look up at him when you ask for another whiskey.

But there’s no rush, no race to get home to feed your desires before the moment passes.

You’re gifted a round of shots from a girl you make quick friends with in the restroom, and the luck of it convinces you to go back to the poker tables. They’re busier now, the night in full swing.

But it makes no difference. You still wipe the floor with the other players every damn game, Tommy included. Even the ones where you’re dealt a losing hand, you’ve got such a winning streak that he finds himself folding out of intimidation.

A little before eleven, the two of you step out onto the balcony to share a cigarette that Tommy lights with the chrome zippo that lives permanently in the front pocket of his Levi’s. You leave the poker table with nearly five hundred dollars worth of chips in your pockets and a carefree smile on your face. 

You lean back against the railing on the balcony, smoke swirling around you in an angelic halo. “I can see why people get addicted to this,” you say, lighthearted.

Tommy laughs. “Yeah, well. Let’s keep that little confession to ourselves. You develop a gamblin’ addiction an’ Joel finds out it was ‘cause of me, he’ll have my ass.”

With the roll of your eyes you say, “Oh, please. If I’m going to develop any addictions it’s not gonna be something lame as hell like gambling.”

He gives you a crooked smirk. “Booze, then?”

“Was thinking heroin,” you joke, passing the half-smoked cigarette back to him.

“Fuckin’ ridiculous,” he says with a shake of his head, but his wide smile only grows. He takes a long drag, letting the nicotine dull the alcohol head buzz that’s well and truly set in by now.

You giggle softly, always happy to present him with that crude humor. But as he exhales slowly, your smile begins to fall. Just a little, as if you’re unsure of exactly how you’re feeling. Caught between one emotion and the next. 

Tommy reaches out his hand. Strokes his knuckles gently across your cheek. “Tell me, baby.”

You cast your eyes away, nudging a small pebble beneath the tip of your sneaker, resigned. And then you admit, “I don’t want to go home tomorrow.”

It pulls that anxiety that’s been building in his chest all day to the forefront of his mind. The fear that this feeling won’t last, that it’s coming to a rapid close. That this high has gone on for too long and the come down is like a slab of concrete rushing up to greet him from below.

Tommy wishes he had the answers for you. Wishes he could carry the weight of it all just to grant you peace. He’d do it without complaint if it meant you didn’t have to feel this emptiness, too.

”C’mere.” He opens his arm and you fit yourself naturally beneath it. “My sweet girl,” he murmurs, lying his cheek on the top of your head, holding you as close as his anatomy will allow. His grip is firm, unrelenting, squeezing tight like his body could grow roots into yours if only he could get close enough.

With a long exhale, you say, “I wish we could stay here forever. The pretending gets so tiring. You go home after dinner every night and it’s the worst part of the day. I just…I miss you. All the time.”

His stomach twists and his throat gets tight in the way it always does when his emotions start to choke him. “I’m right here, darlin’,” he whispers. “Not goin’ anywhere. An’ you never have to pretend. Not with me.”

Tommy keeps you close until your shoulders relax and the cigarette burns to cinders between his fingers. And when you finally pull away, you stare at him hard. Like you’re searching for something hidden in his eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak. To remind you that whatever turmoil’s swirling around inside that pretty head of yours is his to shoulder, too.

But then you let out a dramatic groan. Loud enough to attract the attention of the other smokers out on the patio. You pay them no mind, though, and neither does he. You throw up your hands in surrender and say, “You know what? No. No. Fuck it.”

Tommy thinks the rapid shift in energy may just give him whiplash. He’s got no clue about the silent conversation you’ve had with yourself, but he knows that he loves you. Knows that he’s never had a bad day if you were at his side. Knows that as long as you’re together, he’d do anything. 

Anything. 

A short, clipped laugh escapes him, and then Tommy throws his hands up, too. “Fuck it.”

You grab his hand and lead him back inside. There’s a newfound determination in the way you move, and it frightens him and makes him feel alive simultaneously.

The roulette table is still just as busy as it was in the beginning of the night. Bustling with players and onlookers alike. Tommy stops you just before you start pushing your way through the crowd. 

He wants to know what’s changed. Has the faintest hope that you’re being selfish for once. But he can’t be certain. Not with this.

And so he says, “Hey, wait. Hang on. What, exactly, are we fucking?”

“Each other,” you answer with the happiest smile on your face. “I mean, Christ. I’m not…I’m not doing this anymore. I love you, and I’m tired of feeling bad about it.”

Tommy blinks in surprise. His heart hammers behind his ribcage.

With a sigh, you say, “Look, I don’t一I don’t know a thing about this, alright? I know fuck all about soul connections or how any of this is supposed to go or how it’s supposed to look. What I do know is that Joel’s gonna be pissed and my mom’s gonna think I’m having a crisis. But, like…fuck it, right?”

He couldn’t fight his face splitting grin if he tried. You’ve always been close. Always understood each other in ways no one else could possibly comprehend. But this is something else entirely, like coming home after a long day. Like taking a fresh breath of air. “Fuck it,” Tommy echoes.

Your eyes glitter, neon lights reflected in them as you dig out all of your casino chips from the pockets of your jeans. “We’ll tell them tomorrow,” you say. “The second we get home. I’m all in, Uncle Tommy. Are you?”

You already know the fucking answer. 

And Tommy Miller, impulsive and obsessed man he is, adds the chips in his pockets to the pile in your hands. He says, “Put it all on red, baby,” and you do.

Pushing your way through the crowd, you set every last casino chip on the table. The other players raise their eyebrows in concern or see the opportunity and sport a wolfish smile, but you hardly notice. All your poker earnings, all of his from blackjack, sit in a messy pile on the green game table. You look at the dealer and say, “All in on red.”

“Bold,” the woman says with a nod of approval. “Number?”

You glance back at Tommy over your shoulder. “Twenty-one,” he answers. “For your birthday.”

You quickly stack your chips on the table over the red circle with the number twenty-one written on the inside, hands moving with precision.

The dealer spins the wheel, colors blurring and shifting together. She waits one second, two seconds一and then she drops the ivory-coated ball into the wooden bowl and everyone around the table goes silent. Waiting with bated breath, listening to the steady tick, tick, tick of the dial. 

You and Tommy walk back to the hotel with empty pockets. No casino chips to be found, not a single dollar to either of your names.

But it doesn't matter. Not really. Because you’re laughing and the stars are bright beneath the night black sky and his heart has never been so full. 

He put it all on red. High risk, high reward. Lost every damn dime and still walked away from that roulette table the luckiest man alive.

You race down the side of the busy city streets, sharing rushed and messy kisses that leave him feeling intoxicated in a whole new way. Tommy gets high on you, on your sweet affection, on the unrestrained version of your love.

Once you’re tucked safely back behind the hotel room door, you can’t get each other’s clothes off fast enough. He struggles to untie the satin fabric at the back of your neck, so you resort to pulling it over your head instead.

And when you shove him back against the crisp, white sheets, Tommy’s t-shirt is on the floor but he’s only got a single boot kicked off. You have time now, he knows. Could take things slow, could savor it.

But you don’t have to. You can rush into it tonight because there’s always tomorrow.

The word clings around in his head. Tomorrow. With you. Something he’d always hoped for but never quite let himself believe was possible until you’d said those two pretty words. All in.

Tommy thinks he’s been all in with you from that very first night in Joel’s kitchen. Had placed his bets before he lifted that bottle to your mouth, before that whiskey ever touched your tongue.

When you kick your jeans off onto the floor, Tommy shifts further up the mattress. Leans back against the headboard as you crawl in his lap wearing nothing now but that pearl pendant around your smooth neck.

His cock rests against his stomach, thick and heavy, and his lips part as you situate yourself just above it and slide him through the syrupy wetness that’s gathered between your legs.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, baby.” Tommy presses his fingers into the softness of your hips, letting you set the pace. He matches your rhythm and helps guide you. “And I—Christ. I’m so god damn in love with you.”

You smile wide, lighthearted laughter filling the space. And you’re so perfect above him—so happy, that it has warmth spreading through his veins. Not just the hot, needy sort of desire he’s used to, but something warmer. Something that only ever exists when he’s with you.

Tommy knows it’s irrational, the idea of soulmates. Knows that people aren’t cosmic matter wrapped up in human skin. But, fuck. He doesn’t care that it’s senseless and illogical—you are the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to him.

He lifts his hips, angling them just right so when you roll yourself against him again he slides right in. You sigh in tandem, basking in the sweet, aching relief of finally being close enough.

With your hands braced on his shoulders, you begin to move slowly at first, working up to it, accommodating to the size of him. A steady but incessant rocking, thighs bracketing his waist. Gentle but desperate all the same.

“You got it,” Tommy encourages softly. “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Made for me, weren’t you? Hm? Made real special, just for Uncle Tommy.”

He can never get enough of you. Feels drunk on the way you look on top of him when you start to quicken your pace. Feels high on the way you breathe out his name and the way your nails dig into the strong muscle of his back.

You feel so fucking good—messy and wet and so warm it makes his head spin. Tommy lifts his hips in sync with you, getting that much deeper. His cock throbs and twitches with each pass of your sweet pussy, arousal making a mess of the thick curls at his base. “Squeezin’ me so tight,” he says. “Look so pretty ridin’ it.”

The sounds you make are pornographic. Sexy and sultry and mouthwatering.

But Tommy can see that little wrinkle of frustration as it forms between your brows. Knows you need a little more, always just a little more, his pretty, desperate girl. “How’s it feel, baby? Talk to me.”

“Good, so一so good, but…I can’t, hm一please一”

He knows. Of course he knows.

“You need my help? S’that it, huh?” You nod frantically, chest heaving with each ragged breath. And Tommy gets it. He understands.

So he surges forward, bracketing his arm around the center of your waist. He holds you close, your breasts pressed flush against his chest. He lifts you just enough to make room for himself below you, and the new angle has him craning his neck to look you in those pretty, starry eyes.

And then he’s thrusting hard, fucking up into you, reaching deeper than you could get alone.

A sharp gasp leaves your throat, a wrecked sort of sound, and his lips curl up into a crooked smirk. “There she is,” he whispers against your collarbone. He does it again, rolling his hips, sinking in deep. “My favorite girl.”

“Oh god一” You loop your arms around his neck, holding tight. The most intimate embrace he’s ever been a part of, a merging of souls.

He finds a good, steady rhythm. Full of longing and love and promise. He lays wet, open mouthed kisses over every part of you he can reach; the curve of your shoulder, the column of your throat, the arch beneath your jaw bone. “Wanna spend the rest of my life with you,” he says, breathing hard as he feels your walls squeeze tight around him. “Build you a big ol’ house and fuck you to sleep every night in it. Jus’ like this. Put a fuckin’ rock on that finger an’ make you a real Miller, baby. Through and through.” 

“Tommy, please,” you whimper. “You’re gonna make me cum一”

“Nuh-uh, not yet.” He slows his hips just enough to keep you there, right on the edge.

You toss your head back and he can feel you pulse around him, can hear the wet sounds from between your thighs with each thrust. “But I’m so close.”

“I know, sweetheart, but you got it,” he says tenderly. “Just a little longer, hm? Be good. Be good for me.”

And you do, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing your sweat-dotted forehead to his. Resisting, fighting it hard. His perfect, filthy girl.

His release gnaws at him. An intense heat that builds low in his belly, flames licking at his insides, growing and growing until it becomes an inferno. Tommy snakes his free hand down his middle and presses the pad of his middle finger against your swollen clit. “Could put a fuckin’ baby in you,” he grunts out, words feral and breathless. 

“Fuck, please, please, I can’t一” 

Tommy’s vision goes blurry with the way you squeeze him like a vice, but he only doubles down. It’s vulgar and depraved and disgusting, but he loves it. And he knows you do, too一you’re one in the god damn same. “Ain’t nothin’ they could do about it then. Be mad all they want, but it’ll be my baby in your belly. Fill you up ‘til it sticks.”

He knows you’ve lost control before you even say it. Can feel the way you pulse around him, can feel the rush of liquid that trickles down his cock, coating him.

“Shit, baby,” he hisses, fucking you through it, pressing his rough fingers into the soft flesh of your side. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy. Deserve to feel so good. My favorite girl.” 

You slide your hands into his hair and crush your mouth to his in a bruising kiss. It’s hot and messy, a clashing of tongues and lips and teeth, desperate in its own right. You say, “I want everything with you, love you so much.”

And your raw adoration is his unravelling. The way it always is.

Tommy spills himself deep inside you, doesn’t stop until you’re both a mess of trembling limbs and satisfied laughter.

You fall back into the sheets, laying on your side, facing one another, fingers threaded together. Tommy kisses the tip of your nose while he tries to catch his breath. Swipes away the strands of hair that stick to your forehead.

He feels faint with the amount of love that fills him in this moment because there’s no reason for him to fight it. No use in worrying about what happens tomorrow, because it’ll be you, and it’ll be him, and not much else on God’s green earth truly matters.

You’re nearly asleep, eyes closed and breath shallow, when he asks, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“Everything,” he clarifies. “Do you really want it all? Marriage and kids and everythin’ else. You want that? With…with me?”

You don’t open your eyes, but you begin to trace the curves of his face with gentle fingertips. The arch of his brow, the slope of his nose, the shape of his mouth. He doesn’t flinch, not even once, because you move like it’s muscle memory.

The thought crosses Tommy’s mind that no one has ever truly loved him before. Not like this. Not like you have.

“Sometimes I think about things that happened before I met you,” you tell him. “Parties I went to, bars I snuck into with my fake ID, vacations and my graduation and road trips. And all I can think now is how much I wish you’d been there, too. I don’t want to have to do that anymore. The wishing.”

He smiles, and when you feel it beneath your touch you smile, too.

Through a sleepy voice, you say, “Everything is better with you.”

Tommy has never slept so peacefully in his life.

Has never been so happy to wake up to his alarm at the ass crack of dawn.

You spend the ten hour drive back to Austin talking. The radio hums low in the background and the air is just warm enough to have the windows down. You put your bare feet in his lap while he drives and you talk about everything the future holds for the two of you.

It’s going to be hard, you both know. Laying out your worst grievances on Joel’s kitchen table. But it’ll be worth it, too.

And after, once things have settled down, and the job in Stratford is complete, you talk about buying a plot of land not unlike the one you’d viewed during the consultation. A couple of acres just outside of town. You talk about getting a dog and raising chickens and painting the kitchen cabinets navy blue and adorning them with brass hardware.

You show him pictures on your phone that you find on Pinterest of cute little farmhouses with big windows above the sink and wood flooring and wrap around porches.

When he asks about marriage and kids, it doesn’t feel weird at all. It feels easy. You tell him you want to wait until you’re twenty five but insist on having at least two.

It feels like the shortest ten hours of his life.

And when you pull into Joel’s driveway, Tommy’s stomach twists and his mouth goes dry. 

But then you grab his hand and kiss his cheek and whisper, “All in.”

And Tommy’s ready. He is. To tell his brother, to deal with the mean right hook that’s likely coming, to start his life. Because it had never really had much meaning until he’d met you.

Your mom and Joel greet you on the front porch. He’s got his arm draped over her shoulders and there’s this look on his face一happy. Elated, even. No scowl to be found.

Tommy thinks there must be good news and feels the smallest bit of guilt, knowing that whatever it is, he’s about to ruin his big brother’s joyful mood.

You don’t make it two steps into the house before your mom takes your hands in hers. She’s nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet, sporting a face splitting grin and bright eyes not unlike your own.

She looks at you, and then at Joel. “I can’t wait. I can’t! It’s killing me.”

Joel laughs. “Alright, then. Go on, tell her.”

Something dark swirls in Tommy’s stomach.

And then your mom holds out her left hand. Nails manicured and painted pale blue and一there. Right there on her finger lays a silver band with a small diamond set in its center. “We’re getting married!”

Your hand jolts back behind you, searching for him, fingers finding the hem of Tommy’s t-shirt and squeezing tight.

For what it’s worth, you put that poker face to good use.

You hug your mom and gush about the ring and tell her how happy you are for her. Joel embraces you and kisses the top of your head and holds you in this fatherly sort of embrace.

But Tommy knows you. Sees right through it. Picks up on every last one of your tells. 

Can hear the shake in your voice, sees the tremble of your bottom lip, notices the way you try to touch him every chance you get, reaching out for safety. A brush of your knuckles, a press of your arm against his, scrambling to pick up the pieces of the security you’d just found.

He and Joel share a drink in celebration in the kitchen and Tommy claps him on the back. Congratulates him while trying hard not to lose his footing, to fight off the dizziness.

They offer to take everyone out to dinner. Your mom says, “Sarah will be home soon. She already knows, but we can all go out to that Mexican place to celebrate. How’s that sound?”

Tommy’s the one who answers. Lies and says the drive has exhausted him. That all he really wants is a nap.

Your mom and Joel are understanding, of course. Promise a rain check. Next weekend, maybe.

The ringing in his ears doesn’t stop until he’s back in his apartment. Empty and silent and smothering in the worst ways.

And it’s right then and there that Tommy Miller knows his luck’s run out.

note: hi hello i just want to say thank you to everyone who's been so unbelievably supportive of this fic it makes me so happy to hear everyone's thoughts and to share my excitement with you :') i also want to thank all of you who've recommended this little series of mine over on tiktok in the comments of tommy edits i see u and i love u and i would die for u <3 and if you're interested in some edits inspired by uncle tommy, @feelherlove has made some really beautiful ones so be sure to go check those out!! also, i've made a playlist over on spotify for this series as well and have been slowly adding to it for anyone who's interested in that!! or if you have any recommendations let me know!! ok bye love u so much <3

@theretrofuturista @chuutu @gabymalikk @nana90azevedo @alidiggory92 @marisemonteiroo @ivyinthesun @hollowgracie @moyavsemoya @feliciahardysgf @polkadotsocks1993 @malewifejoelmiller @mmmunson @ssssc0m @skye-44 @tateypots @joelscowgirl69 @dbs5647 @cuntyhunty22 @thaliagracesgf @whossbunny @jamespotterismydaddy @whatdoyoumeanhesnapped @rainydayathogwarts @urfavhanna @subconsciouscollapse @worhols @joyridinginzombieland @emmaaas-posts @millers-girl @strawberrytreecake @atjlovverr @magicxmiller @reidswifeyyyyyy @avaluna @joelsslutt @krystal---meth @bbhfilms @virginesquee @njdluvr @royaltyinlife @bunniacula @gojosanna @streamermattsgf @emmasveinyahhdih @yslgreen @dissentientss @rubyscooby @thisisajdesing @millersdoll @pattwtf @zoeyjadetice2010

[divider by @/bernardsbendystraws]

[batsybat91]

Hairstylist!reader and touch starved!141

Enough. Said.

I'll try my best with this one!! I think I'll go with Price - that boy's got a lotta hair. I just want you to know that I had to google "Captain Price without a hat cod" for this.

"Captain, you need tae get a haircut," Soap scolds. "Yer beard is longer than the 'hawk!"

Price grimaces. "You'll have to kill me, Soap."

"Price, I am beggin' ye," replies Soap, clasping his hands together as if he's praying. "A bloody caveman would look better than you!"

"I don't want to," Price replies, crossing his arms. "I don't need it."

"You do," Ghost says plainly, narrowing his eyes behind the mask. "Even my hair looks better than that, Price."

"I can give ye my lady's number!" Soap offers.

"You go to a fucking hairstylist for that thing on your head?" Ghost scoffs.

"I go for the scalp massage and the flirting." Soap sticks his tongue out at Ghost.

"I'll take the number, if it'll shut you up," Price finally says after a few moments of Soap and Ghost bickering.

Soap enters her number into Price's phone, putting (Hairstylist) at the end of her name. Price tucks his phone away and goes about his day, but he finds himself unable to stop thinking about getting his hair cut. It is getting a little scruffy, and if Soap is willing to spend money on his fuck-ass mohawk for this lady... maybe it's worth it.

So, Price dials here number at the end of the day. He waits three rings until she picks up.

-

You answer your phone with a cheerful, "Hello! How can I help you?"

"My name is John Price. Uh, a friend of mine said he gets his hair cut by you. Do you... do you have anything available tomorrow?" the man on the other end asks.

You open your calender on your computer, nodding thoughtfully at it. "Yes, I have a spot open at 1500 tomorrow. Does that work for you?"

"That works just fine for me," he says, sounding a little strained.

"Awesome! I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Price," you exclaim, marking him down. "Have a good night!"

"You, too. Bye," he almost whispers.

"Buh-bye!" You hang up.

When tomorrow finally rolls around, a tall, burly man walks into your salon at 1500 sharp. You try not to gape at him, really, you do. But behind that thick beard and under that cute hat, you can see what is likely one of the most handsome men you've seen in your whole damn life. He walks up to the front counter, almost sheepish.

"Um, I'm looking for a Ms..." He glances at his phone.

"Are you John Price?" you call. "I'm your stylist today, baby. Come on over, we'll get you all fixed up!"

You sit him in your chair and remove his little hat. You set the hat in his lap, then turn him around in the chair. With a dramatic swoosh, you wrap the cape around his shoulders. "I haven't had my hair cut in a few years," he admits softly.

"That's okay," you murmur, running your fingers through his hair. He's shaking a little under your palms, like he's cold. You gently scratch his beard, playing with strands of his hair. "What are we thinking? Something military? Something fluffy? Something handsome?"

"Wh-whatever you think is-is-is best," he stammers.

"Don't worry, baby, we'll have you killin' all the ladies," you say. "Now, lean back. I'm gonna wash your head and your face."

He gives you a worried look. "That's a lot... can we skip the face, please?"

"Sure we can." You nod. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Price leans back with the chair, resting his neck against the curve of the wash bowl. You adjust the water to a warm temperature, wetting his hair with the sink's hose. He's still shaking like a leaf on a tree, and you can see the faint outline of his fists clenching against his jeans.

"Relax, John. I'm not going to hurt you," you say, turning off the sink. You lather your best shampoo between your hands, and you can see him mentally bracing himself.

Gently, you card your fingers through his hair, scrubbing his scalp. You are giving him the special treatment. You know that. He's so skittish about you touching him, and you want him to come back to see you again. "That's nice," he whispers, glancing up at you.

You can't help the grin that crosses your face. "Yeah? Don't get your hair washed very often?"

He shakes his head. "I don't like... it."

You nod sagely. "I caught that. Don't worry. You're in good hands."

"Johnny MacTavish recommended me to you," Price murmurs.

"Johnny?" you laugh. "Bugger. He only gets his hair done to flirt!"

"I should have assumed as much," he grumbles. As you move your hands down to the sides of his head, you notice he leans into your touch. He seems to be enjoying this.

When you finish rinsing his hair off, you gently cup his face. "Can I wash your beard?"

He gives you a frightened look, but a single nod. "Okay."

You scratch his beard, then lather your beard wash between your palms. "If you were Johnny, I'd offer to sit in your lap," you tease.

His eyes dilate. "You... you would?"

"He's a flirt," you hum as you gently massage his face.

"But would you do it?" Price asks hesitantly.

"Sit in your lap?" you chuckle. "Maybe if you took me out on a date first."

"Okay," he whispers.

"Okay?" You raise your brows. "What's that mean?"

"I'll go on a date with you," he groans softly when you massage his temples.

"Let's get this haircut done first, yeah? Then we can talk about dates," you promise. You wrap his face in a steaming hot towel, scrubbing him gently before sitting him up again.

Price watches you work in the mirror, his heart melting with each snip of your scissors. He's never been touched so adoringly before. The haircut seems like it's over before it even started. And he finds himself wanting your magic fingers to touch... other parts of him.

As he examines his fresh cut in the mirror, a thick beard that's trimmed with perfection and a short, yet handsome hairstyle. "Thank you," he whispers. "For being so kind."

"Of course, John," you reply, cupping his face. "Now, you come back any time, okay?"

"About that date?" he says, eyes darting away from your fsce for a second.

"Call me, baby. We'll set something up," you assure him.

[rafesteddy]

𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝙰 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜’ 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝...

𝓓𝓘𝓛𝓕!𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓜𝓘𝓛𝓕!𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: language, pet names, + suggestive comments

Based on this ask 🩷

600 words

You’re trying really hard to get ready. Really, really hard. Dress laid out, makeup half done, hair styled... You keep telling yourself, ’this is your night’. Long overdue, girls night out, no kids, no responsibilities, just you and your friends and maybe a drink or three.

Every time you pass through the bedroom you get stuck because there’s Rafe. Still—he’s sprawled out on the bed, acting like he’s relaxed but not fooling anyone. Long legs stretched, sweatpants riding low on his hips, messy hair falling just right… and those baby blues locked on you, dragging over every inch, slow and shameless. Seducing without even trying.

Every time you rush past, grabbing something you forgot—lip gloss, your purse, your earrings—he’s watching and smirking, shamelessly proud he can call you his.

“You almost ready, pretty?” He asks, voice low and casual as his tongue glides along his plump bottom lip, watching as you rub some body oil on your skin.

And suddenly you’re standing there with your keys in one hand and absolutely no clue what you were supposed to be doing next because his gaze is distracting in the best possible way.

“Baby…” you scold, “stop it already.” Your cheeks heat up under the weight of his gaze; burning from your smile. And still, every time you pass by he lets a lazy, “hey pretty girl” slip out or reaches out to touch wherever he can.

You can feel his eyes follow you as you walk in front of the big floor mirror in your bedroom, putting in your earrings, adjusting the straps of your dress, swiping on your gloss.

He stands up, seizing the opportunity to hold you for a bit. You giggle giddily and roll your eyes.

Rafe stands tall behind you. His big hands wrap around you as his fingertips graze the silky fabric of the dress he’s dreaming of tearing off. His chin drops to your shoulder; breath warm where it fans over your skin and he murmurs, “You sure you’re goin’ out tonight, baby?”

He’s only kidding, but his voice isn’t; lips, brushing right under your ear, lazy and sweet, making it almost impossible to finish what you’re doing.

And then you catch it, just out of the corner of your eye as Rafe’s hand slips into your purse, tucking a neat fold of hundreds inside, casually, like he doesn’t even want you to notice. But you do.

And you know exactly what he’s saying without a word, ’Treat yourself, baby. I want to buy your drinks tonight—even if we share everything. Even if it’s all ours.’

“You deserve this,” he says quietly, nuzzling your neck, thumb stroking over your hip. “I’ll leave you alone… I just can’t help myself. Not when you look this fuckin’ good. You’ll have to forgive me.”

You laugh lightly, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “You make me feel beautiful, baby.”

“You are beautiful, honey,” he hums. “Don’t know what I did to deserve all this.” He mumbles those words as his eyes fall down your body and up again. “Whenever you want—and don’t you dare fuckin’ rush—I’ll be right here. Endin’ your night right. Keepin’ you up for a bit… Remindin’ you how lucky I am… And then, I’ll put you to bed. You’ll sleep like a fuckin’ baby when I’m done with you.”

You turn into his chest, dizzy from it all, and his mouth finds yours, soft and slow.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth.

His fingers tighten at your waist, holding you as long as you’ll let him.

“I love you too, baby.”

You rub your thumb gently over his mouth, laughing lightly as you scrub off a smudge of your sparkly gloss.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper.

But he shakes his head, grin tugging at his mouth as his fingers brush over your hip one last time. “No,” he murmurs, leaning in close. “You are, baby.”

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @cherrywriterrr | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1

[4doras]

NOBODY NEW “THEY WERE ALWAYS JUST THERE, LIKE THEY BELONGED.” *ੈ✩‧₊˚  

genre. nicholas x reader, fluff, est. relationship, 1.1k +use of ej’s real name 

ꕤ. ty anon for requesting ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜ this was so fun to write!! 

you and nicholas were inseparable, is what your friends would say – always catching you two laughing at inside jokes, helping one another with small tasks that one could do alone, sharing belongings like clothes – and it was extremely obvious to them now that you were on a trip together. 

every morning, one of the others would find you and nicholas eating breakfast together, even taking bites out of the other person’s food. 

but no one questioned it, they just chalked it up to your friendship. 

more under the cut! 

it was just you and nicholas now, sitting in his room. neither of you were doing much, both just scrolling on your phones, but even just the presence of one another was comforting. 

“i wonder why none of them have asked us if we’re dating.” he said suddenly, looking up at you and slightly pouting. 

to be completely honest, you and nicholas had been dating for ages, almost two years now. yet none of your friends noticed or asked. 

you shrugged your shoulders, eyes still on your phone. “i ‘dunno, nicho.” but when you looked up, nicholas wasn’t there. instead, he was laying beside you, leaning into your warmth. “do you want to tell them?” 

“nah, i don’t mind it like this.” he smiled, going back onto his phone. “we don’t even hide it and they don’t ask.” 

and so did you. 

whenever you and nicholas hung out, it just felt like hanging out with your friend. natural, simple. you didn’t have to make every hang out a date, not every date was so casual either. it was like you two were made for each other, you understood one another like it was yourself. 

two days of your trip have passed, and no one has come up to you or nicholas to ask about how affectionate you’re being to each other. it was weird. they’d seen you and him sitting strangely close to each other, the type of close that screams “not just friends”. they’d seen you compliment nicholas and nicholas compliment you, calling each other “pretty” and “handsome”, yet no one batted an eye. 

when would they notice? did you really have to tell them straight up? 

day three of the trip would be a day for going to the beach, one of you and nicholas’ favourite things to do together. it was the perfect opportunity to spend time together and reveal your relationship. discreetly, of course.  

nicholas was wearing a shirt that was buttoned a little too low for your liking, so you went and buttoned it up a little higher. while you were fixing up his shirt, he was gently holding your waist, softly rubbing his thumb along your skin. 

and still, not a single remark. no whispers flying around the room, not a single raised eyebrow, absolutely nothing. 

at this point, you were convinced you’d have to kiss him in front of everyone to get a reaction out of them. 

what was worse was that the rest of the day was the same; acting close on purpose and not getting a reaction from it. all your efforts were in vain. 

fuma, euijoo, and nicholas were all in the ocean now, doing whatever they please while you, giselle, and winter were sitting on the sand, enjoying the heat of the sun. 

“i’m surprised nicholas didn’t drag you with him, y/n.” winter giggled, teasing you. in retrospect, it didn’t work at all, considering you and nicholas were dating, but winter didn’t know that. 

“yeah,” you chuckled. “he knows i wanna spend time with you guys.” 

“at the house, it seems like all he wants to do is be by you.” giselle widened her eyes, giving you a sly grin. 

they were both right there, yet so far. 

“we won’t push, y/n.” she laid a hand on your shoulder. “we know you guys are just friends.” 

except that push was just the thing they needed. 

when the guys got out of the water, they started heading toward where you, giselle, and winter were sitting. 

nicholas huffed as he sat down. “can you dry my hair for me?” he asked, giving you a towel. 

“you’re so lazy, nicho. do it yourself.” you pushed the towel back into his arms, laughing at his upset reaction. 

once he wasn’t dripping water everywhere, he put on his shirt, buttoning it up. 

“nicho, we’re at the beach.” euijoo said, tugging at the shirt. “you can get a girlfriend here, just take it off.” 

“she’s right in front of me?” nicholas was pointing at you, looking around with a confused face like it was obvious (it is). 

a chorus of “what”’s and “huh”’s erupted, giselle and winter grabbed you like you revealed a top secret, both of their jaws on the ground. 

“since when?” fuma was blinking hard, like it was a dream and he had to wake up. 

“it’s been almost two years, fuma.” nicholas answered, a laugh on the tip of his tongue. 

“and you guys didn’t tell us?” euijoo was appalled, maybe even betrayed. 

“we thought it was obvious,” you looked at nicholas, then everyone. “i mean, we were literally cuddling on the couch the other night. you can’t tell me we’re 'just friends’.” you tried to justify it. 

“i thought you guys were just… close friends.” winter scratched her head. “like, super close friends… y’know.” 

there was a pause. a long, stunned, processing pause. then laughter – the kind that comes out after shock wears off and everything finally clicks into place.

giselle lightly smacked your arm. “i knew there was something off about how he called you pretty every morning like it was a part of his routine.”

“and you literally wiped food off his face with your thumb,” winter added, throwing her hands up like she was a detective missing a huge part of evidence.

“i was there for that!” fuma gasped, then pointed accusingly. “and i said nothing!”

“you all seriously thought we were just really, really close friends?” nicholas grinned, pulling you closer, letting you lean into his side.

“i mean…” euijoo started, but then trailed off, suddenly unsure about what to say. “okay, yeah. I guess we’re just blind.”

nicholas looked at you and smiled. “i told you there was no point in hiding it.”

you smiled back, resting your head on his shoulder. the group slowly went back to their chatter, a few still stunned, but your relationship was no longer the center of the conversation.

and just like that, everyone knew about your relationship. 

still, nothing really changed. except now, they knew. but it made sense.

you and nicholas were always together – you two belonged together. 

perm taglist. @jellyouse

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Can you do a Eric Campbell X Reader and it be like she’s Julie’s friend and Her and Eric pretend to hate eachother but it’s just one big game of cat and mouse!!! I hope I explained it well thank you!!

Request: Can you do erik mistakenly getting a nude from julia's friend?

Something fun to end this Monday! I hope you like it

Warnings: mention of a topless picture

—

Everybody makes mistakes. It’s part of life. But sometimes you just wish you could erase the past. 

Or a text message from the night before. 

You should have checked twice before sending a topless pic to Julia. Nothing sexy or suggestive, just a simple picture to show her the new jewelry you got for your nipples. Instead, you sent it to her brother Erik. 

To make things even more embarrassing, you only realized your mistake when you woke up the next day and saw Erik’s name flooding your notifications. 

Erik: I was not expecting that this morning 💀 

Erik: Is this a drunk text? Because I don’t think I was supposed to receive that… I’m guessing you wanted to send it to someone else

Erik: Nice jewelry. We sell similar styles at the shop. In case you’re interested?

You’ve never been more embarrassed in your life. Of all the people to see you half-naked, why did it have to be Julia’s brother? You considered deleting the conversation and pretending nothing ever happened, but it was too late for that now.  

Quickly typing, you apologized for the unsolicited nude and explained that it was meant for Julia. You thought it would end there, but your phone buzzed with a new notification. 

Erik: Great tits by the way 👀

Your jaw dropped as you read. Great tits?! 

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, unsure if you should be mortified or flattered. 

 ⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

A few days later, you ended up at Julia’s house to drop off a dress she asked to borrow for a date. As you knocked on the door, you prayed that Erik wasn’t home and that you’ll never have to talk about your late night mistake again. The gods of luck must not have answered your prayers because there he was, standing before you, a playful grin on his face.

‘’Well, look who finally showed up,’’ he said, his voice oozing with sarcasm. ‘’I was wondering when you'd grow the balls to come over here after sending me that little surprise.’’

You ignored his teasing and walked past him. ‘’I’m just dropping off a dress for Julia.’’ 

Erik shut the door behind you. ‘’She’s not here.’’ 

‘’I know. She told me to leave it on her bed.’’ 

You went upstairs and left the dress on Julia’s bed, then came back down. 

Having heard you come down, Erik lifted his head from the couch where he was laying on and playing Silent Hill. “You sure you don’t want to stick around? I could return the favor. Show you my jewelry,” he joked, tone suggestive. 

He worked in a tattoo shop, it didn’t surprise you that he had body piercings — other than the one in his nose. But which one was he talking about? Was it nipples? Some men do have them pierced. Or was it…lower?

Although you were curious, you rolled your eyes. “Not interested. Bye Erik.”

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•

‘’I’m so nervous. The last piercing I got was my ears when I was eleven,’’ Danyka told the piercer while she was filling out the paperwork, a nervous giggle leaving her lips.

The woman smiled at her, kind and empathic. ‘’You’ll feel just a pinch, honey. I got my belly done three times, I know what I’m talking about.’’ 

Once she was done, Danyka followed her to the piercing area of the shop, leaving you in the front. 

You walked around, taking a look at all the nipple jewelry behind the glass counter. There were some cute ones with pink and blue gems. And some were insanely big barbels, and painful to look at. How could anyone want something like that? Stretching the hole must hurt, no? Last week, your left piercing accidentally got caught in your towel. It hurt like a bitch. You couldn’t imagine stretching it. 

Your eyes fell on a heart shield with tiny gems on it — very feminine, just how you liked. You weren’t looking to buy any, having bought a new pair recently, but this one was calling your name. 

You pressed the small bell, calling someone up at the front. 

To your surprise, Erik appeared from the back, wearing his leather jacket and nothing under. Shit. You completely forgot that this was the tattoo shop he worked at. 

Your eyes lingered for half a second too long, and Erik definitely noticed.

He smirked, leaning casually against the counter. ‘’Missed me, sweetheart?’’ he teased, voice low and smug. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus on the jewelry behind the glass. ‘’Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t know you worked here.’’

Erik chuckled at your quick denial, his smirk widening as he saw your eyes dart back to the jewelry behind the glass. ‘’These would look good on you. You’ve got the perfect sized nipples.’’

You tried to maintain your composure at his bold comment, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing it made your stomach flutter. ‘’Oh my god. Why are you so obsessed with my boobs?!’’ 

As the banter continued, the front door dinged, signaling someone walked in. A girl — no older than eighteen —, looking to get a belly piercing. She batted her lashes as she talked to Erik, blatantly flirting. 

‘’Alright, I’ll just need you to fill this form, and then we can do the piercing, sweetheart,’’ he said, purposely calling her that to get a rise from you. 

You glanced at the girl, jealousy beginning to run through your blood. ‘’I changed my mind,’’ you declared, refusing to let this girl take what was yours. ‘’I think I’ll take you up on the jewelry offer.’’ You leaned over the counter, your eyes locking with Erik’s. ‘’If you put it in for me.’’

—

All and more taglist:  @kenqki@hawkegfs@gillybear17@black-rose-29@fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade   @mellabella101 @vxnity713  @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart  @xyzstar  @graceberman3   @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs  @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis  @katherinejess  @rafesgirlstuff   @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity  Anouk nani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21 @Spacexdrago @nhlfs

[satorkive]

IDIOTS IN LOVE 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ SATORU

with a solemn expression and a heavy heart, you stand in front of tokyo and kyoto jujutsu high.

“today, we mourn for the absence of gojo satoru.”

the tokyo jujutsu high students bow their heads as they pray for their beloved teacher. the kyoto students are confused.

mourn?

absence?

“gojo satoru is a friend, teacher, and a colleague. but was he great being the three of them? absolutely not.”

“hey!”

you look at the ceiling, trying to stop your tears from falling. your fists are clenched, nails digging in on your palms. “sometimes, i can hear his voice and feel his presence. i wish he’s having a great time wherever he is.”

todo confusingly look at you. why are you crying? gojo-sensei is very much alive, though? he can see him waving his hands behind you.

“is it always like this?”

“just follow what [name]-sensei is saying. if gojo is dead, then he’s dead,” maki answers.

the kyoto students also bow their heads and clasp their hands as if they are praying.

you give a stern look to the students before you. “curses are everywhere around us. if you see someone impersonating him, exorcise it at all cost. okay?”

they nod.

the menace of society dumbly stares at you all accepting his fake death. he starts whining and tugging your arm.

“you’re so mean! i’m very much alive right now!” he pouts.

you glare. “because i told you that you’re dead to me the moment you steal my food. and what did you do? you stole my favorite food!”

he shrugs as if it wasn’t a big deal. as if your piercing glare isn’t penetrating through his soul. “well, if you marked your name on the food, i wouldn’t be eating them.”

“yeah? well, i put a stamp of my name on the plastic!”

“still not enough.”

the waiting listeners watch you bicker like an old married couple. you, pointing at satoru with the most heated eyes they have ever seen. him, being an idiot and trying to defend himself (even if he was the one who ate your favorite food) that he didn’t eat it.

“was it always like this?”

“salmon.” inumaki nods.

the next day, they will see you two clinging into each other as if you two couldn’t be worlds apart. what happened yesterday had been forgotten. with you smiling like the sunshine you are and him being the smitten man he is.

they also know that gojo buys you a dozen of your favorite food with your favorite dessert and your favorite cuddles.

[cvldbones]

Hi!

Do you have any fluffy romantic headcanons for Kingdon?

anon you don't know how badly i needed this ask today thank u

we all have collectively agreed frank is mr. can't keep my hands to myself, but once she gets comfortable, mel is, too. it starts out small: high fives after great saves, fingers brushing when she hands him instruments, that sort of thing. but then she notices the way he tries to stretch out his back and she starts massaging there, just under his scrub top. she fixes his hair during procedures when it gets in his way. she's a big hand-holder, and the high fives go from quick little bursts of energy to her clinging to his fingers to them leaving trauma rooms hand-in-hand like that's the most normal thing in the world.

frank has a list in his notes app of mel's likes and dislikes. sensory things, right? the organization only makes sense to him. it has bullet points like: yogurt, but only with this specific brand of granola, and only vanilla greek yogurt (FRUIT IN YOGURT BAD); herbal essence white grapefruit mosa mint; no sour candy, gummies okay but can't be too chewy, chocolate preferred. he's always pulling his phone in the middle of conversations so he can add to it before he forgets.

mel does not like using pet names but she fucking loves being on the receiving end. frank starts out joking (honey, sweetie, sugar) and then the longer this goes on it becomes (baby, sweetheart, darling) and she blushes like a crazy person every single time. he starts doing it in front of patients that are flirting with her and she pretends to get mad at him but she secretly loves it. being his is fun.

mel is the more emotional one overall but it's frank that cries at movies and tv shows. the first time she watched coco with his kids, she turned to say something to frank and he was full-blown sobbing. the next week, she made the mistake of recommending they watch when harry met sally and he had to get up three times to blow his nose.

he quits smoking for her. she never asked him to, but she would make this little face whenever she kissed him after he'd finished a cigarette. the third time she caught him tossing a piece of nicorette in his mouth and he explained, her smile was so fucking bright he sort of just stared after her for five minutes until santos snapped her fingers in his face.

they're both obsessed with each other's hair. when they're on the couch, mel is always running her hands through it, scratching lightly at his scalp, using his head as like a physical stim. frank likes to undo her braid slowly and carefully, brushing it out with his fingers and stowing the rubber band on his own wrist. he'll absently re-braid it for her during movies or twirl pieces of it around his finger. (don't even get me started on the two of them in bed together.)

i'm sure i have more but this is all Canon To Me

[rereisstuff]

DAY BY DAY !

summary: you could stay day by day…looking at scoups being nagged by na pd.

pairing: idol! reader x idol! Scoups (idol! fictionalgroup! x svt)

note: it’s kinda a continuation from COSMIC but more focused on scoups and reader, i may do another part! saty tuned.

“meng meiqi” na pd read awfully making everyone laugh, including the girl.

the pairs were the same, just in a prompt room, a classroom, everyone in school outfits.

“cheol-ah, it’s weird we are pushing the 30’s and na pd is making us wear this” you said lowly to scoups pulling your skirt down, he just laughed it off saying the fans loved it.

“i want the leaders to come forward please” scoups and you walked side by side, to the front podium with this devices to throw air strongly when attacked“the section is called, leader vs leader”

everyone booed trying to make it scary and mythical, scoups and you laughed “please introduce yourselves and explain why are you a better leader, in 60 seconds”

scoups started, making seventeen and your members laugh with the funny introduction and then you went, saying your name and your band’s “…i literally raised the three maknaes, with 24 packages of ramyeon to feed 12 people a whole week, have 3 jobs and i smile when they mock me”

“now we head to a quiz” na pd said, receiving a envelope from the staff.

“have you broke down in front of the members or do you wait and keep it in private?” he asked, everyone looking at both, with attention and silent for the first time.

“i don’t cry in front of them” scoups and you said at the same time mischievously looking at each other after it, the room erupted in chaos, everyone complaining about both being crybabies.

“eeeh” you cleared your throat and held your open hand up, your group growing silent after your gesture making seventeen and na pd look at the interaction amazed.

“give the win to my noona, coups-hyung would never be able to do that with us” mingyu yapped and getting everyone to agree with him, scoups whining by your side.

“how much a leader should control?”

“well, the members have their subunits and lead them, take care of their own concept and display” scoups started “i think it’s up to them to have their imagination running in their own units and coming back at the original concept when we are together”.

“the subunits wouldn’t even listen to me if they had to, so i agree with cheol” you said elbowing his side friendly, him smiling at you and everyone teasing with allegedly love sounds.

“along with this question, is there a time where you should have intervened and you didn’t that you regret?” you seemed to think about it, scoups said something about the cute debut.

“the concept of power up, sullyoon, luna and youngji were 14-15 but yeji and i were 19 so we looked ridiculous” yeji complained about it too.

“what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve scolded the members for?”

“openly talking about farting and burping”

“talking about selling their feet pics on live”

everyone laughed and scoups and you leaned into each other to laugh with bright eyes, na pd caught the interaction holding the bell to announce a break.

everyone scattered around, going to check their phones or drink something.

“want to go buy a snack?” seungcheol inquired low, almost shy so you nodded with a reassuring smile.

youngji, sullyoon, dino and seungkwan in the seats assigned watching everything, giggling while eating gimbap gave by the staff, looking like real school children.

you walked out of set with scoups, following close to a fried chicken store nearby.

when you got the food, seungcheol lose no time and grabbed a piece of it, eating quickly straight out from the box.

“i’m not your member i’m not snatching it from you, you know” you joked while sitting on the chair he took out for you, he blushed and smiled embarrassed.

“the habit, sorry”

“you always sneak off between filming?” you inquired feeling your heart race by the curiosity, not wanting to out your interest.

“no, i only wanted to eat with you” he said blankly, catching you off guard, you knew he was straight forward but not like this.

“i like you, you’re really handsome you know?” you munched your chicken like it wasn’t a big deal, you could be like that too, you had the same job and formation after all.

he opened widely his eyes, cheeks red and full of crumbs.

“well, there’s only one thing left to do” he mumbled after leaving the stress behind “let’s have a real date”

you nodded with a smile, mischievously looking at him.

your phone rang, interfering the moment and the tension.

you came back to the set, seungcheol behind you, both unable to wash off the smile of your faces you sat down under the closest members gaze, trying to figure out what was happening.

the filming was resumed.

“can we have…lee chan and seol yoona on front please” na pd called the maknaes to the front, they got up under the cheering of their groups, both loved too much.

[honeymoonjinmain]

⚄ Friend or Foe ☾

It takes at least twenty dead people before you acknowledge that this isn't a regular gameshow. Now, you have to decide who to align yourself with before you're the next to be eliminated. masterlist

☾ namgyu x reader ☾ this chapter contains graphic violence, major character death, and explicit sexual content, mdni. there is use of a transphobic slur in this one so please be wary of that if you find it upsetting. 19.7k

“The following players have been eliminated: player 230, player 268, player 229, player 331, player 401.”

You don’t hear a thing after the first number called. You halt so suddenly Hyunju almost knocks right into you. It feels unreal; everyone in the entire room has gone completely silent and still. Your surroundings look fake, almost glossy, and your eyes don’t want to focus on anything in particular. So this is what denial feels like. 

Thanos can’t be dead because you just saw him. Thanos can’t be dead because getting high has saved his life three games in a row and you know for a fact he has just enough pills in that cross of his to keep it that way. Thanos can’t be dead because-

Above you, the piggy bank hangs heavier with every band of notes dropped down its chute. The digital panel updates. Ninety-five left, with those eliminated bringing the total share to over thirty-six billion won. Nauseating.

Another beat of stunned silence, and the door to the bathrooms swings open to let a stream of bloodied players in, all immediately dividing onto their own teams like there’s a physical repulsion between them.

You can feel Hyunju’s eyes on you for a split second before she’s slipping her hand around your arm and firmly pulling you over to your team, away from the incoming players. The way she moves quickly but steadily reminds you of a mother trying not to frighten a child in a dangerous situation and your heart thuds when a familiar face skitters out to the middle of the room.

Namgyu.

He yells out to his team with his arms waving frantically - as if their attention wasn’t already laser-focused on the group - and with his hair tucked behind his ears you can see the fresh smears of blood all over his face and hands. “Hey, O team, listen! We- They- When we were in the bathroom, out of nowhere those fucking X bastards started attacking us!” He’s more frantic than you’ve ever seen him, his antsy energy dialed up to eleven as he spins his tale. “We were just standing there, and those assholes tried to- They killed my friend! A bunch of other people on our side, too, they’re-”

They killed my friend.

Your stomach turns again. Although you had mixed feelings about Thanos, and was never completely sure how he felt about you either, the image of him being killed right in front of Namgyu is too awful to dwell on. You pull yourself to a stop against Hyunju’s hold and keep an eye on him.

One of the X members - player 047 - has interrupted Namgyu in defense, turning to face you all. “These bastards started threatening people on our side! They attacked us to win tomorrow’s re-vote!”

Across from him, Namgyu sways restlessly back and forth. He holds his hands slightly away from his body, flexing them open and closed like he doesn’t know what to do with yourself. Seeing him stand alone is strange by itself, and you can’t help but wonder if the odd posture is because he’s so used to hanging off someone’s arm or jacket or shoulder. As he turns, you see his expression full on. One of his eyes keeps twitching but his gaze is like searing coals, intense and burning black. He looks almost gaunt in contrast to the vibrant swipes of fresh blood he hasn’t yet cleared off of his face.

As the two teams begin bickering back and forth - pointless, as it’s not like anyone plans on changing their mind - you turn to face Hyunju. “I’ll catch up.” She calls your name in a disapproving tone. “I just want to check up on him.”

She still isn’t convinced, though she’s let go of you. “At least wait until he’s cooled off. We don’t know what happened in there.”

As right as she is, it doesn’t help the uneasy swirl in your stomach. “He’s upset,” you defend, “I don’t know the details, but I do know our teammate died in front of him. His friend. You should kno-” You cut yourself off with a sharp inhale, but she already knows what you were about to say.

Her eyes soften in understanding, brow furrowed. “Of course. Would you like me to come with you?”

Across the room, Namgyu runs his hands down his face, dragging hard enough to tug at his lower lids. He seems genuinely distraught one moment, making your heart ache to go over and grieve together, though something menacing flashes in his expression every time his eyes roll over the X players. You’re reminded of the way he shoved you into the hallway wall so recklessly earlier before immediately flipping to his usual provocation. You know what Hyunju is really asking. Would you like me to come and make sure you’re safe?

Still, you don’t feel like you’re in any real danger around him. For better or for worse, you suspect he’d prefer to keep you around. “I’ll be okay.” As you say that, Namgyu turns and his piercing gaze falls on you. Still worked up, he scowls down at the X on your chest before looking at you properly. 

Something in him sinks. His lips turn a little lower, his hands clutched in slack fists by his sides. He stands in the centre of the group of O voters from the bathroom, and some others who have stepped up to contribute needlessly to the fight - yet he seems so removed from them, adrift in their sea. From this distance, you can’t see the minutiae in his expression; perhaps you’re wrong, then, but it just looks like he’s… confused. Lost, might be the better term. You take a step towards him.

“Which side lost more people?” Jeongdae’s booming voice cuts over the masses. Like a switch being flicked on again, Namgyu straightens up, jaw flexing with how tightly he clenches his teeth. The acidic gaze returns with a vengeance the moment he looks away from you. You’re reminded of him post-pentathlon, when he tried to bully Minsu into taking a headcount. How far away that now feels. 

Nobody can answer the question. Naturally assuming leadership, Jeongdae instructs his team to do a full headcount. His friends begin herding all the O voters together in the far corner, and it’s not long before the red team is doing the same. 

You watch as your opposing currents pull you and Namgyu further away. Later, you promise yourself. Hyunju, who had barely started to walk away from you before returns to pull you back into the fold. It’s not until the red players caught in the fight come over that you see Myunggi was among those. More than anyone, his face is practically drenched in blood and his eyes are numb as he joins you all. Without thinking, you find yourself packing in tight between Hyunju and Gyeongseok so you’re not sitting near him. 

Minsu and Semi reluctantly leave their quiet posse in the back to join the group. They both sit behind you, and you swivel in place to check in while you’re all being counted. 

To your surprise, Semi bends down to mutter to you before you can even open your mouth. “Who do you think did it?” She mimes slitting her throat as if you didn’t already know what she meant. “Maybe there’s an Avenger in there.” 

Even as you grimace at her sarcastic ribbing, it’s Minsu who speaks up. “He was- they were trying to attack a player. Intimidate, you know, uh, mess with the vote. So someone stepped in and they fought and…” He finishes with a tight nod, hands clutched around his knees like a small child.

“Wait.” You swivel more so you’re not so awkwardly twisted, back to the front of the room instead. “You were in the bathroom?”

“You didn’t get hurt, did you?” Semi pipes up, and Minsu practically squeaks when she begins running her hands over his arms and sides to check for injury. “Minsu, stuff like that… It gets messy, you run away. Got it? Don’t try to be a hero.”

The boy just dips his head, shameful. 

You see the way Semi’s face twists up at Minsu’s defeated posture. Catching her eye for a moment, you try to change the subject. “Hey, Minsu, do you have plans tomorrow night?”

He glances up with a hesitant look. “No?”

“You do now,” you chirp. “We’re having a big dinner when we all get out. Geumja’s hosting.”

“How much space does her house even have?” Semi questions, but you can see her try to hide a smile behind the hand that fiddles with her lip ring. “Did she tell you to keep inviting people?”

“Minsu’s my plus one,” you announce decisively, patting him on the shoulder. “Can you cook?” He shakes his head wordlessly, and you give a mock-disappointed sigh. “It’s going to be a hard sell, then.”

“Well, I- I’m good on the grill. If that counts?”

You give him a broad smile when he gives you a tentatively hopeful look. “Excellent.” Come to think of it, you don’t think he’s ever had a conversation with the woman, but you get the feeling social invites don’t come his way all that often. “I think you two should sti-”

You’re interrupted by player 047 completing the X team headcount. Forty-eight among you, which means two were eliminated. 

“That’s good,” Semi points out to the rest of you, “that means they lost three. We’ll have the advantage tomorrow.”

In excited whispers, some players begin to celebrate the likelihood of winning the vote next time, but they’re interrupted by a short tune chiming over the loudspeakers.

“Attention,” the PA announces, “lights-out will be in approximately 30 minutes. With the remaining half hour, please prepare to return to your beds for the night.”

You hear shuffling as several players start to disperse. The mood is tentatively optimistic; nobody who wanted to go home today will suddenly wish to remain tomorrow. But you know the O team will realise this as well.

Speaking of… You say a quick, “I’ll be back later,” to the others as the women all form a protective group to make a bathroom trip. Your heartrate instinctively begins to pick up as you snake past the mass of players around you. With both teams on opposite sides closer to the front doors, the back of the room is largely abandoned, and more shadowed in the far corners. 

Though you wonder how you’re going to catch Namgyu’s attention without flagging any of the other players, that worry doesn’t last long. Because as you look up, Namgyu’s already tracking you closely. 

He’s leaned up against the scaffolding of a bunk bed at the front, twiddling a bloody fork in his hands as he watches you leave the safety of your group. He sends you a sharklike grin when you notice him, and pushes off to come follow. 

Your heart races. You don’t dare to look back at the red team for fear someone has noticed; something about this feels illicit; you have to admit to yourself that your intentions, at least partially, are illicit. 

Namgyu must have been moving faster than you, because as you keep your head down and try to disappear deep in the most concealed corner of the dormitory, he steps out of nowhere, making you bump into him with a surprised yelp. 

He uses your instability to push you back onto the mattress just beside you, keeping his hands on your shoulders as he hunches over. “You here for the funeral?” He lets out a vicious laugh, though it wobbles slightly as his thumbs dig into your clavicles. You can feel the ice of his ring even through your shirt, and it makes you shiver. “I hate to break it to you, little 123, but he gave all his inheritance to me.”

Your confusion doesn’t last long. With him bending down over you, he’s close enough for you to see the telltale beaten silver chain of Thanos’ crucifix pendant poking out from the neck of his jacket. “I’m sorry, Namgyu.”

His eye twitches. “Those fucking barbarians,” he points back at the X team without looking away from you, “saw us as a threat and tried to kill us all in cold blood. You should be sorry. Voting to leave doesn’t make you the good guys.”

“And you are? Tell me; did you kill somebody in there?”

Namgyu’s gaze lifts towards the ceiling for a moment, an aggravated sigh like you even asking pissed him off. But to your surprise, when he looks back down with a salacious grin he crouches in front of you. His hands don’t leave you for a moment; instead, they drag down your arms from your shoulders all the way to your own, intertwining your fingers. “It was self-defense,” he claims in a soft voice, dragging his teeth over his lower lip before pouting. “I feared for my life.”

Your pulse stutters. As much as he’s probably doing this in complete mocking, seeing him practically on his knees in front of you with eyes gleaming has a heat pool between your legs. Your fingers intertwined on your lap, you can see the fine bones and veins across the backs of his hands. One of those hands had been inside you less than twenty-four hours ago, yet it feels like a distant memory. A memory you can’t help but want to recreate. “Really? Thanos dies and you become a pussy? How embarrassing.”

His nails dig in to your palms harshly enough that you have to hide a grimace, but you don’t miss the way he tries to mask his pleased grin with a scowl. The fight is back on, and you get the feeling this is the exact kind of distraction he was hoping for when he followed you down here. “What’s really embarrassing is the way that X piece of trash gave up after a single fucking stab to the chest.” Reveling in the way your smile drops, he lets go of one of your hands to reach into his pocket and retrieve the bloodied fork you’d seen before. He points it up at you, tapping it at the base of your sternum, right between your breasts. “Again and again,” he adjust his grip to hold the handle in his fist, jabbing it at you though never making contact, “and he never fought back. It’s like he wanted to die.”

You force yourself not to flinch, breath shallow as he wipes the blood off the metal tines on your already-stained T-shirt. It feels like a test; Namgyu’s poking the bear, seeing if you’ll condemn him and run away now that you know he’s a killer. And you should. You have a slew of good people on your side who care for you as a human, not a curious plaything.

But you don’t. 

“Was it the player who killed him?” you query softly.

He twists around wth a shake of his head, using the fork to point over to the red team where a player in particular has isolated himself on a bunk close to the bathroom corridors. “That motherfucker.”

Myunggi. You swallow. “Will you kill him as well, then?”

Namgyu breaks out into a delighted laugh as he pockets the utensil. Incapable of staying still, he springs up as he turns back to you. His hand drops yours but immediately digs into your hair, gripping the roots tight to tilt your head back up at him. Half-cast in shadow from the bunks above, you still see the glint of his teeth. “Why don’t you?”

“I’m not a murderer,” you rebuff flatly, even as the slight pain at your scalp has you pressing your thighs together. Movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention. Your friends and a few others are congregating, heads bent in discussion. Geumja and Hyunju are craning their necks, presumably looking for you. Your time is running out. “I should go.”

His fingers tighten, the humour in his gaze seeping away. “Maybe I’ll just keep you with me. You could be our little hostage. How many of them would vote O if they thought I’d kill you otherwise?”

Guilt digs in harshly behind your ribs at the thought - and at the image of being held at his mercy. Yet again, trying to retain any type of power over him is like rolling a boulder up a hill. “Good luck trying to fuck me after you’ve been shot for interfering with the vote.”

Namgyu lets go reluctantly and rocks back on his heels. “You think I won’t fuck you first? I won’t be so gentle when you come crawling back.”

Gentle is laughable. You swear you can see some of your hairs clinging to his fingers. If that’s gentle… 

Hopefully it’s too dark for him to see the way your cheeks heat. Embarrassingly, you’re left at a loss for words. For fear of making a fool of yourself with a weak retort, you get up wordlessly, making sure to brush past him with a heavy glare. 

As you do, the unyielding metal of the fork in his pocket drags against your thigh. You feel his eyes on you the entire time you walk over to your group. You bite your lip to distract yourself from the urge to look back.

Daeho is the first to notice you, a relieved hum as he ushers you over and sits you down between him and Gihun. “Just in time. We’re trying to come up with a game plan. Gihun thinks something’s gonna go down tonight.”

The man nods grimly, chin tucked and eyes unfocused. “Once the lights go out, those who want to stay will attack us.” A shiver runs down your spine, and by the look Daeho gives you, you’re not the only one. 

“Really?” Yongsik questions, face pale as he places a protective hand on Geumja’s arm.

Gihun sits up slightly and looks over to him. “If they kill us, they’ll be able to win the vote and increase the prize.”

Attack is one thing. Even the testosterone-fueled carnage in the bathrooms was at least a result of fighting. But openly trying to murder as many of you as possible unprovoked… “How can we even- Do we-” Your brain short circuits, and you feel hopelessly over your head. Hyunju is right. It’s different when there’s a perpetrator. Speaking of Hyunju, you straighten up and catch her eye intently. “Hyunju, what would you do?”

All eyes fall on her in unison. She lets out a bashful laugh, looking so sweet and unassuming with her gentle features and turned-in posture, but you know she’s capable of devising effective tactics. You’d follow her anywhere. 

Youngil speaks up unprompted before she gets the chance to. “We have to attack first.”

You and a few others - Gihun included - automatically recoil at the idea. 

He continues, “they’re probably assuming we’re just waiting until the next vote. Our only choice is to hit them first once the lights go down. They won’t expect that.”

For the most part, you remain focused on Hyunju’s reaction to gauge whether it’s a good plan or not. She’s poker-faced, but you can see the cogs turn. You can’t imagine outright attacking somebody. You weren’t even lucky enough to receive one of the foil-wrapped dinners with a fork inside, but you’re sure Hyunju could probably take down a whole bunch of them barehanded. Maybe you should agree to attack just to witness her in action. 

Player 047 is in agreement with Youngil. “That’s right, it would be better to gain the upper hand. Especially since we have more women and elderly on our side.” Unlike those on the O team, he doesn’t seem enthused at the idea of violence. Rather, he carries himself with a grim conviction as he pleads his case. “If we wait for them, we’re just going to lose. We need to ambush them first to even the playing field. That’s the only way to make it through the night.”

As expected, Gihun is the fiercest defender. “No,” he interjects intently, “we can’t do that.”

You feel torn. On one hand, you do feel that unfortunately Youngil and 047 may be right. On the other… It’s been about a year of trying to lay low and find a way out of the grave you’ve been kicked into, but never have you considered going on the offence. Despite being accused of murder, you know you’re utterly incapable of it. 

“But we need to get out.” Youngil’s tone is flat, certain. “It’s like you were saying, Gihun, there isn’t any point in just sitting around.” 

That’s not the first time Youngil’s thrown Gihun’s words back at him. You know Gihun sees the man as a friend in this game for some reason, but now he’s looking at him like he’s threatening to kick puppies. “That doesn’t mean we should just kill each other! That’s exactly what they want us to do.” Only sitting right beside him do you catch the way his hands tremble slightly. 

Jungbae leans forward. “‘They?’”

You lift your head up. The blinking red lights circling the ceiling like a halo stare down at you impassively. “The ones watching,” you murmur in response. The others glance up too; for some of them, it seems like they hadn’t really noticed the cameras at all. You raise your voice and turn to face Gihun head-on. “What happened last time? Do they really want us to kill each other even outside of the games?”

“It’s-” He breaks off, a pain seeping into his voice strongly enough that he can barely hold it steady. All this death has been shocking enough to you the first time around. He’s been reliving it all over again. “It’s different this time,” he finishes, “the games, obviously, but- Everything. We couldn’t vote after each game last time. There were some attacks, but it’s like those who run it are actually encouraging it this time around. If we try to fight anyone, it should be them.”

“You think they’re in this building?” you question in disbelief. 

Youngil lets out a laugh, barely more than a puff of air outside his nose. You glance over at him but his eyes are low and his face is neutral like nothing happened. 

Gihun lifts his chin, scorching gaze directed up. “They’re up there. The upper levels, at the top of the staircases. They run the games from a central control room.”

You only notice this because he’s beginning to slip into your bad books again, but Youngil’s eyes are equally blazing as he stares at Gihun. You can’t read his expression as blank as it is, but what you wouldn’t give to know what he’s thinking. Worried he might catch you looking, you turn away briskly to share a stressed look with Daeho, who looks like he might pass out at any moment. 

“There’s a man in a black mask,” Gihun continues, eyes distant in recollection. “He’s the head of the operation. We get to him, we can finally end this. For good.”

“How are you going to fight them?” Youngil challenges. “After all, they’ve got guns.”

Daeho winces and curls further in on himself. “That sounds like suicide,” he agrees, voice shaky.

“We’ll fight them with guns, too.”

Jungbae looks strained as he watches his best friend. “But we don’t have any guns.”

“We’ll just take theirs.”

He’s really thought this through, you can’t help but wonder. After a moment, that thought crystallises. “Wait,” you speak up, catching his attention, “was that always the plan? I mean, you must’ve come here with some idea of how to stop them.”

“My first plan failed,” Gihun admits solemnly. “I tried to take advantage of the voting, but not enough people listened. Even if we win all the games and walk out of here they’re just going to do this all over again. I can’t live with that.”

“So, what?” Youngil pipes up, eyes narrowed. You’re surprised he’s suddenly so opposed to Gihun after he’s claimed to go along with him every time before. “We just snatch weapons off of armed guards and then run upstairs? They’ll easily outnumber us.”

Across from him, Gihun is growing desperate. His entire body is tensed up, but his voice still betrays his emotional instability. “What do you suggest, then, Youngil? We try and murder as many people as we can during the night and hope not a single one of us do? You really think that’s a good plan?”

Hyunju, arms wrapped around her knees, voices the worry all of you are carrying. “Do we stand a chance?” Her doubt doesn’t bode well, you think.

“We do if we can catch them off guard. You think we could make it against team O if we got to them first? Trust me, those bastards upstairs will be the least likely to expect an attack. This is it. This is our last chance to put an end to these games and make sure they never happen again.”

You can see the logic. Will you risk death in the pursuit of killing off others who were manipulated into coming here just like you, or will you risk it to try and stop the manipulators from taking advantage of vulnerable people ever again? 

Youngil is the next to speak after a few moments of the group’s pensive silence. You can tell he’s lost, and you can tell it secretly irritates him. “Alright, then. How are we supposed to get their guns?”

“Here’s the plan.” Gihun takes a deep breath, nodding to himself. “Once the lights are off, we have to get under our beds as quietly as we can. I’m certain they’ll want to wait until they think we’re asleep, so make sure you stay aware and stay awake. We can’t afford to get caught by the other side. They’ll be out for blood.”

The thought sends a shiver down your spine. “But,” you almost cut yourself off wondering if you’ll sound naive when you say this, “do you think the others might want to help us stop these games, too? If they’re willing to kill, you know… We could always suggest they go get the money themselves.”

There are murmurs of disagreement among the small group, so you double down. “Think about it. They only want to continue to get more money, but they all understand they’re risking their own deaths at least three more times. Why not only risk it once, and get their payout tomorrow?”

Player 047 gives you a quietly condescending look. “Get real. If those fuckers listened to reason we wouldn’t even be here.” You know it’s borne out of the same stress you’re under, but you still feel thoroughly chastised, dropping your gaze to the floor.

“I don’t see you strategising,” Daeho snaps, subtly leaning forward in front of you. A weak smile quirks your lip at his protective defense.

“The plan,” Youngil reminds mildly, though his jaw flexes. “Gihun, you’re saying we just hide under our beds for the night?”

“Just until the fighting’s over,” Gihun insists. “We wait, and we keep still. We cannot afford to get pulled into the fight, do you hear me?” One by one, he looks you all deep in the eyes. Rhetoric as it is, you still give him a tiny nod of acknowledgement. 

“Hold on,” Jungbae steps in with a hand on Gihun’s shoulder, “that puts our fellow red voters at quite a disadvantage. Without us, they’ll be even more outnumbered, they won’t stand a chance.”

“I know, but if we get involved and get injured or killed, it’ll ruin the entire plan.” At Gihun’s words, Jungbae turns to send the other X voters - all obliviously getting ready for bed - a sad look. Gihun sighs. “If we’re missing anyone when it’s time to attack, it’ll be over before it even starts.”

Which is why we should try and get some of the blue team involved, you want to add, but hold your tongue. Perhaps you could try and approach Namgyu about it when the others weren’t paying attention. You can certainly envision him being happy to wreak havoc against the guards considering how quickly he’s grown proud of his own violence. 

Youngil glares at Gihun with baleful eyes. “Are you suggesting we make a small sacrifice for the greater good?” 

The phrasing makes you uneasy, and you can see it distill reluctance in the others. Gihun simply nods, already determined. “If we don’t, we’ll all die here anyway. This is our only chance. It will be worth the sacrifice if it means we can permanently end these games.”

“But…” Yongsik adjusts his glasses, face twisted in discomfort. “Will they just continue until they think we’re all dead?”

Gihun shakes his head. “The fight won’t last long. They’ll want to step in before too many players get killed or injured. After all, they still need us strong enough to keep playing.” Across from you, Hyunju has her eyes focused intently, memorising his every word. “Once the lights come back on,” he continues, “the guards will rush into the room and start getting the situation under control. They’ll first break up the fighting, and only after that’s done will they start to scan the bodies to identify those eliminated. That’s when we strike.”

“We play dead, and then we jump them?” you question nervously. “I don’t know how to fight.”

Hyunju straightens up, giving you a reassuring look before turning to the others. “Those of you who don’t feel comfortable trying to steal a gun, stay near somebody who does. We’ll do this together.”

Gihun seems to be relieved another person is actively willing to strategise logistics, and the rest of you fall into near-silence as the two speak back and forth, outlining, revising, confirming, until the plan is filed down to a streamlined schedule. 

After the talk concludes, the others all begin pairing up and finding adjacent beds. Daeho surprises you by giving you a tight hug before he goes over to join Jungbae; Gyeongseok has stepped up to Hyunju in the interim, proposing they stick together. 

As your fellow players arrange themselves, you look over to the blue team. It appears they’ve had some kind of discussion of their own; they’ve more or less split into two factions - some players are up higher on the bunk beds and getting under the covers, whereas the majority are tightly clustered at the base, sitting on the steps and making no move to get ready for bed. 023 is right in the middle, speaking with the others but keeping his eyes straight ahead. Anger and dread roil in your stomach as you step back behind one of the bunk bed columns.

You scan for Namgyu but can’t see him - that is, until your gaze wanders further afield. He’s still in the place you left him, though he’s sitting down now and focused entirely on the fork in his hand, a small smile playing on his lips. While you don’t want him to mock you for ‘crawling back,’ you also notice everyone behind you has already paired up. Even Junhee is in shy conversation with one of the players you haven’t been formally introduced to. The unsettling feeling of being on the outside returns. 

At least Namgyu never turns you away. That thought isn’t fair to those who have saved your life many times, who have shown you love and protection, but it is enough to propel you away from them. Fuck it if the others don’t think bringing O members into loop isn’t a good idea. You can make your own decisions. 

Keeping your chin high, you make your way over, keeping behind the beds as you go. Only once you’re approaching him do you step in front. He stirs out of his daze when your shadow falls over him. Before his lips stretch into a shiteating grin, you’re swinging a leg up to sit facing him, hooking your hand into the top of his jacket to make him face you. “We’re attacking tonight,” you offer up blankly.

“No shit. Everyone on our side wants you roaches dead.”

Your lips twitch even as the threat makes you huff. “We’re attacking the guards.”

His dark eyes search yours for deception. When he finds none, he lets out a bemused laugh. “Stupid and suicidal. No wonder you keep ditching them.”

You roll your eyes impatiently. “Are you interested or not?”

“In murdering the fuckers who put us here?” He lifts the fork to his mouth, trapping the tines between his teeth. When you grimace at the sight of it, he huffs a laugh. “I’m warming up to them. Every bullet is money in my pocket.”

Maybe this was a mistake. But despite yourself, you still want him to come with you. Having his manic and quickly fading morals on your side will certainly be an advantage. “So you’d rather risk your life three more times for the money instead of just going up and getting it yourself tonight?”

He reaches up to tuck his hair back. The subtle sign that he’s willing to listen. Namgyu doesn’t actually say anything, though. He just clicks his teeth against the fork again and waits for you to explain with a distrusting glare. 

To some extent, you do feel like you’re betraying the confidence of your team as you divulge every last detail. But you see him internally light up more with every word. You’ve got him. 

By the time you finish, he’s openly grinning. “What I’m hearing is that I can get rid of the cowards that don’t plan on helping and then get my fair share.”

You drop your hold on his jacket with an irritated grunt. “Fuck’s sake, Namgyu.”

He leans back on the bed unapologetically, propped up by his hands as his knees splay wide. “I’d just get so bored, 123. Listening to all my loyal blue voters putting their lives on the line while I twiddle my thumbs. You understand.” His eyes slide to you, oily black and gleaming. “Maybe I just need a little entertainment to keep me occupied.”

He couldn’t be more obvious if he tried. Worse, you both know it’s a price you’ll eagerly pay. As the PA overhead counts down the final ten seconds before lights out, you slip off the bed and sink to your knees, crawling the few paces it takes to find residence between his legs. His spine straightens at how quickly you give in as his jaw goes slack.

That’s the last thing you see before your plunged into darkness. Strangely, this cover makes you feel safer as if he’s going to play nice just because it’s bedtime. 

Your hands lift off the floor, blindly feeling for his ankles. You use your grasp to spread them further. He inhales sharply through his nose, and it’s only the dead silence of the dormitory that makes it audible. With him unable to see you, you have to make your actions felt instead. Unhurriedly, you slide your fingertips up the inside of his clothed calves, pausing at his knees until he shifts impatiently with uneven breaths. 

The friction of fabric against your fingertips makes them feel warm and sensitised. The mental image of you undressing him completely to stop him from being able to jump out and enjoy the fight flashes in your mind and you bite your tongue not to laugh. Somehow you doubt he’d appreciate it. 

Instead, you continue your languid path, feeling his muscles tense up as you pass them. After a moment, you finally reach the apex of his thighs. One hand remains grasping at the soft flesh but your other presses down right in the centre. You’d suspected that he’d be aroused already but he’s so hard it must hurt judging by the way his legs stretch even wider still with a quiet guttural noise stuck in his throat. 

Despite being on your knees, you think this must be the most in power you’ve felt over him. Bloodthirsty and predatory with greed, Namgyu has his legs spread like a whore as he waits for you to touch him properly. You take your time, however, and drag your hand so slowly up the seam of his pants that his hips almost lift off the bed. 

You’re surprised that he’s staying silent. You wish you knew what was running through his head as he forces himself to hold relatively still. It’s out of character for him; you’d expected him to protest by now. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you indulge in every moment of it. 

By the time your fingers curl around his waistband, he’s tensed up his core completely. You can feel the force he’s exerting to remain in place, the fine hairs above his pelvis and slight give of his stomach a contradiction to how taut his muscles are. 

You reach under. Before you bypass his boxers, however, you take a detour to grasp him over them. As you do, there’s a wetness under your index finger. With a smirk he’ll never see, you let the pad of your finger draw lazy circles over it. You can feel every dip and divot of the head of his cock as precum soaks the fibres above. His weight shifts over to one side like he’s lifted a hand up off the bed, though he still doesn’t touch you. 

His breath gets trapped in the back of his throat again when you switch out the softness of your finger for the stiff edge of your nail and feel him twitch beneath you. 

The dormitory remains dead quiet. You have no idea how long it’ll take before the O team make their move, or how long the bloodbath will drag out for. You try as best you can to drag it out - literally, you muse - but ironically it’s your own impatience that prompts you to move on.

You tug at the elastic of his boxers; he lifts up beneath you and you feel the fabric pulled away from you without warning. It knocks your other hand away from its position on his thigh. Namgyu’s bared himself to you with a puff of air from his nose. You sit back on your heels for a moment, surprised at how such a small action has your blood pumping thick with arousal.

When he speaks, it’s so out of nowhere and ragged that it almost gives you a fright. “Are you gonna put my fucking cock in your mouth, 123? We don’t have all day.”

Even as your heart races harder still, you’re sure he can hear the smugness in your voice. “But we do have all night.”

Namgyu’s bark and no bite. He hasn’t made a move to actually force you along. He just lets out a huff and shifts his hips closer to the edge of the bed, springs whining beneath him. 

You give in; not to sucking him off just yet, but to providing a little more relief. In the complete darkness of the hall, you reach forward blindly until the heat of him meets your hand. He’s like velvet-clad iron in your palm, and you’re rewarded with a choked-out grunt as you close your fingers around him. 

The dampness from his tip is completely insufficient to ease any of the dry friction. In no hurry, you keep your hold steady as only your thumb moves, swiping languidly at the sensitive ridge where his shaft meets the flushed heat of his head. There’s a pull beneath you. Subtle, but there. You can just about picture him, biting harshly on his lip with eyes screwed shut as he does his best not to rut up into you. 

Part of you is expecting him to snap and take control at any moment, but you’re unwilling to rush this heady feeling of having him literally in the palm of your hand, at your mercy. 

You let go to run a single finger down his length, testing him again. An idea comes to mind to take advantage of his lack of sight. You begin to let your saliva pool in your mouth. You remember how much he likes it messy. 

In the meantime, you continue the featherlight exploration of your index finger, relishing every twitch and stuttered breath it brings you. You press a little more at times to keep him off-rhythm, right under the base of him, then up until you feel the slight stickiness of his precum. 

Using that as your target, you silently lean forward until you’re confident you’re directly above him. You let your finger trail back down and then lift off. Before he can express any confusion, you let the push of your tongue and gravity drop your spit onto him. 

He doesn’t even get the split-second warning of a sound. When the warm wetness drips down onto his hyper-sensitive cock, his hips jerk so high he actually bumps your chin, smearing your jawline. “Oh, sh- fuck,” he whines brokenly. You’re sure he tried to tamp it down as much as he could but in the suffocating quiet it’s deafening. Without any chance of recovery, he lets out a wordless moan when you wrap your fingers around him, tight and mean as you spread your spit over every inch of you. You make no attempt to hide your satisfied laugh. “You fucking bi- bitch,” he tries to snap, but any sharpness is completely eroded by the way he’s no longer able to keep still beneath you. 

A coil is winding inside you, tighter with every minute sound and movement coming from him. You shift your own weight until your heat presses against your right heel, rocking into it for some relief. You have no interested in granting him that same relief. Not yet. 

Your hand slows to his disapproval. This time, every upward stroke comes clean up off him. He chases your hand each time. If you thought he couldn’t get harder, you’d be wrong. He’s so stiff there’s barely any give when you try to tighten your grip. So instead, you loosen it. Your hand slides down to the base, smoothing over the skin just above him, inches away from where he wants it. 

You dig yourself into your heel so hard it hurts when he lets out a growl under his breath. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spits. He’s losing his patience, losing any composure he was desperately clinging to. He’s a bull seeing red. 

With your own breath going shallow, you give in and wrap your fingers around him properly again. Your mouth is watering, so turned on every function in your body is working overtime, but you can’t help but test his limits one more time. “You have to ask me nicely.”

He goes silent, a measured inhale. “What?”

“Say please.”

Too far.

In the dark, you can hear the swish of fabric, feel your hands jostled off of him, but you can’t tell what he’s doing. 

Not until there’s three sharp points pressed under your chin so roughly that it pushes your head back. This time when he speaks, it’s so close he must be right in front of your unseeing eyes, venomous even as it’s thick with arousal. “Open your fucking mouth.”

Like always, the switch in power comes lightning-fast, and you’re too caught up in the whiplash to disobey. He can probably feel the responding pushback against the fork as evidence of it as his other hand cuffs the nape of your neck and drags you forward. 

With no sight to guide either of you, you feel him heavy against your cheekbone, missing your mouth entirely. You divert before he can complain, turning to lick a broad stripe up his already-soaked shaft. He doesn’t let go of you, nor move the fork from below the soft flesh under your jaw as you do, but you can feel the slight release in tension as you stable yourself on his thigh again.

The other hand holds him steady. You suspect he’s not in the mood for you dragging things out anymore, so once you reach the top, you kitten-lick away the bitter tang of his precum and close your lips around him. The moment you do, his hand on yours tightens enough that he presses on either side of your spine. It’s dizzying, caught between a fork and a hard place, but it only serves to deepen the ache in you more. 

He lets out a low, almost pleased hum at your acquiescence. “That’s what it takes, huh?” You press your tongue up as you take more of him, letting the weight of his hand guide you down. “Knew you were a fu-” a strangled breath as you suck at him, “fucking slut. You can go a little deeper than that, can’t you?”

But it’s not a question. It’s an order. For the first time, you’re the one unable to hold back a whine as his fingers drag up higher in a replication of his tight hold during your previous conversation. He pushes you down, not all the way but enough that your survival reflexes kick in, and your whole body tries to jerk away. 

He lets out a nasty laugh but his hold is unyielding. You’re forced to settle back down on your knees again and take him, nails digging into his thigh. Your other hand is unmoving on his cock as all your focus goes to holding off your gag reflex from the sudden intrusion. Namgyu doesn’t seem to mind. You manage to gather yourself just enough to lave your tongue against the vein on the underside, using the pressure to suck a little harder. 

Your reward is him yanking you back up and off him, precious oxygen refilling your lungs though you remain lightheaded. Though you can’t see him, you know his mouth is stretched wide in a satisfied grin. “Not so hard, is it? I’ve had enough of you wasting my time, 123.”

The metal digging in under your chin is removed. You can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment that wins. If nothing else, it lights a fire under you to prove yourself to him. After pissing him off by trying your luck, you know it’ll take a little groveling to get back in his good books.

You don’t mind a little groveling judging by the uncomfortable stickiness between your thighs. “Shut the fuck up,” you retort anyway, voice rough but unconvincing. Preparing yourself with a deep inhale through your nose, you suck him down again, lips meeting your other hand this time. It’s ambitious and makes your eyes water with how difficult it is to subdue your body’s every reflex but it’s worth it to hear him whine again. 

He’s heavy on your tongue, thick enough that your jaw aches already from trying to keep your teeth off of him. It feels like he’s in your throat, but there’s no real way to gauge his length. Instead, you just ensure you’re over every inch. Your hands follow your lips up with a twist and a stronger tug than you’ve done so far as you flick the point of your tongue to gather the still-leaking precum from his tip. His hand drops away like he’s been shocked and his forearm whacks painfully onto your shoulder.

Despite yourself, you snicker as you try to take him deeper still. He curses at you, dangerously loud, but his hips are shuddering at the vibration of it. As you establish your own rhythm, he chases it, each upward thrust paired with a forceful exhale through his nose. 

“Bet you ge- be- bet you get on your knees like this all the time out there,” he stutters with an almost pained grunt, “that mouth of yours.”

It’s not a compliment, technically, but the knowledge that you’re taking him apart like this so quickly has you responding accidentally with a moan of your own. Torn between speeding up and savouring it, you choose the best of both worlds. Your hand jerks him off in shallow but taut strokes, while your mouth covers more ground at a more intentional pace. You pause at the top each time to pay extra attention to the swollen head as it’s by far the most sensitive part of him judging by the way you can hear a strangled, quiet “ungh, ungh,” each time you do. It’s clear he’s getting closer by the way his breath is speeding up, stuttered but frantic.

You can’t help it. The hand stroking him has a mind of its own as it buries itself under your clothes and between your thighs to seek relief. He lets out a little sigh at the loss. You, however, let out a drawn-out debauched whine as you clumsily rut against your fingers. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this electrified from a blowjob before.

Above you, Namgyu plants his hips against the bed even as he twitches in your mouth. “Are you- oh my god, are you fucking touching yourself?”

You have to lift off him completely this time to suck in some more air. Now your mouth is free, there’s nothing to muffle the needy moan that comes in response.

“Get up.” His voice is an obscene mix of roughness and desperation. He doesn’t wait for you to react on your own, as you feel him tugging up harshly at the short sleeves of your shirt. As you try to get your feet under you in a surprised daze you pull your hand out of your pants, cringing at the fresh air cooling the slick that pools between your fingers.

Suddenly frantic, he fumbles blindly down until he reaches your waistband. With a strength you didn’t know he had, he’s lifting you up to toss you onto the bed beside him. The intense pressure against your flushed clit has you whining his name in a ruined voice as the air is pushed out of your lungs the moment your back hits the mattress. 

He’s toucher - needier - than he’s ever been with you before. Unable to see, you feel entirely at his mercy as you let him move you like a ragdoll. Each leg is lifted up so you’re lying fully on the mattress. He clambers between them, drags you even closer, and cold hands yanking your sweatpants and underwear up to your thighs in one harsh stroke, exposing your cunt before you can even process it. 

He doesn’t touch, at first. You hear the lewd sound of Namgyu fisting his own cock a few times like he can’t leave it alone for more than a few seconds. “Keep going,” he chokes out. You feel a hand grab you between your rucked-up clothes and the crook of your knee. The pressure holds that leg up for you, and the other one, still connected closely by the fabric, dangles beside. 

Namgyu doesn’t have to tell you twice. Your dominant hand flies down, almost sliding clean off of you with how drenched you’ve become. You hiss and jolt at the brief contact over your clit before your fingers hone in. The other hand fists in the sheets as your back arches and collapses over and over at the delicious, long-awaited pleasure. 

You don’t make any move to push a finger or two aside. Now that you have open access, they won’t leave your clit for a second, pressing tight spirals that thicken every exhale into a guttural whine. 

A hand claps over your mouth, thumb tucked under your jaw to keep it forced shut. “You wanna get us killed because you can’t handle touching that little pussy of yours?” Namgyu teases, though his voice is even shakier than before. His hand drops away from your thigh, but before they can fall, he’s replacing the support with his own body, stomach flush against you. Below the knee your legs tip to the side of the hand over your mouth. Something on the other side bumps repeatedly against you. 

With a helpless moan so keening you can still hear some of it past his hand, you realise he’s jerking off right above you. He’s so close your knuckles knock together a few times. Your hand speeds up and you take advantage of your muffled mouth to whimper with the blinding ecstasy of it. You feel the length of him press against you, and even as your hand freezes your whole body shivers.

He doesn’t press into you, however. Namgyu just slides up and down. Once, twice, parting you and slicking himself up with a ragged exhale. His hand moves again, though this time he doesn’t pull away. His knuckles run up and down your seam as he speeds up, leaning heavier into you as he seeks his edge. “Why did you stop?” he pants out. “Don- don’t stop.”

The sheets are wet beneath where you meet. You rub at yourself even more frantically than before. Your other hand, trembling uncontrollably, lets go of the fabric to duck below your shirt and pull almost painfully at your stiff nipple. It sends a sharp pang of arousal straight to your core, and you realise that you’re quickly approaching your own end. 

Inadvertently, the both of you have fallen silent as you greedily chase every tiny shock of pleasure. Only heavy breaths and the wet sounds of your lewdity fill the air. 

“Can you see it?” Namgyu huffs out almost rhetorically. “The attack is starting.”

You can tell yourself it’s just because you’re so worked up. You can tell yourself you’re so close to the edge that you would’ve fallen apart even if you had pulled your hands away. But as the screams start, you don’t stop.

It’s Namgyu that lets go first. Warm streaks coat the backs of your fingers, seep between to make them slide even faster across your clit. You feel his release on your wrist, your pelvis, you even feel the weight as it dampens the bottom of your T-shirt. Immersed in it, you feel two simultaneous points of pressure.

His hand on your face pushing you even more firmly into the mattress as he curls in on himself, and the bright arc of teeth digging into your shin through the fabric of your pants.

It’s this that triggers you. Your orgasm makes your already-useless eyes roll back in your skull as you convulse beneath him. Each stroke aided by his own cum is like its own nirvana and you work yourself desperately to wring out every last one. You think you can hear him whispering under his breath, but you can’t make out a single word as your whimpered breaths are blocked by the palm of his hand, echoing only inside your own head. The shouts, both aggressive and terrified, drown out everything else.

Too soon, pleasure turns to pain, and your twitches are drawn from oversensitivity instead. Greedy, you slow down but don’t stop until tears run hot down your temples. Letting out one last sob and shudder, you pull the hand out from under your shirt to tug lightly at Namgyu’s wrist. 

He pulls his hand away and leans back, breathing as heavily as you. Boneless, your legs fall to the side and you grimace as your thighs land in the wetness you both left behind. 

The carnage is quickly sobering, however. It must be less than a minute before guilt rises like a tide within you. The only reassurance is that those you hold dear are all hiding and relatively safe. Still, it’s a hollow reassurance.

“Congratulations.”

You squint over at the general area where Namgyu is. For a second, you think you must have imagined the nearly inaudible whisper.

Then he speaks up again with a satisfied sigh. “I’m not in the mood anymore. I’ll wait it out like you wanted, 123.”

That guilt threatens to drown you, mixed with shame at essentially whoring yourself out to him. But that’s not all it was, you’re forced to admit. Your thighs still shake just from getting yourself off like you’ve done a million times before, and you’ve never experienced him so openly desperate before. Whatever this dangerous pull is between you, it’s certainly not transactional.

With a groan and legs as shaky as a newborn deer, you push up off the mattress and ball up the blanket. Wiping yourself down this way makes your cheeks flush hot and your overstimulated clit pulse, but there’s really no other choice. From the sharp huffs Namgyu lets out, you imagine he’s doing the same.

You’ve only just hitched your pants back up before a flash of light blares and catches you both off guard. It repeats: a brief moment of illumination, then a longer plunge into darkness before the lights go on again. It’s in these disorienting flashes that you and Namgyu share a look, both fucked out but quickly coming back down to reality. 

Across the hall, on the X side, blue voters are tackling red voters and stabbing them mercilessly with forks and what looks like broken bottles. You can see the shadows of your friends remaining below the mattresses as planned, but it’s another figure that really makes you worry.

Minsu, darting around like a terrified rabbit, barely avoiding those who have come to kill him. You realise that while Minsu was there during the headcount, him and Semi must have split from the group by the time Daeho waved you back over. He doesn’t know the plan. 

Without thinking, you rush over, jerked to a halt only a few steps closer by Namgyu’s grip on your wrist. You whirl around in disbelief. 

Eyes glinting with every flash of light, Namgyu glares at you. “I thought we were supposed to stay out of the way,” he challenges in a mocking tone, though there’s a tension in his jaw he doesn’t usually carry when he’s poking fun. 

“It’s Minsu!” you insist, tugging again to no avail.

“Oh, Thanos’ best friend, Minsu?”

You roll your eyes and yank hard enough to assure your freedom. Namgyu stumbles slightly but stands there in befuddlement as you leave him. Running as fast as you can without drawing attention, you keep your gaze locked on the boy as he cowers behind a bed. Mentally, you swear at him to just get under it, for fuck’s sake. 

But he just crouches, peeking out every few seconds only to recoil at the violence ahead of him. 

Heart thudding in your chest, you keep low once you reach the fighting. You move carefully, checking your peripherals at every turn. Thankfully, he’s closer to your side, and as he sees you coming he sinks in relief.

You glance left and right before dashing across the exposed steps, and he hastily makes room for you. “Minsu! What are you doing?”

He gives you a panicked look with a shake of his head. “Hiding!”

“Don’t just stay here, somebody will find you. You have to-” a thought strikes you. “Wait, where’s Semi?”

Minsu’s face crumples. “I lost sight of her. I know I should look for her, but I-” He cuts himself off when something behind you catches his eye. Your heart drops when he practically wilts in front of you.

“There you are.” You don’t recognise the voice, but you should, because once you turn around you’re greeted with the slimy grin of player 023. Your blood runs cold at the broken neck of a bottle he’s waving at you. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”

Without anything to defend yourself, you feel completely helpless. Minsu squeaks in fear; you try your best not to do the same. “Okay,” you say dumbly, cursing yourself at not being able to think of anything of substance that might hold him off.

His smile widens. The strobing effect of the lights has you lightheaded, but your body feels impossibly heavy as he takes a leisurely step closer. “You know, everything worked out just fine for you in the end, didn’t it?” 023 continues at your blank look of distressed confusion. “That game. Your ladyboy is still alive. You’re still alive. But yet I never got a single thank you.”

Your knees knock together. All the fear that had filled you when his hands were around your neck have only amplified, pressing in until you can barely breathe. “You tried to murder me.”

“You just can’t get past that, can you?” he snaps in irritation and moves closer yet again. “Here’s an idea: how about you suck up your pride, thank me like you should, and then we can see where we’re at, hm?” The way he wiggles the bottle back and forth leaves his message perfectly clear.

With a harsh swallow, you give in. “Thank you,” you offer up shakily, “and I’m sorry for- for not thanking you before.”

Player 023 breathes it in with a deep inhale, letting it out again with a hearty sigh. “You know, it’s a shame.” His grip tightens, hand comes down at his side. “That doesn’t make me want to kill you any less.”

You barely have a chance to comprehend before he’s jumping at you. Reflex allows you to duck out of the way, falling back behind the bunk bed column as he jabs at the air where you once were. Furious, he advances again. This time, you’re too slow. But it’s not the bottle that meets you. It’s a bruising grasp on your wrist that immediately tugs forward so harshly that you’re unable to stop from falling hard on your knees.

The pain rings up your legs but they’re being swept out from under you. The smooth floor provides nothing for your free hand to grip onto as you’re dragged by the wrist towards the steps.

As he rounds the corner, your arm socket burning from the uncomfortable change in angle, you’re able to latch onto the bottom strut of the bed. Try as you might, you can’t free yourself from him, but you at least hold him at bay while you crane your neck back the way you came. “Minsu, get help!” you cry out in raw panic, but you’re met with an empty corridor. Only a slight movement in your upper peripheral leads you to him.

Minsu scales the ladder desperately, not even glancing down at you until he reaches the top bunk impressively fast. You call up to him again when you feel a rough tug twinging your shoulder and a frustrated curse, but his face ducks out of view.

Pain blinds you.

Not your shoulder, nor the wrist that player 023 won’t let go of. It’s the hand on the metal strut. While your shoes may only be canvas, the force he exerts to kick you more than makes up for it. You sob, nausea rushing up your throat at the acute agony. 

“Doesn’t feel good, does it?”

While you can’t feel a break, your hand hurts so bad all strength leaves it, and the only thing you can do is curl it limply against your chest as the man drags you roughly down every single step. Each corner digs into you somewhere, and for all your struggling you just can’t break his hold. 

He’s taunting you, threatening and mocking as he drags you out into the open space. Your mind can’t comprehend any of it. He laughs when you finally stop struggling; that much you can ascertain.

It’s not until you’re both bathed in the red glow of the X that you come to a stop. The moment he lets go you try to spring up, but his foot comes down faster, pinning you by the chest. You have no choice but to glare up at him, at the glint of sharp teeth and sharper glass as he bends over.

“Teasers like you really piss me the fuck off, you know?” he snarls, grinding painfully down on your sternum as you fail to bat him away. “I guess it’s my lucky day getting this opportunity again so soon.” 

You struggle under him with a pained growl and renewed vigour, but when he reels back with the bottle high above his head, it’s not you that stops him from bringing it down again.

The weight is ripped off of you by a dark blur. Still winded, you try to prop yourself up enough to see what took him out. 

Namgyu is clinging onto player 023’s back like a spider monkey, one arm around his neck and the other wrestling the hand that holds the broken bottle. He isn’t as well-built as 023, but he’s scrappy and he’s furious.

You’ve never seen such poison in his eyes, such a seething snarl on his face. He’s throwing his weight back to make the man stumble as the two struggle for control of the makeshift weapon. 

For a few moments, you don’t do anything but stare at them, absolutely dumbfounded. Player 023 grunts through clenched teeth as one of the jagged edges nicks his jaw; Namgyu spits a curse when the man tries to bite his forearm.

Tentatively, you get your feet beneath you and pull up into a crouch until you can find an opening. Player 023 is becoming desperate and irritated, shaking frantically to try and dislodge Namgyu. The latter has twisted his legs around the other’s middle to free the hand that was holding him stable and claws at his face with an animalistic yell. His fingers begin digging into the man’s eyes. With a ringing howl, player 023 has to drop the bottle to rip Namgyu’s hand away. 

Most of the bottle remains intact outside of a few shards that scatter across the concrete, but the price is Namgyu losing his grip and slamming heavily on the floor. 

All smugness gone from his expression, 023 levels one kick into Namgyu’s stomach to make him curl in on himself in pain before he turns to you with a thunderous scowl. 

With wide eyes, you dart forward to try and reach the bottle before he can. Although he’s further away, he’s also properly on his feet, and the cool glass is snatched from right beneath your fingertips. Another harsh kick at your shoulder prevents you from grabbing a sliver to defend yourself. 

“I’m a little sick of your anklebiter,” 023 says darkly as you rub at the aching spot. “Fights all your battles, does he?” 

Your lip trembles, equal parts fear and insult. You close your empty hands into fists held up defensively as you try to create distance. Distance he quickly closes. 

“I wanted to take my time with you but you just won’t let me enjoy anything.” His voice raises into a yell, almost petulant, before he lunges at you.

You recoil and squeeze your eyes shut, but the pain never comes. 

What does is a spray of wet heat that pelts you from the head down. A gurgle from above causes you to tentatively open your eyes, even as you know the sight that’s about to greet you. It’s no less horrifying than your mental image. 

Player 023’s face is starch white, eyes whaled. All the colour is leaving him through the shredded gash in his neck so deep you can see the greyish white of what must be his trachea. His fingers grab uselessly at the bloodflood that gushes and spurts. 

Beside him, Namgyu lifts his leg high to deliver a swift kick at the man’s ribs. In pain and already weak from significant blood loss, he topples heavily to the ground. 

Discarding the shard of glass that just saved your life, Namgyu straddles 023 and easily yanks the bottle neck from numb fingers. He’ll likely be dead in minutes, but Namgyu doesn’t seem to want to wait that long. He brings the jagged edges down again and again right on the man’s face until the gargling subsides completely, body mutilated and motionless. 

As if the blood that spattered on his jacket already wasn’t enough, as Namgyu stands up and catches his breath his sweatpants are practically black with the stuff from the knees down, dripping down and soaking his socks. You can’t see a speak of white left on his shoes. 

Though you weren’t exerting yourself, you feel like you can’t get enough air in your lungs either as you meet Namgyu’s wild gaze. His hair has fallen loose; a few strands flutter with every breath. He steps forward, drags his jacket sleeve over his face, and sends you a devilish grin.

When he holds his hand out to pull you to your feet, you take it.

Suddenly, the lights flick on and stay on. Armed guards flood the room once the doors open with a mechanical hiss. They instruct you all to get down with a few shots at the ceiling to break up the few fights that were still ongoing.

Only once the room is fully illuminated does your gaze stray further afield. 

Behind Namgyu, your friends have crawled out from their hiding spots. While some quickly hunker down according to the original plan, others stare at you with varying degrees of shock and betrayal. 

Hyunju is one of the first out. She knew more than anyone about your desire to go speak with Namgyu and now - side-by-side, your hand still in his - you know exactly what she’s thinking when a disappointed frown pulls at her lips. As she goes to lie down and play dead, you rip away from Namgyu like you’ve been stung, but the damage has already been done. Worse still, her judgements aren’t completely wrong.

Daeho and Jungbae share a look before they get down, you catch a glimpse of Gihun glaring, too. Geumja and Yongsik, who had wisely opted out of taking out guards, don’t have anywhere else to be as you cringe under the weight of their eyes. 

An armed guard rushes up to you, mask impassive and silent but the threat clear. You lift your hands up slowly in surrender. Namgyu does the same, but he laces his fingers on the back of his tipped-back head, sighing luxuriously at the piggy bank almost directly above you. 

You can see Geumja in your peripheral, trembling in Yongsik’s arms both at the pink suits passing by and the mangled corpse at your feet. Your own eyes dip down for the first time, following the guard as he pulls out a chip scanner. 

In the bright, unrelenting light, you can see what remains of 023 in all its glory. You’re reminded of early slasher flicks, campy practical effects and comically red fake blood. You don’t think you can ever watch them the same way again. From the middle of his chest down, he looks like any other eliminated player you’ve had the misfortune of seeing. But from the shoulders up? He doesn’t even look human anymore. 

The stomp mark from this afternoon has been completely drowned out by a puddle of red, dark but glistening as it still blooms out along the concrete. You can see teeth where they shouldn’t be, exposed muscle and scalp. His jaw hangs limply off its hinge. It’s awful, even though you know he was probably already dead for most of it considering the gaping maw across his neck. 

That’s what he fucking gets.

The thought is sharp, bolting through your head unprompted and unwelcome. You inhale sharply and tug your eyes away to clear it, nose wrinkling at the bittersweet smell in the air. Last time, you were unconscious when Namgyu had attacked this man. This perpetrator. Now, you’d watched him in all his unholy glory, less than an hour after he’d been rutting at you like a dog. 

Your eyes find his. After the initial wipe, he hasn’t made any further effort to clean his face with the few unstained spots on his jacket sleeves. The dots and swipes of blood on his cheeks and forehead only highlight the manic gleam in his eyes. The grin hasn’t left his face since he first dug glass into 023’s flesh. It’s like he’s high off of it, off the satisfaction of eliminating a threat. 

But not a threat to him. He could’ve walked away; wasn’t it just this morning Semi warned you he’d ditch you in a heartbeat to save himself? Instead, he gritted his teeth and threw himself in the line of fire to kill the man who wanted you dead. 

Despite yourself, despite the brutality of it, despite the disapproval in Hyunju’s and Geumja’s eyes, you return Namgyu’s smile.

A new shot rings out and you instinctively drop, arms coming up over your head again. Thankfully, it’s those on the X team carrying out their plan. One by one, each pink guard is gunned down around you, caught off by them playing dead.

Those not taken out by surprise initially, however, begin firing back. Namgyu’s made no effort to move like he’s run entirely out of survival instinct, so as you break into a crouched run you hook onto his sleeve and drag him with you to hide behind the flat black metal of a toppled-over bunk bed. 

“You weren’t kidding,” Namgyu muses as he peeks around the edge. The uncontrollably hyper energy leaves him quickly like a drug comedown. Instead, it’s been replaced by a bemused, almost curious calm. He’s managed to slow his breath down, though he does unzip his jacket to alleviate some body heat. 

Your eyes drop to the dark outline of Thanos’ cross beneath the white cotton T-shirt. “Did you take one before you…?”

Namgyu doesn’t flinch once at the loud sounds around you, not even when a shot pings off the other side of your barricade. He simply leans in close like he’s challenging you to look at his eyes. “Before we fucked or before I dealt with him?”

He says it so off-hand, so casual that an outsider would think he just scolded the man. “Either,” you land on. His irises look normal, but you’re not exactly an expert on how unidentified designer drugs affect the body. 

With a sigh like he’s disappointed, he turns from you again to watch as those in on the plan successfully kill all of the guards except one, who is put down on his knees and held at gunpoint. “Hm, now all of your friends are murderers, too.” His sentence ends in that, though you know there’s plenty more he’s implying. 

It’s different, you could say, but you’re beginning to worry that maybe it isn’t. At least, not entirely. The O voters had killed X voters to add to their hypothetical winnings. Your teammates’ intentions are to free you all and take down the corrupt leaders running this whole thing, but they’ve still proven themselves willing to take lives to do so. Just as more people here are desperate rather than immoral, none of you have any way of knowing whether the guards were recruited from similarly vulnerable populations. 

Not wanting to give Namgyu the satisfaction, you stay silent. 

Out in the middle of the room, you hear Gihun, raising his voice to address you all.  “Listen up! Gather round, please! We’re not trying to hurt you. We just want to get out of here.”

Slowly but surely, realising there’s no more imminent danger, the remaining O and X players step out from their hiding places. You do the same, watching Hyunju move among those with guns, giving them orders to follow. There’s Daeho, Jungbae, Gyeongseok. More still, and they go systematically from guard to guard, gathering weapons, ammo, and walkie-talkies on the stage at the front of the room.

They gather at the front, Gihun at the centre. You wonder if anybody else sees this as a grim mockery of the way the square guard would stand in front of you, flanked by his triangle subordinates.

“Everyone,” Gihun calls again, pulling back the room’s undivided attention. “We’re heading up to the masked man’s headquarters. We’ll capture those who captured us, put an end to this game, and make them pay!” He holds up the gun hanging from the strap around his shoulders. “Anyone who knows how to use a gun and wishes to join us, please step forward.”

The room falls mute, nobody willing to make the first move. You, on the other hand, know there’s only one real way to demonstrate that you’re still on your friends’ team. You turn to Namgyu, wordlessly giving him the opportunity to join you. He steps back, though his gaze remains on you even as you leave.

“If you teach me how to shoot, I’ll help,” you call out. Every step echoes and it’s not until you become aware of everyone’s eyes on you that you realise you haven’t actually tried to clean your face off yet. The blood is drying, crusting and pulling against your skin as you grimace, lifting the base of your shirt up and ducking your head to try and scrub at it on your way. 

By the time you look back up, cheeks rubbed raw, you’re relieved when Jungbae steps up to greet you with a warm, forgiving smile. “Good to have you,” he says genuinely as he passes you one of the rifles. 

You slip the strap over your head to rest on your shoulder. A weird feeling of relief eases some of the guilt from you as you willingly take your place with those prepared to risk their lives. You fall into line beside Hyunju. She glances up, though not meeting your eyes, and gives you a small nod of appreciation.

Nobody else volunteers. 

After a beat, Jungbae steps forward, entreating the players in front of you. “Listen, I get it. You’re scared. I’m scared, too,” he admits, hand on his heart, “I don’t wanna risk my life again. But this may be our last chance to get out of here alive. And if they won’t let us go, I say we fight our way out. Together.”

Finally, others start to put their hands up. Nobody you’ve spoken with; all from the X side. You’re pleased to see Yongsik, Geumja, and Junhee are wisely staying behind. You continue scanning the crowd, heart beginning to thud anxiously at the absence of two people in particular. Finally, you press a hand to your sternum, rubbing to self-soothe as relief floods your system. Semi and Minsu are tucked in a far corner, the former wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It’s clear from earlier that Minsu would be a terrible candidate for the mission, and you’re sure they both know that, too.

Namgyu, on the other hand… He’s got his elbows draped lazily behind the edge of the barricade, leaning back against it as he observes. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed he’s not going to come after all, but when Daeho catches the two of you looking at each other, you quickly avert your gaze and send the ex-marine what you hope is a smile that encourages forgiveness. 

To your relief, he steps in and lowers his voice. “You okay?”

“I almost died. Again. But yeah, not too bad. You?”

Daeho puffs his chest and beams confidently. “I can taste the green grape soju already.”

“Green grape?” you sputter out with a disbelieving laugh. “Who are you?”

Before he gets the chance to fire back, Jungbae has stepped in front of you to impart the next set of directions. First, he instructs you to check your ammo. You wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to do that, so you just stare blankly down at the gun in your hands. You swear you can see a twitch of Hyunju’s lips out the corner of your eye. He holds up a small handheld radio next. “And everyone, take a walkie-talkie so we can keep in touch. We’ll set the channel to lucky number seven.”

That, at least, you can do. A jacket is splayed out on the floor, filled with spare guns, black boxes that must be ammunition, and a series of walkie-talkies. You bend down to grab one and just about trip over your gun as it swings forward on the strap. As you spin the channel dial with a sigh, you wonder if you’ve made the wrong decision in joining this team. It blinks green at you, and you take your place beside Daeho again. 

With the poise of a seasoned leader, Hyunju steps in front of you all, holding her weapon high. “Attention,” she calls sharply. A strange flutter of arousal and pride fills your stomach as you see everyone - you included - straighten up and focus fully on her. Her commanding presence leaves no room for anything less. “This here is an MP5 submachine gun. First, to change magazines, you press this release lever and slide it out.” She grips it by a thick black holster towards the base, and smoothly reaches up to click out another black piece that matches the slightly curved blocks on the jacket ahead.

Clumsily, you try and lift it up, unsure whether you should be grabbing it from outside the strap or dipping your hand under. Like trying to play the guitar as a child, it just feels too big and clunky for you to grab onto it nearly as gracefully as she does.

“It should come out easily. Next, flip this safety down for sustained fire, and switch it up for single-fire.”

You drop the gun again with a grimace at the twinge in your neck, but by the time you glance up you’ve already missed the demonstration. On either side of you, the guys are fiddling with the settings with apparent ease, and your cheeks heat at feeling so out of your depth. 

Though her eyes linger on you for a moment, Hyunju continues. “We don’t have a lot of spare ammo, so set it to single-fire.” Your hands hover uselessly over the gun as everybody else clicks the right switch into place. “Finally, insert the magazine, pull this lever all the way down, then release. That’s how you load it. Are we clear?”

General murmurs of assent mingle with the cocking of guns. Without waiting, Hyunju is already making her way over to you, gracefully hooking the strap back over her shoulder and slinging the gun to rest across her back. Before she speaks, she gives you a hard look. “Explain it to me.”

You reel back in surprise. “Sorry?”

“I’m not one to jump to conclusions,” she says shortly, “so explain to me what happened back there.”

Your heart warms. Behind the sternness is a friend who is willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. You try not to dwell on the part of you that doesn’t deserve it. “Player 023 attacked me and Minsu.” Hoping you don’t blush at the way her eyes go wide with genuine worry, you power on. “Namgyu intervened.”

She lets out a slow sigh and pushes her shoulders back to maintain strong posture. “That’s one word for it,” she responds reluctantly, but doesn’t push it further. Instead, Hyunju points towards the gun in your hands. “First time?”

“That obvious?” you deadpan. You glance down at mimic the way she’s holding her own gun - gripping the holster with your finger over the trigger guard, second hand supporting the barrel to aim. You keep it firmly pointed at the ground.

“Okay. Step one, that’s good. Show me how you remove the magazine.”

“The black chunk?” Hyunju tries to hold back a bemused smile as she confirms. You at least saw that part of her demonstration, so you can recognise the lever just behind the magazine that will dislodge it from the gun. You adjust your grip on the holster to bear the weight, and hesitantly reach towards it, pausing before you make contact.

She reads your mind. “It won’t go off. It’s not loaded yet. Follow me.” She slows down her movements so you can match her as she presses down on the lever, smoothly slides the magazine out, and lets it rest in her palm. “Simple.”

Your nerves still overwhelm you as you feel the density of the magazine in your hand, almost full. “Oh, absolutely, this killing machine is completely user-friendly.”

She clicks her tongue quietly, though not in annoyance. “I’ve made sure you have one to defend yourself. You may not have to even use it, but it’s important you know how. At least for my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

Though it’s not meant in that way, you can’t help but feel a little ashamed at the way you’ve repeatedly failed to defend yourself. You set your stance, take a deep breath, and smile up at her. “What next, Sergeant?”

Hyunju pretends to ignore the term, though as always her breath seems to hitch after hearing you say it. “The selector switch. We want it on single-fire.” This time, she simply reaches over to do it for you, though you watch the movement like a hawk to ensure you know what exactly to do.

“Put the magazine back in.” You follow, albeit not as gracefully as she does with hers. “What do you pull back to load it?” Hyunju gives a pleased hum when you point wordlessly to the knob sticking out of the barrel close to the tip. “Good. Load the gun then, soldier.”

For as much of a reaction as you get calling her by her title, you know she’s aware the effect she has on you doing the reverse. The playful flirting has you biting back a smile until you’re reminded of your own illicit encounter with Namgyu. You shouldn’t be continuing the slightly-charged rapport with her knowing how possessive he’s proven himself to be. Instead you force yourself to focus. Tucking your chin down, you pull the knob down its groove until you feel a click, and let it go. 

Suddenly, it feels like you’ve got a live bomb in your hands. You follow the others and leave it pointing at the ground, but your spooked gaze finds hers. “Do I leave it on?”

“Not on, loaded. And for now, yes. It isn’t going to fire when your finger’s not even on the trigger,” she points out with a wry grin.

Your cheeks heat up even further. “True.”

“Sorry, do you have another gun I could use?” A familiar and welcome sight greets you as Semi steps up, nervously fiddling with her lip ring as she offers a shy smile. 

“Absolutely,” Hyunju confirms, reaching down to grab her one. Her broad beam speaks volumes as to her genuine gratitude at the support. “Do you know how to use it?”

“Not technically,” Semi admits, “but I was eavesdropping.” Worry flickers over her face momentarily as she accepts the gun and slings it on, but she quickly composes herself once she has the weapon in hand. “What next?”

Behind you, Gihun unintentionally answers her question. He calls out to you all as he takes over the position of holding the unmasked soldier hostage. The gun aimed at the boy is closer to a pistol, but it looks no less dangerous in Gihun’s hands. “Now take us to the guy who calls the shots around here.” His voice is gravely, determined after years of suffering from the trauma of surviving his hell.

Your first step is to actually get into the hallway. A simple shot to the glass window above, and Gihun is undoing it from the inside. Adrenaline spikes your system again. This is actually happening. You glance back at your friends who chose to stay before you step out. Geumja looks like she’s on the verge of tears, Yongsik not faring much better judging by the way he’s hunched over. Junhee stands beside them, hand cradling her stomach. You can’t track down Minsu. You and Semi share a worried look.

And try as you might to resist the urge, you seek out Namgyu. Unlike Semi, it doesn’t look like he’s about to have a change of heart. His attention is completely honed in on the open pendant in his hand. His fingers hover over it, small circles in the air as he decides which one to take. Before you can decide how you feel about that, you’re being herded out of the dormitory.

Gihun leads the group of you as you move single-file through the empty winding hallways. Hyunju is the only one behind you at first, but as the most inexperienced two, she escorts you and Semi up further, overtaking a few others until you’re closer to the middle. The heavy silence is broken within minutes of you exiting, as the PA crackles to life. “Attention, players,” the female voice announces. You could swear there’s an icier edge to her voice, though it maintains the same level of politeness. “The day has ended. Please return to your quarters immediately for bedtime. If you do not comply with these orders, then you will be eliminated. Let me repeat…”

You try to tune the announcement out, though it doesn’t help the dread rising within you. You begin ascending the stairs, and Hyunju grabs gently onto your upper arm from beside and calls your name. “Hold onto the gun. Finger over the trigger guard.”

That dread sharpens to a fine point as you follow her instructions. You know better than to doubt her instinct, and she’s immediately proven right as a shot rings out with a hollow echo. Gihun returns the fire and a guard up ahead crumples to the floor, but he didn’t come alone. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, a line-up of pink suits have taken up residency in the balconies across from you. Gihun and Hyunju yell out almost simultaneously to duck, but the immediate weakening of your knees has done that for you already. Your shins knock painfully against the step above as you curl in on yourself, eyes squeezed shut as if that would make any difference.

“At your one o’clock!” Gihun calls out. 

You feel so out of depth you could cry, but a reassuring voice from just behind you gives you courage. “I’m moving up to get a better angle,” Hyunju informs you, breath warm on your ear as she moves close enough to be heard over the din, “stay here and stay low.”

She gives you no time to acknowledge her. Maybe because there is no time, or maybe because she knows that you’ll follow her every instruction without question. “Cover me!” 

A volley of fire is discharged as the team keep the guards ducked away while Hyunju swiftly ascends the stairs. It’s no more than ten steps but it feels like full minutes before she’s safely reaching the top of the stairwell. She spares little time getting in position before she begins shooting. Her jaw is set, and though you can’t see her eyes, her gaze is reflected in the efficient way the barrel of the gun moves back and forth. The others begin shooting too, though not as accurately. 

Hyunju ducks below cover, looking down and you and Semi quickly but intently to ensure you’re both still uninjured. She must catch another guard in her peripheral, as she quickly springs back around to take him out before he can get too close. The sudden sound makes you wince, but then Gihun is blessedly calling for a ceasefire on your end. 

The ex-sergeant takes another look and confirms, “we’re clear.”

“Why the fuck did I sign up for this?” Semi questions rhetorically, fingers tightening on the barrel of her gun. 

Gihun calls out before you can offer any reassurance. “Is everyone okay?” When he receives the affirmative, he gives a decisive nod. “Then let’s keep moving.”

He and a few others overtake Hyunju, who is turning to fire off a few shots. You flinch, expecting to see guards coming out of the woodwork, but instead you see the cameras shot to smithereens with incredible precision. Before you get much of a chance to admire her proficiency, she’s ushering the rest of you onwards.

The route takes you further up the stairs and directly past the row of balconies the guards from before had taken aim from. They now hang limp over the edges or lay in crumpled heaps on the floor. You try not to look at them, stomach already sick enough from the death you’ve seen so far. Behind you, Semi lets out a disgusted sound, though she can’t fully conceal the tremble in it.

The line is held up briefly; there’s enough of you that you can’t see the front from where you are. While you can hear Gihun’s voice from around the corner, you can’t make out his words. Hyunju moves the two of you closer to see what the hold-up is.

Suddenly, a single shot heralds a new string of guards along the corridors opposite you. You all duck below the divider and behind columns, but one of you isn’t fast enough. A player right beside Daeho is shot as he’s lifting his own gun. The force of it propels him back against the wall with a dull thud. 

Crouched safety under cover, you’re able to glance out just enough to see a petrified Daeho, fresh blood sprayed across his face and jacket. He numbly wipes it away, eyes frozen on the slumped-over corpse of player 072.

The fire from the guards is relentless. Every time you see Hyunju fearlessly break cover to shoot back your heart stops, but she’s careful and conservative. It seems like each bullet hits from what little you can see. Only when she’s back behind a column does she glance down to ensure the rest of you are still safe, checking in multiple times. You grip onto the submachine gun in your hands tightly. Peace of mind. You now agree with Hyunju’s desire for you to have one. 

You look down the line, either side of you. Though they all seem shaken with fear, the others have stepped up to take turns trying to gun down the guards. That is, everyone except Youngil. His head is cocked towards the hall, gun at the ready, but yet he doesn’t move. He catches your eye, and you’re shocked to see how emotionless his gaze is, like all the personality he had in the games has fallen away. 

As the rest of your group bravely fight, you feel like the two of you are being cowardly just waiting out of sight. Even Daeho has stuck his gun out to fire wildly, though it seems mostly ineffective. “Should we be shooting?” you pose to Semi in a concerned whisper.

She sends you a wry look. “I couldn’t hit one of those guys if he was right in front of me. I’m pretty much just a pack mule here.”

“A morale booster,” you correct, quirking a grin at her. The two of you decide instead to keep a close eye out on the others, making sure nobody runs out of bullets already. For every guard down, it seems like two more appear, an endless stream with far more ammo than you have. You get the feeling it won’t take long to run out with the desperate way some of the men are shooting.

Down the other end, Gihun shouts out. “I’ll go look for the management area!”

Youngil frowns. “Will you be able to find it? Should I come?”

Alarm bells ring. Why would him coming solve anything if they didn’t know the way? Gihun moves swiftly past Youngil’s comment and declines his offer. “You need to stay here and buy us some time. I’ll go with Jungbae.”

You see the way Jungbae starts to curl in on himself before he stands to attention, following his friend’s lead as Gihun snags a mask from a guard on the ground and the two run around the corner. You jolt when you realise the previous owner of that mask is the young man who had been caught as your hostage and guide back in the dormitory. His eyes are open, unseeing, with a bloody halo wetting his dark hair. 

After the two depart, you all return your full focus to the onslaught across from you. Hyunju tosses an empty casing and pulls another from her pants pocket. Daeho has run out himself, and all the others are too preoccupied to notice. With yours entirely unused, you crawl low to the ground, weaving around Semi and the others to reach him.

Gratefully, with a face whiter than paper, Daeho removes his casing and accepts the one you hastily click out of place. As you do so, a player behind you sees the exchange and yells over the din. “Don’t waste bullets like that! We’re running out of ammo as it is,” he scolds. 

Daeho nods jerkily. Your heart breaks at just how shell-shocked he seems already; you wonder if you share the same expression, although adrenaline is keeping you wired. As he tries to slide the new magazine home, however, his hands tremble so much it won’t slot into place.

“Here,” you yell, placing your hand over his to stable it enough that the magazine slides home and clicks in. “Just pretend you’re at, like, a gun range or something. Do you marines do much with guns? Or just… boats? I don’t really know what a marine does.”

Your weak attempt at levity is completely unsuccessful. Daeho’s lips move like he’s trying to say something, but nothing makes its way out. Without thinking, you grab onto the bottom hem of your shirt and lift it up high enough to wipe some of the blood still gleaming on his cheek and jaw. His eyes are frantic like a cornered animal, but they lock on you long enough for a twinge of guilt to settle in. How long has it been since you’ve made the effort to have a proper conversation with him, check in on him like you’ve done with many of your other friends? 

Speaking of friends, you offer up a goodbye and good luck to Daeho as you turn to make your way back to Semi and Hyunju, the former of which is hesitantly poking the tip of her gun up over the partition like she’s working up the courage to try and shoot it.

“Chaewon-” a weak voice cracks out, and you feel a hand against your ankle, fingers latching onto your pant sleeve. It’s Daeho, chest rising and falling in such uneven stutters you’re almost certain he’s having a panic attack. Torn, you try to gently untangle his fingers, but his knuckles are white with tension that you can’t overcome. 

You feel helpless as you wait on your hands and knees, tugging at his hand while trying to reassure him. “I’m just going back down to the others, you can come with if you like but I have to-”

You’re interrupted by a shout from above, the player who had told Daeho off before for being too trigger-happy. “This isn’t getting us anywhere, there’s too many of them still coming. Let’s follow the others to the upper levels!”

Youngil raises a good point. “We might get surrounded if we move together without a plan!” Still, he hasn’t made a single attempt to fire his weapon. Nor has he offered the others his spare magazines as they run out one at a time. “Let’s wait until they find the control room!” 

Finally, he springs up and attempts to shoot a few guards before ducking back. Just scared, then, you have to admit, like you are. 

In the opposite direction, you hear a yell and a heavy thud. The player on Hyunju’s opposite side is pelted down by a guard approaching from the way you came. Your heart stops as you realise she’s now vulnerable as she seeks cover. With a newfound strength, you rip your leg away from Daeho and scramble for your gun as you spring forward towards her. 

The shot you fire goes off too soon, before you have the chance to actually lift your gun properly, but it does hit. The guard stumbles forward as a spray of blood flies from a shattered kneecap. Without hesitation, Hyunju has finished the job with a single shot to the head, and the guard falls lifeless to the ground. 

Adrenaline thrums in your ears as you realised what you’ve done. What your instinct helped you to do. Despite herself, when Hyunju looks over to check on you, she grins for a split second in what seems like pride. 

“Holy shit, girl,” Semi breathes out from behind you, “making me the weakest link here.” Despite her pallid complexion, she manages a weak laugh when you look over.

The immediate threat resolved, Hyunju returns to her prior cover and checks her magazine, tossing it onto the floor when it’s revealed to be empty. Smoothly, from doing it thousands of times before, she replaces it and reloads without looking, her eyes instead doing a scan of those of you still here. “Everyone!” she yells out. “Check your magazines!” 

You don’t know why you assumed there were far more bullets in each black box than there apparently are, as each person’s answer surprises you. Not only are you all but out of spares, the ones in use are all half-full at most. Daeho has emptied his entirely. You would have no idea how to check yours, but you know already it’s practically full. 

“I’m almost out too,” Youngil shouts. 

“Really?” you yell back without thinking. “Did you check?” He’s fired off a few more between now and the first time, but you’re sure it wasn’t very many.  “Me and Semi have one more each,” you offer up to the rest of the crew.

The stony glare Youngil sends you makes you recoil, but his expression is cut off by the crackling of his radio. It’s Jungbae, who announces, “Youngil, Daeho! We’re right below the control room, I think, but we have hardly any ammo left. We need backup!” 

“We’re running out of ammo, too,” comes the immediate response. Youngil doesn’t make eye contact anymore, and you don’t mourn the loss. You quickly pull out your own radio and hold it up so those of you down the other end can hear a little clearer.

You turn to a movement in your peripheral. Daeho, now with an empty gun, is coming over to you and Hyunju, severely flinching at every single shot of the many that rain down. Daeho crawls like you did, though one of his hands is raised protectively over his head, and it’s slow going on three limbs. He’s looking at you, but his eyes are distant and unfocused like he’s not actually seeing you. 

“There should be spare ammo in the guards’ pockets in the dormitory,” Gihun instructs over the radio, “go get them!”

Hyunju, who had been gunning down some new arrivals across from you, pulls back to grab at your shoulder again once she hears the message. You already know what she’s about to say. “I’ll go get the magazines! I’ll come back as soon as I can, so just hold on until then!”

Beside you, Semi is wilting against the wall. You’ve never seen her as shaken, and you can see the regret on her face at having come with. Down the hall, you see Youngil has already left with two other players, this line of defense dwindling further. 

Before you can decide how you feel about Hyunju leaving you behind, Daeho has caught up to the two of you, shakily raising the hand that was just shielding him. “Hyunju, let me go! I- I’m out of ammo anyway.” To illustrate his point, he hitches the strap over his shoulder and leaves it beside him.

Gyeongseok pokes his head down. “Do you know the way back?”

Even though Daeho nods, Hyunju bends down a little as well to meet his eye. “We destroyed the cameras along the way, Daeho, you just need to follow them there and back.” 

He nods, but his eyes flit towards you. “Can-”

Wary of time, Hyunju steps between the two of you and gives him her own gun. “Take this, then. You might run into more guards on the way.” 

Under her breath, Semi murmurs, “god, this is so embarrassing,” before she clears her throat and raises the volume. “Can I go back with him? I’m sorry, I’m so- I don’t think I can help you guys at all.”

“Of course,” Hyunju responds immediately, “Daeho can bring back the ammo and you can wait there for us to get back. Keep safe.”

Daeho himself looks on the verge of passing out, but sends her an unconvincing smile. “Thank you!”

She nods swiftly, then waves for them to move past. “I’ll cover you,” she declares as she gears up with the spare gun she’s kept slung across her back, “now go!”

Daeho’s first, off like a jet, with Semi hot on his heels. So focused on shooting at the guards across from you, Hyunju doesn’t see the guard that approaches from the direction the two are headed.

You cry out as the pink suit steps fully around the corner. As he lifts his gun, time drags to a near standstill. You see each minute movement with perfect clarity like they last minutes. 

Hyunju hears you yell, but in turning towards you, she only puts her back further to the oncoming threat. Daeho’s fallen to his knees to press up against the wall, but Semi takes aim. 

In a cruel twist of irony, her prior words are proven exactly right. She can’t hit the guard, even when he’s right in front of her.

By the time you register the shot that misses wildly and go to lift your own gun, by the time Hyunju whirls around to face the direction the noise came from, it’s too late.

The bullet catches her clean through the centre of her forehead. 

There’s no time to hold her hand, no time to comfort her or reassure her or do anything at all. She’s gone before she hits the ground. 

The shots raining over don’t hesitate for a moment, but they’re replaced with a ringing in your ears you can’t shake. Shock sets in immediately as you crawl over to her and hold her hand anyway. Denial makes you call out her name even as her eyes rest blankly towards the ceiling and her chest is still.

You’re yanked back by one of the team to be less exposed. There’s no strength in you to resist. You just watch in numb horror as he reaches forward quickly and carefully to click the magazine out of the gun lying useless over her lap. 

Your eyes drift up. Hyunju sends you a distraught look, but has to keep focused on holding back the seemingly endless stream of guards opposite you all. 

Daeho’s gone. His voice springs to life on the radio, announcing to the others that he’s on his way to get the spare magazines. 

“Thank god,” Jungbae’s warm but panicked voice returns, “please hurry, Daeho. We’re counting on you.”

A stiff pause. “Yes, you can count on me, sir! I’ll be there soon.”

Hyunju calls your name to catch your attention. She’s holding what looks like an empty case with a grim look. “Could I swap with you? There’s only a few in here.”

You can only nod, incapable of words. With hands shaking from haste and grief, you follow her directions from back in the dormitory and press down on the lever to release yours - only a single bullet missing. After the trade, you click her old one in place.

You notice now she fires minimally, despite the receiving end being louder than ever. Some of the others begin curling down in defeat too as they run dangerously low. “How long is he going to take?” one of the guys questions miserably. “Do you think he got lost?”

Your stomach feels heavy like a sinking ship. You silently pass your walkie-talkie over to him, and he grabs it, immediately shouting into it. “Are you still there? Where are you; at the dorms yet?”

You all wait a beat but there’s no response. The player checks the settings, the channel, he even shouts down to get someone else to use theirs to make sure it’s actually receiving. Everything works, but there’s no Daeho. The man’s fear bubbles up as anger. He presses down on the button to transmit again. “Guy, where the fuck are you? We’re not gonna last much longer if we can’t shoot them, you know?”

You flinch at the harsh tone, even as you acknowledge the truth of his words. Glancing up at Hyunju, who has no choice but to conserve bullets for now, you give her a pleading look. “Do you think he’s sh- Hyunju, do you think he got shot?” Semi is in your peripheral; you can barely comprehend any of this is real.

Her expression is grave. She shakes her head, not in dissent but in uncertainty. “Something must have happened. We’re going down to check.”

This time, you have no interest in disagreement. Adrenaline is only going to power you so long, and the hopeless look on the others’ faces fills you with dread that’s threatening to override it. You’re reluctant to leave Semi - it feels somehow disrespectful to - but seeing her lifeless body right in front of you is like hearing nails scrape down a chalkboard, acutely and viscerally distressing.

Behind you, Gyeongseok lets out a shaky, “please do!”

Hyunju announces the plan to the others, before instructing them to cover you both. As soon as the players begin releasing their precious few bullets, she practically yanks you up by your collar to guide you back the way you all came. 

The sharp burst of pain in your throat barely registers as you fumble to get your feet beneath you and hold our own weight.

“Gun up!” she calls back without looking, intently scanning your surroundings as she takes the lead. She’s running as fast as she can without being reckless, and you try to at least keep an eye out for the distinctive pink of the guards’ suits as well. 

It’s a good thing you do, too, because the pair of you only make it around a few corners before you glance a triangle guard taking aim from a turret high up close to the ceiling. Recklessly, you don’t think to call it out before you fire a shot off yourself.

This time, you miss by a long shot, but it at least serves to make the guard duck back briefly and get Hyunju’s attention. She only needs one shot before the guard is tipping over and falling from the turret all the way down to the ground. Even as relief fills you, so does nausea at the knowledge that the same fortune that had abandoned Semi has just spared you.

There’s no chance to dwell on it, however, as you continue forth and quickly come across a lone walkie-talkie in the middle of the floor a few metres away from the corridor that leads to the dormitory. Your heart drops. 

“Daeho?” Hyunju screams out intensely, lowering her gun as she puts all her energy into sprinting forward, bounding down the hallway so quickly you can’t keep up. “Daeho! Are you in here? What happened?”

By the time you make it into the hall yourself, Hyunju has already located him thanks to Yongsik pointing the way. Ignoring the eyes on you and Geumja stepping forward as you pass, you follow closely behind. 

Cowering against the back wall with his ears covered, Daeho looks completely distraught. Now in his line of sight, Hyunju calls his name again insistently, making him flinch so strongly it looks like he’s been struck. 

You look over him, but can’t see any injuries. Relief smacks you like a brick wall, not comforting but forceful. Hyunju steps forward. “Daeho, what happened; did you get hurt?”

His lips tremble. He presses himself back tightly against the wall, putting as much distance between him and the still-armed Hyunju. “I’m sorry,” he confesses to her in a shameful tone.

She springs forward, grabbing onto him by the knee as he fails to back away further. “The magazines - where are they?”

You glance around at the rest of the room for a moment. All of them are dead silent, just watching. Some with empathy, others disapproval. On the far side, a few of the O voters are mimicking his cowering form. 

Daeho has no answer for Hyunju. The only thing he can do is apologise again. When she sees a tied-up jacket just past his feet, she lunges to open it and he actually throws an arm up over his face in defense. 

Instinctively, you step towards him to comfort him, before halting in place, too worried you’ll spook him further. 

The jacket is filled with the ammo you all needed. As Hyunju tights the sleeves to secure the makeshift bag again, she looks up at you with blazing eyes. “Stay here,” she instructs with no room for disagreement. “You do not, under any circumstances, leave here until I come back. Understood?”

As much as you fear for her and the others’ safety, nothing petrifies you more than the thought of going back out there again.“I understand,” you let out weakly but genuinely.

She gathers the bundle in her arms. You want to go out to at least see her off, but you’re stopped by a grip on your shirt so tight it pinches the soft skin below. Daeho, once curled up in fear, now lets it give him strength as he holds you in place with that same sharp but unfocused stare. 

“I’m sorry,” he pleads in a broken voice.

“I know.”

“Chaewon, I didn’t mean to-” A sob rips through him. His hands fisted in your shirt tremble violently as his head begins to hang limp. “I’m sorry, I’m so…”

You have no idea how to respond to him, but the choice is taken from you anyway as a rapid succession of three shots echo painfully around the open space.

Daeho’s hands fly off of you to cover himself again with a guttural yelp. You immediately turn to run towards the sound, only to bump right into Hyunju.

“Get down on the floor!” The unmistakeable voice of the leader rises above the sounds of panic. Through the bars, you can see at least ten armed guards advancing down into the centre to enforce the command.

Hyunju guides you down in obedience, but then begins using one of the spare magazines to reload her gun. You have to fight past the paralysing fear within you to reach out and stop her hands in their tracks. “We’re outnumbered,” you hiss desperately, “and nobody else has guns anymore.”

Hyunju uses her strength to keep reloading frantically. “We have to-”

“What if they miss?” you ask hurriedly. She pauses for a second and glances up. Around you, all of your friends that didn’t go out on the mission are crouched on the floor with their hands up, sending the two of you worried looks. Reluctance blooms on Hyunju’s face.

In particular, Geumja moves forward to place her hands on her shoulder. She’s fighting tears so valiantly her lips won’t stop trembling. “Don’t do it. Don’t die like this.”

It takes a few moments, but finally something in Hyunju breaks and her body goes lax. She lets the gun lift up and off of her and clatter noisily into the pile of ammo. It’s almost like the sergeant in her has aborted the mission, given up. 

In relief, Geumja pulls her into a tight hug, ushering her onto the ground properly as she pushes the pile of bullets and the gun away from you all. 

“All players,” the PA chimes as armed guards continue to do a full sweep of the terrified players, “it is now bedtime. The lights will go out in ten minutes. I repeat: it is now bedtime. The lights will go out in ten minutes.”

In defeated silence, you watch as a pair of armed guards approach to confiscate the magazines and guns. Hyunju gives them a deeply disapproving look but doesn’t protest. They move throughout the room systematically as the time clicks down. 

The forklifts enter, too, and you bury your face in the mattress beside you with the knowledge that your friend - friends, by now, most likely - are out there without even the sliver of dignity that those ribbon-adorned coffins give.

The timer clicks down. Nobody speaks. Eventually, the mechanical whirring dies down and the armed guards retreat. 

The dormitory is left a near-empty cavern. Even the O voters, who had all but remained, are solemn as they sit down on their beds. As those around you reluctantly get ready for a sleepless night, you mourn all those you lost. Without ammo, the others didn’t stand a chance. You and Hyunju probably would’ve been shot down out there too had you not sought out Daeho.

Speaking of, he’s already burrowed underneath his thin blanket to shut out the world. You catch Yongsik sending him a foul look before dragging his mother a few rows down. Junhee joins them after a moment. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Minsu, hovering on the outskirts as he tries to meet your gaze. Shamefully, you avoid it. 

Instead, you make out Namgyu’s silhouette a few rows up on one of the beds against the wall across from you. His back is pressed to the wall, one hand gripping the necklace as the other splays roughly across his face. He doesn’t move. Without any distractions while you all were gone, you posit the memory of Thanos’ death has come back to haunt him with a vengeance.

You could go over. It’s unclear if you should, but you know you could. But your grief feels so palpable in the air, so thick, that it’s unimaginable getting close to any more of it. 

Instead, you walk past an equally-defeated Hyunju and find a free bed, hopping under the blanket, and pressing your face against the pillow so hard you hope you suffocate.

[szas0mega]

Roses and Recklessness — Joshua Pearce

a/n: I haven’t proofread this AT ALL so I apologize for any mistakes. I just wanted to get my fanfic out there because there are literally none for him!! We all need to do better LOLLL

Pairing: Joshua Pearce x Blackf!reader

Summary: Against your liking, Joshua has pushed himself back on the track after his horrifying crash that traumatized you both.

C/W: Mentions of trauma, burns from car accident

Word Count: 3.6k

The blood-curdling scream that escaped your throat was enough to break glass. The way you felt like you had genuinely ripped your vocal cords out was only a fraction of the heartache you had felt in that moment.

The collective gasps around you had only added fuel to the fire. It was pouring outside in Emilia-Romagna, which contributed to the predicament that you were in.

Well, not you. But Joshua, your boyfriend. He was on his 53rd lap, and he was so close to placing first. To finishing. Safely.

Of course, luck would have it that Joshua was so close but now set back so far.

But then there was a mishap on the track. He had skidded so hard that his car flipped, leading him to spin out in the air until he landed in the grass off the track. Seconds later, the car was set aflame.

What felt like hours had passed with Joshua still inside. And you felt a piece of your soul shatter. You thought you had lost him. Even when Sonny had jumped out of his own and retrieved him from the vehicle, Joshua didn’t move. You thought it was over. You were stood with Joshua’s mom, both of you hyperventilating, panicking, and pulling at the metal fence in front of you.

You had started to run towards the race engineers. You were wailing at this point, searching for any way to get to your boyfriend. You wanted to touch him, check his pulse, and reassure yourself that your worst fears were not coming to fruition right in front of you.

Ruben, the team owner, had pulled you to his chest to keep you from entering the track. He tried to console you, but nothing was processing. All you saw was a blaze of fire, brightening the whole track with its ferocity and peril to your boyfriend.

The sweat and rain was slick on your skin, coupled with Ruben’s tight grip on your body, you felt like you wanted to submerge yourself underwater. Your hair had become considerably more frizzy as the humidity and busyness of the arena had gotten to you. You didn’t know what you could do to calm yourself. You wouldn’t feel calm until you had Joshua in your arms.

All you could do to preserve your sanity was recite Joshua’s name on your tongue like a prayer. You probably looked insane, but everyone around you knew. They knew about your relationship, about your current fear. They knew but couldn’t understand.

They could never understand that you almost lost the love of your life right in front of your eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was over three weeks ago. Joshua had sustained multiple second-degree burns. It was a miracle that that was the worst of the accident. He left mildly concussed but promised to be back on the track in two months.

And he was furious.

He was thrown into the same routine of physical therapy and recovery every day, reducing his lavish lifestyle to that of a pathetic man. He hated it.

He felt worthless. All he wanted to do was get back on the track.

The only light at the end of the day for him was you. You bandaged his injuries every morning, you sat with him during his PT sessions, and you lulled him back to sleep on nights when he suddenly woke up from nightmares reliving the accident. You even drove him around from place to place in fear of his getting behind the wheel.

And he was eternally grateful for your presence in his life, but sometimes he treated you as collateral, letting his frustrations out on you. He never meant it though.

It was early Tuesday morning, and you were helping him with his bandages. Your curls piled into a bun atop your head. You adorned a white wifebeater and short shorts, Joshua’s favorite look on you. Across from you sat Josh, shirtless and in his black and red boxers.

“How’d you sleep baby?” You asked, unraveling the burn bandages from the pack. You kissed his shoulder, seeing that he was zoned out.

You didn’t know if it was because it was early or because he was depressed, but you wanted to help him.

He murmured something indiscernible, rubbing his eyes either in frustration or exhaustion.

You spoke again, speaking as softly as possible to not abruptly disturb the silence.

“I think today, after your PT session, you should go for a walk on the beach. I heard that there are a lot of ben-“

“I’m going back to the track today,” he cut you off. Your eyes widened, taken aback by the sudden admission from him.

Your eyes widened. There was no way. It was way too soon. There’s no way he was even mentally or physically ready to get back into that car.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” You projected your voice, not as soft as it was before. “Your accident was three weeks ago… y-you’re not fully healed.”

He kissed his teeth and stood up and walked away from you. He began pacing around his living room, the soft carpet allowing him to steady himself without getting overstimulated.

“Babe, I need to do this. I need to get back out there. The Canadian Grand Prix is in two weeks and I just… I know I can do this.” he exclaimed in one breath, with a hopeful smile on his lips.

You looked at him like a madman on steroids. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. He just started returning back to his old self, laughing wholeheartedly at his favorite shows and eating his favorite things.

You had just started to see him smile. You couldn’t lose that again. At least not this soon.

“Josh, you don’t understand. It hasn’t even been a month. You haven’t even fully healed physically. Let alone the mental trauma of being back in that car,” you argued, quickly getting up from your seat on the couch to stand in front of him.

His eyebrows furrowed, clearly trying to find a way to calmly speak to you without raising his voice.

“Y/n, you don’t get it. I’ve been itching to get out there ag-“

“Josh, you’re not ready!” You yelled as the anxiety of him driving again overcame you. You tried to reason with him, but the fear of it all became too much.

The silence that ensued was deafening. You both stared at each other. His eye contact was intense as you looked between his eyes and his lips.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m sorry for yelling b-“

“How do you know what the fuck is best for me?” He confidently asserted, making you look up from the ground to him.

“Excuse me?” You questioned, physically taken aback by his insane questioning. He never cursed at you before. How dare he think that what you were suggesting was nothing short of reasonable? You knew that he didn’t understand the complexity and jeopardy of getting back in the car.

“All you’ve done for the last few weeks is coddle me, y/n! You don’t even let me drive myself to the grocery store. How am I supposed to know if I’m ready if y-you’re… you’re holding me back?!”

And that was all it took. You felt misunderstood entirely and, quite frankly, heartbroken. Did he see you as a nuisance in his recovery this whole time? Did he even know how much you cared for him and his career?

Tears welled in your eyes as you backed away from him. You could see his facial expression softening, the weight of his words leaving a palpable impact on you. He didn’t mean it, but the anger from being off the track for nearly a month caught up to him.

“Y-you don’t even know what seeing you there, lying there next to your burning car… w-what that did to me, do you?” you started.

You couldn’t even look at him as you continued, with his silence serving as an indication of his attention on you.

“I-I thought I lost you. I genuinely felt myself in the process of losing you. And you think that I’m intentionally holding you back? For what? For my own greed? I’m doing this so that you don’t have to experience the trauma of that day again!” You yelled, your shout echoing off of his kettle black walls.

You hadn’t noticed the tears that had fallen from your eyes now. You only noticed once he started to inch closer to you, his hands reaching out to wipe your cheeks.

But you had been too angry. Too upset and emotional to let him touch you.

“If you want to go out on the track, fine, it seems that I can’t stop you,” you muttered, making your way to his room where you collected as many of your belongings as you could. “Just don’t expect me to be here waiting for you.”

Joshua’s mouth dropped. Before he could think twice, he began following quickly behind you to stop you.

“Y/n, y/n wait,” he tried to grab your hand to stop you. But the look you gave him was enough to keep him in his place.

“You didn’t mean that,” he uttered, with hopeful eyes that almost broke you.

You ignored him, though, because you knew it wasn’t true. You didn’t even bother trying to lie. You knew you could never leave him for something he couldn’t control. It wasn’t his fault that he got into the accident. Your anger was misdirected, stemming from the fear of losing him again.

After a few minutes of walking around collecting your things, you finally dressed yourself in a pair of Josh’s sweats and his oversized black sweatshirt. Even when you wanted space from him, you couldn’t tear away, his natural scent and cologne engulfing you in the most comforting way.

As you made your way to the door, your hand on the handle, you paused to look back at him. He stood in the middle of his living room, looking back at you with a solemn expression on his face. To avoid crying, you muttered a quick “stay safe” before letting yourself out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was now two o’clock, and you had spent the last few hours trying to grieve over your fight from earlier. You’d seen him angry before, but never directed at you in that way.

You had done some cleaning around your apartment, trying to distract yourself from the reality that Joshua was probably on the track by now. You had tried so hard to understand his side of wanting to get back out there, but you also knew he probably didn’t fully recognize the PTSD that would come from being on the track so soon.

Should you stop by? Should you be there to support him? You thought to yourself. You’d hate him for him to believe that you didn’t care about his well-being.

At the same time, you were hurt by his words. You didn’t want your presence at the track to be seen as a sign of complacency with his attitude, thereby subjugating yourself to that kind of treatment in the future.

Before you could vacillate between the two options further, your phone began to buzz.

Sonny Hayes, your phone read. Sonny only called you when it pertained to Josh. Your face dropped as your mind thought of the worst reasons for him to be calling. You brushed the few curls from your face before answering the call.

“Did you know JP was coming back to the track today?” Sonny questioned you.

“I tried to stop him, but to no avail, Son,” you replied, hand running over your face. “How is he, though? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, just looked a bit disheveled. Couldn’t tell if it was because of the track or something at home. But now it makes more sense,” Sonny responded. You could hear the revving of an engine in the back, which you could only assume was your boyfriend.

“Yeah, I don’t know what to do, Sonny,” you replied. “I’ve never seen him this unmotivated and lost. I don’t want him to cr-“

“You should be here, y/n,” Sonny interjected.

“What?” you replied with a sarcastic chuckle.

“You know you’re going to come down here, y/n. Let’s not kid ourselves here,” he pompously replied, leading you to let out a sarcastic laugh that escaped you.

“He’s scared, and you know it. You also know that you love him too much to leave him alone and afraid like this. He needs you more than you both realize,” Sonny concluded. Your heart ached at the thought of him being alone. Scared.

“You didn’t hear him today, Son. He was so angry with me. He said that I was holding him back from recovering,” You choked up remembering the fight from earlier. You just wanted to hold him, kiss him, and be there for him when he eventually recovered from this. You didn’t want him to think of you as an obstacle but as a support system.

“That kid loves you more than this damn sport,” Sonny remarked, effectively shutting you up. “He’s just going through stages of recovery, believe me. He needs you here.”

You wiped the tears that had fallen, trying your hardest to avoid Sonny hearing you sniffle. Joshua loving you more than his career sounded outlandish to you, but you did know that he loved you. And for that, you knew you had to be there for him, despite your disagreement from earlier.

A few seconds of silence had passed before you spoke up again, eventually conceding.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” you muttered, standing up from your seat on the couch.

“Atta kid, see you soon,” Sonny said before hanging up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After getting yourself emotionally and physically prepared to leave, you arrived at the APX GP training facility. You wore a brown cable knit sweater and a faded blue jean skirt because of the wind. You had taken your curls down and placed them into two small space buns, with curls falling from the sides. You had a headache from the events of the day, including the two breakdowns, so you wore your black frames instead of contacts.

After walking through the building, greeting staff and pit crew workers, you’d made it to the track. You had seen Sonny and Ruben standing next to each other in deep conversation. To the right sat Kate McKenna, the lead race engineer for APX. She was nose deep in work, probably instructing Joshua through his laps on the track. Once you had made it closer, she looked up from her computer, with a gracious smile adorning her lips.

Sonny looked up and made his way to you shortly after, giving you a small hug.

“He has a few laps left. Why don’t you wait for him inside?” Sonny suggested. You took the advice and made your way to Joshua’s changing room. You figured you’d need the privacy for the conversation you were both going to have.

After at least twenty minutes of scrolling through your socials and responding to your sister, you heard the door handle twist in the space. A second later, Joshua emerged abruptly into his room. He looked as handsome as ever in his white training kit, but his facial expression reflected quite the opposite. He had slammed the door behind him and leaned back harshly.

His chest had been rising and falling in quick intervals, his eyes wide. He hadn’t even noticed you yet, but you were quick to see what was happening. He was having a panic attack.

“Hey, hey,” you cautiously whispered as you rushed to him. His wide eyes bounced to your presence and softened only slightly. You practically jumped across the room with your arms wide, ready to take him in your embrace.

Similarly, he rushed to you and met you halfway. His head found its way to the crook of your neck. The force he met you with made you stumble back, leading you both to fall back against the closet door in his room. Your left hand made its way to his neck while your right hand softly rubbed his back in up and down motions.

You felt that the height difference was probably too much for him, so you dragged him to slide down the wall to the floor with you. His legs had then entangled themselves with yours, his head finding its way deeper into your neck. What felt like hours had passed when you felt your neck wet with tears. He was crying.

“It’s ok, baby, it’s ok. Let it out,” you lulled as his entire body shuddered further. His arms had encaged you between him and the wall, and you’d never wanted to leave.

He began muttering unintelligible phrases over and over again. You were confused, but wanted to make sure he was calm before prodding further.

After a few moments, you lifted his head from your neck with both hands. When your eyes locked, you felt a deep pang in your chest. His eyes were bloodshot red, his cheeks stained with tears. You brought your thumbs to his face to wipe his tears away as you felt your own eyes well up.

“I-I’m so sorry, y/n,” he croaked, his breakdown making his voice slightly scratchy. “I-I wasn’t ready. I got behind the wheel, and then all I saw was fire. I felt like I was brought back there. I physically felt like I was back there,” he pronounced, eyes bouncing between your own and the floor.

“And then I saw you. A-and my mom. And I felt so selfish, so guilty for putting you through that,” he continued, leading tears to escape you. You grabbed his hands and rubbed your thumbs over his knuckles, hoping to calm him.

It physically hurt you to hear him like this, but you knew the confession would help him.

“I want to race again. It’s my calling, but I’m not sure if I can overcome this. What if I can’t get back on the track without seeing that again? What if I-“

You brought your lips to his soft ones. You thought you could let him continue, but your heart couldn’t handle his self-doubt.

He kissed you back with a ferocity that you both hadn’t felt since before the accident. He missed you desperately. He missed what he provided for you before the accident.

You felt his tongue slide its way into your mouth, and you moaned. You felt his hand grasp your chin, angling your face for better access. As good as this felt, as much as you missed this, missed him, you pulled away after a minute. You didn’t want to take advantage of his fragile state.

“Baby, I’m sorry. For everything. I-I love you,” he concluded, eyes fixated on your lips. He brought your hands to his lips, kissing both of them twice.

“Josh, you didn’t do this on purpose. You’ve been taken from your passion out of the blue and in the most traumatizing way. I don’t blame you for wanting to get back out there,” you responded, hands on either side of his face. His left hand had begun to rub circles on your thigh as he looked down, avoiding eye contact.

“No, I’m sorry for not thinking about how this was affecting you,” he deflected, shocking you.

“Getting flashbacks from the accident today made me realize that what you saw was just as horrible as it was for me. I didn’t even make space for that, and I’m sorry,” he continued. “Despite my stubbornness and trauma, you still took care of me. You still loved me. And I want you to know that I appreciate it all.”

Your heart warmed at the thought that amidst the pandemonium of today, he still made space for you. You briefly connected your lips with his once more before you could be sucked back into another makeout session.

“Well, you are pretty stubborn,” you smirked, making Josh laugh lightly. “I know you, Josh. I know that you appreciate it, there’s no need to apologize,” you reassured him, happy to see him in a much calmer state than when he initially entered.

“As for getting back out there, you will. You’re the best damn F1 driver out there. You will not be set back by this accident because you’re Joshua fucking Pearce. You love this sport more than life itself, and I know you won’t let yourself be kept away from it forever. Step by step, you’ll get out there and be better than you ever were before,” you added, looking him right in the eye.

You brought his head to your lips, giving him a light kiss on the forehead. He retracted and did the same to you, bringing your head to his shoulder after. You both lay with your backs to the wall, his right hand now rubbing circles on your knees that were brought to your chest.

You both had fallen into a comfortable silence. You locked your fingers with his left hand, providing reassuring squeezes every few seconds. Before breaking the moment of silence, you lifted your head from his shoulder. You made sure to lock eyes with him before uttering what had been on your mind for the last few minutes.

“Oh, and by the way, I could never stop loving you, Josh,” you remarked, full seriousness in your tone.

A full-toothed smile made its way to his lips before he sarcastically replied:

“Oh, but of course… because I’m Joshua fucking Pearce,” he smirked.

You felt a laugh escape from your throat as you lightly slapped his arm, causing him to pull you further into his embrace.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection - Day 16: Fake Dating to Real Dating

Smoke and Mirrors | @akaalaisabel Rating: Explicit Word Count: 103,125 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jock Dean, Bad Boy Castiel, Tattooed Castiel, Foster Child Dean, Top Castiel/ Bottom Dean, Childhood Trauma, References to Drugs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Found Family Summary: As a kid, Dean’s dreams were pretty straightforward: food, a roof over his head, and maybe – if he really let himself dream big – a family that wouldn’t kick him out the second he became more trouble than he was worth. College? Not on his radar. Suddenly he’s here, though – on a football scholarship and faced with the possibility that this time he might get to stay. For someone more well-adjusted it would be a dream come true. For Dean it’s a nightmare of desperately keeping up appearances while he’s drowning in other people’s expectations. At least until a game of Truth or Dare sends him face-first into the arms of Castiel Novak. Senior. Resident (ex-)drug dealer. Obnoxious literature major. Heavily tattooed and everything Dean is trying to leave behind. Dean needs a favor and Castiel is all too willing to deliver. Unfortunately the offer comes with strings attached that go well beyond the fake relationship that Castiel asks for in return.

Pink Pony Club | @casblackfeathers Rating: Explicit Word Count: 17,878 Main Tags/Warnings: fake dating, go go dancer!dean, domestic fluff, light angst with a happy ending, sharing a bed, panty kink, mutual pining, bottom!dean, sweet!dean, sweet!castiel, Summary: Among Castiel’s most cherished destinations is the Pink Pony Club, largely because of its star attraction — a go-go dancer named Dean. Castiel has dedicated a significant portion of his leisure time to observing the dancer’s captivating performances, most of their interactions done from afar due to Castiel’s social awkwardness. Upon receiving an invitation from his sister for a family vacation before her wedding, Castiel finds himself in dire need of a plus one. That’s when a chain of imprudent events culminates in Dean accompanying Castiel as his fake boyfriend. Castiel can't fathom how he will endure a two-week charade of a loving relationship convincingly with someone he can barely look in the eye without utterly embarrassing himself, while simultaneously managing his long-nurtured affections for Dean, but there’s no turning back now.

Faking It | @GhoulsnHalos (AO3) Rating: Explicit Word Count: 53,451 Main Tags/Warnings: AU-modern setting, actors, Team switch, Dream sex, oral and anal sex, misunderstandings, idiots in love, background (mostly hinted at) Sam/Rowena, Rowena plays relationship counsellor. Summary: Actor Dean Winchester's career has hit a roadblock. Offers for a juicy lead or series regular have dried up. Castiel Novak's acting career is struggling to get off the ground. Despite critical acclaim for his latest role as the angelic lead in an upcoming urban fantasy show, offers aren't flooding in. What happens when the pair agree to their managers' scheme of a three-month fake relationship to push them further into the media spotlight? It is only three months of joint public appearances pretending to fall in love in front of the cameras, right? They’re both actors. They play at make-believe for a living. It can’t be that hard to pull off, can it? Besides, what could possibly go wrong? For a second, Castiel thinks the million-dollar, boxer-dropping grin that follows is for him. Then reality hits again. “Thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say without making an even bigger assbutt of himself than he already has. An unrecognizable emotion flashes across Dean’s features. “Besides, we don’t have to do what they’ve scheduled all the time. We’re big boys, we can do whatever we like.”

Hooker, Line and Sinker | @Giantidiot Rating: Explicit Word Count: 48,246 Main Tags/Warnings: Escort!Dean, Fake dating, AU, Top!Castiel/Bottom!Dean, age difference (they’re both adults), fluff, smut Summary: Incredibly awkward and not ready to mingle Castiel finds himself in a bit of a pickle when his boss threatens to set him up with a relative, and Castiel's knee-jerk reaction is lying his way out of it. When the lie spreads like a high school rumour, Castiel finds it difficult to backtrack, but thankfully his sister, Anna, comes to his rescue with some sound advice. Hiring an escort to pretend to be your boyfriend might sound like the most expensive way to get out of a blind date, but Castiel discovers that it is the most emotional, confusing and rewarding way as well.

Perks & Benefits | @nessarose-thropp Rating: Mature Word Count: 43,378 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, YouTuber Castiel, Chronic Illness Summary: Castiel's life isn't going exactly as planned. It's not all bad, but it's certainly not what he pictured for himself. His career aspirations in linguistics have somehow transformed into a full-time gig as a YouTuber and ASMRtist. Instead of living in the beautiful, international, and expensive city of Geneva, Switzerland where he was raised, he's living in Columbus, Ohio. When an emergency lands him in the hospital with a life-changing diagnosis and a growing stack of medical bills, Cas is left treading water. Luckily, his best friend and roommate Dean is always there with a creative solution and offers to marry Cas. For the insurance benefits, of course.

Welcome to Pit & Paradise | @seidenapfel Rating: Mature Word Count: 11,193 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, The Empty deal never happened, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Case Fic, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Sharing a Bed, Coming Out, First Kiss, First Time, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester Summary: When Claire calls, asking for help to hunt a shifter in an LGBT+ resort, Dean and Cas suddenly find themselves as husbands on their honeymoon. Forced to play a couple, Dean and Cas both have to face their hidden dreams and feelings. It’s all fake, or isn’t it?

Amoretto Motel | @thefandomsinhalor Rating: General Word Count: 7,391 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergent, Post-Episode s12e04, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Case Fic, Fluff Summary: Feeling down after Mary left the bunker, Dean is eager to go on a hunt with Castiel, when he hears about unexplained missing couples in Arkansas. Unbeknownst to him, however, Castiel has an unusual idea how to approach this particular case. He wants to play bait. Together.

[glassbxttless]

A Woolly Situation

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Server Photo Prompt Challenge | Eddie’s home from tour and you decide to spend the day at the park with your daughter— whom finds an extra woolly little surprise.

warnings: Eddie’s got a daughter (she’s 2, goin on 3!), Reader is heavily pregnant, there’s a woolly bear— so skip if you don’t like bugs!

notes: I apologize for double fics today but my friends and I have been doing a writing challenge in our Discord server for the last few weeks and I’ve been majorly slacking— so I’m playing catch up now! I read a fic years ago where Roan was used as a little girl’s name and it’s stuck with me ever since. Big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing this!

The early September sun is spilling streams of golden light through the tree tops, turning the whole park into a painting right in front of you. The grass is still green, but scattered with the first traces of falling red and yellow leaves. The air smells dry and like distant woodsmoke rising through the air with the many bonfires the campers must be having a hop, skip, and a jump away. You were holding tight to Eddie’s hand as you walked— or, more accurately, as you waddle, because you’re very, very pregnant with yours and Eddie’s second daughter. A baby you’ve decided to name, Roan— but he was a few steps ahead of you now and Alice is sitting high up on his shoulders, her little hands clutching fistfuls of untamed brown curls, shrieking with laughter every time he pretends to stumble dramatically. “Whoaaa, we’re gonna fall, Bats, save me!” he cries out as she giggles so hard her legs kick at his chest and she nearly topples off. You know he’s missed her just as much as she’s missed him.

“Don’t you dare drop her, Ed,” you call up to them, though you’re smiling as you shake your head.

“Pfft,” Eddie scoffs at the mere thought, shifting her legs a bit so she’s more secure. “We’re fine. Aren’t we, Princess?”

“Yeahhh!” Alice shouts from the perch that just happens to be her father’s shoulders. Her cheeks are as rosy as Eddie’s and her tiny pink boots dangle against his chest. You shake your head again, letting them have their fun up ahead while you keep your pace a few steps behind. One of your hands is resting protectively against your stomach. Roan kicks a few times— either enjoying the excitement above or annoyed she isn’t able to be in on it just yet— you give the fabric there a gentle rub with your thumb and mumble a little “easy, baby” to her.

The park seems to be bustling today. Kids are running around with kites and footballs a few feet away, dogs are tugging at leashes as they pass you on the sidewalks, parents trailing after toddlers with coffee cups held close to their chests. So the three of you find a quieter path just off to the side of the main one, a little trail edged with tall grass and little wildflowers, where the noise dies down to the crunch of yours and Eddie’s boots on the gravel.

“Alright,” Eddie declares with a huff, stopping dramatically and lowering Alice to the ground with both hands, bending at the waist in a bow. “My legs are officially dead. We walk on our own now, okay, Tater Tot?”

Alice beams up at him and then claps her hands before she’s running ahead a few paces. She’s got her arms out like she’s flying. “I’m a dragon!” she announces, turning her head to make sure Eddie’s watching, giggling when she sees that he is.

“Oh, scary,” Eddie laughs, his grin growing wider as he follows her quickly down the path, leaving you a few steps behind on purpose so you can take it easy. “Better not breathe fire on Daddy.”

You just resign yourself to watching them— your tall, lanky, rockstar of a husband, crouching down to flap his arms like wings with her, making silly growling noises— when Alice screeches to a halt and drops to her knees on the path, gravel digging into her skin.

“What’ve you got, baby?” you call, catching up to them slowly but surely, hand still pressed against your belly.

“Bug!” she squeals, pointing to the ground in front of where she’s kneeling.

Eddie crouches down beside her, his hair falling in his face as he squints. “Whoa-ho Tater Tot, that’s not just any bug! That’s a woolly bear!”

Alice looks up at him like he holds the answers to everything life could ever throw at her, her brown eyes wide. “Bear?”

You laugh softly and ease yourself down to sit on the pavement beside them, careful of your belly. “Not a real bear, honey. Just a fuzzy caterpillar. See? Look how soft it looks.”

Eddie gently coaxes it up onto his finger, holding it out for her to see it just a bit better. The little caterpillar inches along his knuckle, black at both ends and that signature rusty orange in the middle. “See the fuzz? That’s why they call ’em woolly bears,” he explains, turning his hand just a bit so she can look closer. “Supposed to tell you how bad winter’s gonna be, too. Grandpa Wayne used to say if the orange band’s wide, it won’t be too cold. If it’s skinny, better get ready to freeze your butt off.”

Alice giggles at butt, and you swat at his arm lightly. “Eddie.”

“What? She’s gotta learn sometime, baby,” he teases, flashing you a smile full of white teeth before he turns back to Alice. “Do you wanna hold it, princess?”

At first she looks a bit hesitant to try, her little fingers hovering just over Eddie’s. But then she nods shyly, and Eddie guides the caterpillar down onto her palm. Her face lights up immediately, like she’s just been entrusted with the most magical treasure they could’ve found.

“Its feet are tickley,” she whispers.

You melt watching them together. Eddie crouched there on the path, his big hand steady under hers so she didn't drop the little guy on the pavement. His eyes are soft and sparkling with pride at her bravery. You can practically feel your heart swelling two sizes in your chest.

After a minute or two, she carefully sets it back down in the grass. “Bye-bye, bear,” she giggles, giving it a little wave.

“Nice work, sweetheart,” Eddie says, ruffling her own little mop of brown curls. Then he leans back on his hands toward you, pressing a kiss to your cheek before he whispers, “You okay down here? Need help getting up?”

You roll your eyes as he stands and holds his hand out, grinning yourself as you take it. “I’m fine. Just a little slower than I used to be. You know how it goes.”

He helps you to your feet, steadying you with a hand on your lower back while Alice skips ahead just by a few steps. She’s still chirping on about the woolly bear as she peaks under leaves at the side of the path. When you’re steadily upright again, Eddie leans in and presses another gentle kiss to your temple. He mumbles, “God, you’re so beautiful,” right above your ear and just low enough that only you can hear.

It takes a moment to get Alice’s attention back, but the three of you keep walking. You find a bench after a while to rest on, which you’re more than thankful for. Alice climbs up into Eddie’s lap to play with the rings on his fingers while you lean against his shoulder, your hands laced over your belly. The afternoon goes on like that— quiet, without the hustle and bustle of tour life. It’s warm. It’s simple. Eddie buys Alice a little paper cup of cider from a stand, and you sneak a sip of it too. At one point she insists on collecting treasures— acorns, a red leaf, a smooth pebble— and Eddie gingerly holds out his pockets for her to fill, inspecting each item she shoves in.

By the time the sun starts dipping behind the trees, painting the sky pink and orange, Alice is yawning against his chest. You’re walking back to the car, her little hands still clutching his shirt. “Ready to go home, my little dragon?” he mumbles, brushing her curls back from her face as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

She nods sleepily in response, and you smile at them both as Eddie adjusts his grip and holds a now free hand out to you. 

“This has been the best day ever,” Eddie says quietly, as you stop in front of the car— Alice is dozing on his shoulder now, your own free hand resting on the swell of your belly. “You, me, our girls, and a fuckin’ woolly bear.”

You bump your hip against his and laugh softly, just nodding at him. “Doesn’t really get better than this.”

“Damn right it doesn’t,” he agrees with you, pressing one more kiss to your hair before leaning in to buckle Alice into her car seat.

It truly doesn’t get better than this. 

tags ;; @jj-155 @joyfullyswimmingface @emxxblog @autumneva @samslvrgirl @ironmusictrash @hazydespair @littlemissholy @prettycalla @vinecstasy @thorins-queen-of-erebor @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn

[fayes-fics]

Maid For Pleasure... In The Drawing Room

Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Now that the agreement is signed, it's time for the gentlemen to get to know their housemaid more intimately...

Warnings:  18+ smut, minors DNI. Power imbalance (housemaid!reader), dom/sub dynamics, no incest, no use of “y/n”. Discussion of sexual acts, masturbation, obedience training, sub space, brief nipple play, dirty talk, smoking kink, rough fingerfucking, orgasm denial, verbal degradation.

Word Count: 3.2k

Author’s Note: First fic chronologically after the prelude. Subsequent fics will be posted in the order they are written, which may differ from the chronological order of the story. Masterpost has them in chronological order. Thanks, as always, to my amazing beta @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

“Follow us…” the Viscount directs, mere moments after the agreement has been signed.

Both men lead you out of Anthony's office, across the grand hall, into the family drawing room. The room is empty, but the sconces are lit and a fire is roaring, ready for their arrival. The brothers are the only Bridgerton family members currently in residence, so you can be confident that the three of you will likely have this room to yourselves for the evening with little to no staff disruption.

They take a seat in a couple of large wingback chairs with a small table between them, upon which stands a whiskey decanter and some glasses. You hover a few feet away, facing them, uncertain where else you should stand, hands clutched in front of you.

“I am very pleased you agreed to all of our terms,” Anthony remarks as he pulls the stopper and pours himself and his brother a dram, a whiff of expensive smoky scotch unfurling into the air.

Benedict’s head bobs in agreement.

“You will refer to me as my lord at all times, as you have been when performing your housemaid duties,” Anthony declares, then gestures to his brother. “You shall always address him as sir. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” you demure, feeling almost as if you should curtsy.

“Good. Now, we may call you by any name we wish during our use. We are unlikely to use your real name. Doe seems certain, given the contract we signed earlier. But we may use other terms. Such as girl, doxy, bitch, wanton, vixen, toy. You will respond to all of them, do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Excellent!” He beams, then takes a sip of his drink before fixing you with a heated stare. “If you are wearing any undergarments, now is the time to remove them.”

Without even a second of thought, you pull up the hem of your housemaid's uniform and tug down your simple white cotton pantaloons. Shuffling out of them. 

“Good,” Anthony nods, flipping a filagreed pewter tinderbox between his fingers as he watches you closely. “Now throw them in the fire.”

You are momentarily taken aback but snap out of it quickly, remembering your contract states you will follow all orders they give you. So you do, take a few paces over to the fire and toss the material into it, watching as it ignites in a flash of yellow flame that has you instinctively rearing back.

“Good girl,” Benedict murmurs, clicking open a cigar case and something molten, hot as the fire consuming your underwear, melts between your legs as you return to the spot you were in before, head bowed fractionally in deference, awaiting more of their instruction.

Anthony reaches behind him, grabs a large cushion and tosses it onto the ground between their feet. 

“Remove all of your uniform, then come kneel between us,” he orders, gesturing to the cushion.

Realising they now, in essence, own your body, you swallow down the lump in your throat and reach to untie your pinafore quickly, then discard the simple purple smock underneath. You pause for their perusal, in only stays and stockings, hoping you are of adequate standard—the way their pupils dilate and their fingers flex on their chair arms makes you hopeful that is the case. You then fight your simple front-laced stays open, the swell of your breasts jigging with each tug. As that structured garment falls to the floor on top of your uniform, they both make a delicious noise that has your now exposed nipples pebbling.

“Do not feel the need to wear stays when we are in residence. Your bosom is plenty perky enough without, and we shall appreciate ready access.” Anthony advises, another wave of wetness coating your channel..

“Leave the stockings,” Benedict calls out before you reach down to unpluck the ribbons. He turns to his brother, “I really like the look of a young doxy naked except her knee-high stockings, don’t you?” he smirks, talking about you as if you are not in the room.

Anthony chuckles, plucking a cigar from a case and twirling it between his knuckles. “Indeed, brother,” he concurs, his stare trailing your naked form lasciviously, before he frowns: “Why are you not yet kneeling?” 

Immediately, you take a step forward and drop onto the cushion provided, grateful for the padding it provides.

“That's better.” He places the foot of his left boot up onto his right knee, an utterly masculine stance as he looks down upon you. “Now, I sensed from our first encounter that you are not entirely innocent. How many men have had you?”

“Two, my lord.”

“At the same time?”

“No, my lord. A handful of times each, but a few months apart.”

“What did they do to you?” Benedict queries, taking a sip of his drink before adding: “Be specific.”

“They put their cocks in my cunny, sir,” you reply plainly.

“Good use of the correct terms, “Anthony notes approvingly: ”Did they complete inside you?”

“No, my lord. One spilt his seed down my legs. The other usually onto my stomach,” you explain, recalling the encounters that left you always somehow wanting more.

“Did they place their cocks anywhere except your cunt?”

“No, my lord.”

“So you have not taken a cock in your mouth?” Benedict checks.

“Not yet, sir.”

They both chuckle. “Excellent answer,” Benedict commends. “That will be something you will do for us.” His low tone sounds like the very best warning you could receive, your mind flashing back to the clause in the agreement about them inserting any part of their body into any part of yours.

“Yes, yes… we both know how much you love a pair of pretty lips wrapped around your cock, brother,” Anthony rolls his eyes, almost sounding bored, before going back to addressing you. “Has a man placed his tongue between your legs?”

“No, my lord.”

“That may well happen,” he informs, sniffing the length of his unlit cigar. “While it is not specifically stated in agreement, we would like you to find your pleasure too, mostly. It enhances ours.”

“‘Tis nothing quite like a quaking cunt milking the very essence out of one’s cock…” Benedict sighs wistfully in filthy, poetic reverie.

“You shall not be coming inside this one like you do your Bloomsbury whores, brother, ” Anthony clucks sternly.

Benedict pouts. “May I not feel her rippling upon me if I can refrain from seeding her?” 

Anthony scoffs, side-eyeing his brother skeptically, likely thinking he is overestimating his ability to stave off an orgasm. Part of you is so keen to see their cocks, or at least the outline straining in their tight, black britches, but you are kneeling at an angle that doesn't allow you to see fully into their laps.

“Do you touch yourself? Make yourself come?” Anthony addresses you expectantly.

“On occasion, my lord, yes.” You admit, knowing your cheeks are heating as you swallow the rest of your wayward thoughts, mostly of how you have touched yourself every single night thinking about them both since you first laid eyes upon them. 

“We have no problem with you doing so in your spare time,” he states, gesturing casually. “Especially if it aids in your readiness for us. Speaking of, before I forget….”

He reaches into a pocket inside his jacket and holds out a small vial of oil with a screwed metal lid.

“This is for your between your legs,” he counsels. “You recall our terms, I'm sure. Carry it with you at all times and ensure to reapply as needed. We will replenish whenever it is empty.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you mumble, reaching out to take it from him, placing it on the floor by your hip. “Although I do not think it necessary right now…” the audacious thought slipping from your lips unbidding.

Both tilt their heads in unison, their brows raising, as they gaze down at you, intrigued.

“Are you saying you are already sufficiently lubricated?”

“Yes, my lord.”

They both shoot you a look that makes your pussy clench hard.

“Well then, we demand proof.” Anthony challenges.

“Put both of your hands between your legs, get your fingers nice and wet,” Benedict takes over, very much directing you, his voice lowering in cadence, decadent and rich.

You do as you are told. Widening your kneeling stance and sliding both hands between your legs, even surprising yourself with how soaked and swollen you now are down there—so much talk of so many arousing things. Before you even realise it, you tilt your hips down, catching a glance against your swollen pearl, biting your lip as you observe their hungry expressions.

“Oh yessss,” Benedict sibilates, leaning in transfixed. “Ride your fingers, sweet little doe.”

You can't look anywhere but his reddened lower lip as you do exactly that. Tiny whimpers under your breath as you ride yourself shamelessly for them. But just as you are enjoying yourself so much, a barked command has you freezing:

“Stop!!”  

Benedict frowns at Anthony’s interrupting outburst. 

“Give me and my brother your hands,” Anthony demands, shooting Benedict a withering look that suggests he had a plan all along.

They both place aside their as yet unlit cigars and grab the wrist nearest to them as you raise both of your hands, leaning forward to inspect the glistening juices glazed over your fingertips. Your inhale is sharp as Anthony sniffs them deeply, then licks with a long curl of tongue encircling your pads serpent-like. Benedict shoves your fingers directly into his hot mouth, sucking them insistently, his teeth grazing gently, your mouth agape at how feral they are.

“You taste very sweet, just as you smelled the other day.” Anthony opines, running his nose down over your palm & wrist.

“Delicious…” Benedict concurs, as your fingers slip from his lips.

You are on tenterhooks, breath in shallow pants, quite certain they will make a move on you now. But what Anthony decrees next has you puzzled.

“Stay,” he clips, his leather riding boot tapping your knee nearest to him, treating you more akin to a pet. “Knees spread wider, hands clasped behind your back.”

You assume the position he orders, feeling lewdly open, the hands behind your back tilting your chest out. Your knees are on either side of the cushion now, upon the rug, so there is slight discomfort. Your clit pulses for more attention. You wish you could sink a little lower, believing perhaps the tapestry texture on the cushion might be enough to get you off if you rubbed yourself vigorously against it. But you dare not attempt to be so insolent on your very first night. 

The men refill their drink glasses and sup from them, beginning to chat about some mutual acquaintance, as if you are not there. Unsure what else to do, your gaze wanders beyond them to paintings on the wall off to one side, hoping to focus on the detail in them to distract yourself from your own needs.

“Eyes down!” Anthony rebukes.

Again, you do as you are told. Perplexed for a few moments, until you realise what this is. This is a test of your obedience. To kneel submissively at their feet, naked and aroused, while they all but ignore you. 

So you keep your head bowed, a calmness eventually settling over you; the nearby fire keeping your exposed flesh warm. As the minutes tick by, you syncopate your breaths in and out with the sound of the mantle clock, trying not to let your mind race with illicit thoughts of what you hope they will do to you once you, hopefully, pass this test. Your eyes slip closed as they continue talking, while it sounds like Anthony is busying himself with the tinderbox to light their cigars. 

There is a sudden, harsh tweaking of your right nipple. 

You moan loudly at the rush of sensation, eyelids flying open, head shooting up in shock to see Benedict's lopsided smirk as he sinks back into his chair, you canting up reflexively, chasing the touch again, even as it is gone just as quick.

“What a keen thing she is,” Benedict huffs a laugh as Anthony hands him a lit cigar. “I like her so much already, brother.”

Your core pulses at his praise, hope suddenly raised. But there are a few minutes when they just smoke idly, the room filling with a fug of tobacco. You start to settle back into quietness, so much so that you practically jump when you are addressed.

“Little doe...” Your head shoots up again. “...Have you ever smoked?” Benedict questions, exhaling a perfect ring from his lips.

“No, sir,” you flutter your eyelids at him, grateful for the attention bestowed.

He leans forward again, so his face is mere inches from yours this time, and your body reacts, swaying towards him. You can smell his woodsy cologne, see the flecks of colour in his hazy irises as he brings the cigar up to the corner of his lips, the hot tip warming your cheek. 

“Open your mouth.”

And you do. Wide. Tilting your chin up as he looms over you, your hands outstretched flat onto the floor between your splayed knees, docile and utterly open before him. 

He takes a deep draw, his lips pursing around the rich brown mass. Then he pulls the cigar away, and your heart skips as he seals his lips right over yours. 

Then he exhales. Staring you down. 

That cloud of smoke puffed directly into your gaping mouth. An earthy charred dryness invading your sinuses, your throat, sucked down into your lungs. You cough a little on instinct, but keep your mouth fully open, intuiting that is what he wants. His lips keep ghosting yours, the tip of his tongue poking out, curling into and lapping at the swirling smoke he blew there.

“Rules, brother…” Anthony reminds sternly, and you realise how close he is to kissing you, his tongue inside your mouth.

Benedict pulls back reluctantly, and you slowly close your jaw as the last of the smoke dissipates, reeling from his proximity for the first time. 

“I was not kissing her,” he disputes, a thread of petulance laced into his words. “I was seeing what that pretty mouth can take. Testing her choking reflex...” Something about his words sounds utterly debauched.

“Your verdict?” Anthony inquires, interest piqued.

“I will have her trained in no time,” Benedict preens, reaching out to pat your cheek approvingly, your pussy flexing from that mere brush and what his words portend.

“Then, should you not test her other oral skills too? See how she sucks upon a nice, fat cigar?” Anthony prompts, near snickering.

Benedict’s face lights up, and he grabs your jaw, hauling you up higher onto your knees. He twirls the cigar between his long fingers so the filter is facing you, then jams it between your slightly parted lips.

“Suck, little doe.” His command is dark velvet.

You have never taken a draw from a cigar before, but your lips seal around it, and you suck in air through the tip. The taste is different this time from the exhaled smoke—sweeter, danker.

“Look at that tip light up, brother,” Benedict stutters, entirely complimentary. “What a strong little mouth she has.”

You know every word they speak is filthy code as he pulls it from your mouth and you exhale the smoke out of your pursed lips, staring Benedict down as you do so. A flicker of challenge in your compliance, somehow sensing that will arouse him all the more. A yearning to be the very best that you can be for them, be impressed by how fast you can learn something they want from you.

“Get in my lap,” Anthony suddenly snarls.

This is him wrestling control, a roiling jealousy lurking in his dark eyes.

You obey. Clambering up to straddle him, the wool of his trousers tickling your inner thighs as your knees slide into the chair around his hips. Finally able to see the outline of his cock, straining deliciously in his lap, you're excited things may finally notch up after so much waiting.

You cry out when suddenly three wide fingers plunge into your soaked cunt, furrowing deep, beyond his knuckles.

“She is exquisitely tight,” Anthony appraises, aiming for nonchalant but a gravelliness there that belies it. “Like she is still unplucked. This will cling perfectly to our cocks like a delicious vice.”

He flexes those fingers, rigorously stroking your walls, and you bite your lip, moaning loudly. Then he immediately starts to fingerfuck you almost mercilessly, the sounds wet and carnal, dripping copiously down onto his hand, droplets flecking onto his trousers from his harsh stabbing motions. 

You have a clawing need for him to brush your clit, push you over the edge that you have been skating for what seems like hours now…. But he does not. Intentionally avoids it. Instead, hitting a spongy spot inside that has you slack-jawed and gasping loudly, with him looking inordinately pleased with your reaction. Your mind feels itchy, your entire body a live wire as he takes you roughly.

“Are you sure you want her to squirt all over Father’s favourite chair?” Benedict interrupts, sounding winded, uneven, his sights trained on your flexing pelvis as you desperately try to seek any friction.

Anthony wrenches his hand out of you, you clamouring in frustration, so close but denied, everything in you tensed and taut, awaiting release.

“Good point...” Anthony concedes. 

Then a predatory smile appears as he abruptly stuffs his soaked hand far into your mouth, the coating on his fingers tart and sweet but also heavy with cigar ash. 

“Clean up your mess, you filthy little bitch.”

Something profound and primal detonates in your basal being when he gruffs that derogatory term—a hunger to be owned by him. Knowing in an instant that you would crawl on your hands and knees just to let him do absolutely anything he wanted to you, you begging him for it every time.

You suck his fingers vigorously, keenly, as if the task is your only reason to be on this earth, and he pants as you do so, leaning in so close, pupils blown. Just as you are certain you have him ready to fuck you and assuage your throbbing ache, he rears back. As if he knows it is what you crave most and is choosing to deny you, perhaps to make you want it more, perhaps to remind you who is in charge.

“That is all we require of you for now,” he chides, pushing you off his lap forcibly and waving a dismissive hand. “Go to bed. You may not redress.”

Discombobulated, you stumble to your feet, but do as bidden, mind still swimming as you stoop to gather your vial of oil and discarded uniform. Anthony leans in close to his brother, murmuring something you cannot decipher with your heart still pounding so loud in your ears.

But as the drawing room door closes behind you, you just make out Benedict’s sardonic response: “I hope she is a heavy sleeper.”

You blunder naked through the dark, long, unlit hallways and corridors of Aubrey Hall, all the way back up to your small attic room, dampness trailing tracks down your inner thighs. Left with an abiding sense that, perhaps, if you are lucky, they are not done with you tonight...

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[justreadalot]

Through Your Eyes Part 14

Part 1-4   Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11  Part 12  Part 13

Warning : death is mentioned, although no one dies

—------

The ghosts were waiting for them.

There were three of them in front next to a flag pole with a white flag hanging off it, five behind them. Then a number of ones dressed as soldiers further back.

The main one in front was a white ghost dressed in a white suit with black boots, black gloves, black hat and a black tie.

The one on the left was a green ghost with white hair, he was wearing green gloves, a grey coat, and black glasses.

The one on the right was a large ghost with metal skin and flaming green hair who was dressed in black.

Damian checked his mask was fitted correctly, then joined the rest of the humans leaving the ships and walking up to three main ghosts, they had found red spacesuits in Vlad's inventory.

Jason found how to change their color, so Danny, Damian and Jason changed them to black, the GIWs changed theirs to white, the two scientists left theirs red.

Danny had changed into ghost form, and was floating.

“Welcome I suppose.” said the white ghost, “Danny, could you introduce us to your companions.”

“Oh yes,” said Danny flustered, “everyone, this is Walker, he is the ghost prison warden, the one on the left is Nicolai Technus a technical expert and Skulker is on the right and is the world's best Hunter.”

He looked at the group of ghosts behind them uncertainly, then turned to the humans. “This is Dr Mary, her assistant Lee, Damian Wayne, Red Hood and Agents R, S, T and C.” He waved at each as he stated their name.

He looked back at the other ghosts, “and behind is Clockwork-”

“Thank you Danny, that's enough.” interrupted Walker, “if you start listing all the ghosts you see, we will be here a while.”

“How many ghosts have you met?” whispered Damian to Danny.

“Too many.”

Walker looked over at the whole group. “Why are you here? Instead of just going home?”

“We haven't worked out how to get back home yet.” admitted Dr Mary, “we were hoping you could give us additional information which may help.”

“I am surprised that the humans had sufficient intelligence to survive the arrival after the change of status of earth.” said Skulker looking at the bubble behind them. “I am impressed.”

“Survive?” questioned Jason.

“Change of status of earth?” questioned Agent R at the same time.

The three ghosts looked at each other.

“All living worlds have a status level on them, from one to five. One is lowest, five is the highest. It's called neutral, mild, dangerous, extreme and war level. Earth was judged to be now dangerous level from mild.” advised Walker.

“When the status was changed, all ghosts were informed of this, encouraged to leave, and any ectoplasm pool that is getting used is recalled automatically. Any living being caught up with the recall usually dies when they arrive in the ghost zone.” stated Skulker.

“They then usually choose to travel back to their planet to warn and pass the information on about the change.” added Walker. “We haven't had the problem of live people before.”

“Travel? How?” asked Danny looking up interested.

Clockwork moved up to join the three ghosts. He waved his arm at the ghost zone. “Danny, what do you see out there?” 

“Doors” admitted Danny “doors everywhere.” He noticed all the humans looking at him in surprise. “Doesn't everyone see that?”

Clockwork looked at Damian “what do you see, young live one?”

“Dense green ectoplasm pools, floating around, no doors” said Damian wishing he could see what Danny sees.

“How do I know which door will lead to Earth?” asked Danny looking at Clockwork.

“Go through any door, you will find yourself in a green area with many doors, follow your heart, it will lead you to your friends and family.” Clockwork advised, he then moved back to his original position.

“Any further questions?” asked Walker.

“Yes, I have one, how much can ectoplasm pools be used before it gets recalled.” asked Lee.

“Clever.” said Nicolai Technus smiling, “it depends on how much electricity goes through and uses the ectoplasm to boost it. Consistent use, it will vanish in under two weeks, only used now and then, can take up to three months. Never used, will never vanish.”

“Thank you,” said Lee, nodding in thanks.

The ghosts all vanished.

The humans turned back to the little space ships to go back. 

—-----